The transition between the circles was never meant to be subtle, but today the contrast struck Mirok with particular force. The worn cobblestones beneath his feet gradually smoothed into polished marble. The acrid smell of forge smoke and cooking fires faded, replaced by the delicate fragrance of imported flowers. Even the quality of light seemed to change. It was no longer filtered through laundry lines and narrow alleyways, but falling clean and bright from a sky that seemed impossibly wider.
His rough-spun tunic, carefully mended by Enna's patient hands, marked him as clearly as any brand. The residents of the second circle moved past him in silk and velvet, their gazes sliding over him with practiced dismissal. A servant, they assumed. Someone's man on an errand. The possibility that he might be here of his own volition never crossed their minds.
Mirok kept his eyes forward, his jaw set. He had not told Enna of his decision to attend. She would have worried, would have pointed out the very real dangers of placing himself in the path of political machinations far beyond their station.
But some debts transcended caution.
Lord von Hohenheim had given them more than spells. He had given them dignity, a chance for a better future for their children. This was not a favor Mirok would forget or take lightly. So when the hour came to show his support for their benefactor, he did not hesitate.
"Mirok?" A familiar voice drew his attention.
He turned to find Willem, one of the dock workers who had attended the lectures with his son. The man's scarred hands flexed nervously at his sides. Behind him stood three others he recognized: a seamstress, a night-soil collector, and old Henrik, who was still spritely despite his seventy years.
"You came," Willem said unnecessarily, relief coloring his voice.
Without another word, they fell into step together, their small group drawing curious glances. As they moved deeper into the second circle, Mirok noticed other clusters of common folk, all heading in the same direction. Some walked alone, shoulders hunched under invisible scrutiny. Others kept close in groups, finding courage in numbers.
"Left the family behind?" Henrik asked, his voice roughened by years of soot and smoke.
"Aye." Mirok’s throat tightened. "You?"
"The old lady wanted to come," Henrik admitted. "Had to convince her someone needed to watch the grandchildren." He paused. "Didn’t take much convincing. She knew as well as I did what kind of gathering this might become…"
The unspoken words lingered between them. They had all come to help Lord Ezekiel, though none could say what form that support might take. Mirok hoped it would remain as moral support, cheering from the sidelines. Yet he knew well that neither he nor the others would stand by if their benefactor was denied a fair trial.
He had made up his mind. If it came to that, he would not stay silent, consequences be damned.
The Great Hall rose before them like a monument to wealth itself. Mirok had seen it from a distance, of course, its golden dome visible from nearly anywhere in Tradespire. But proximity revealed details that the distance had previously obscured. Every surface bore intricate carvings, mythical beasts writhing across columns thicker than tree trunks. The massive doors, thrown open for the public hearing, were inlaid with precious metals forming patterns that almost hurt to follow with the eye.
The plaza before the hall was already thick with people. The division was immediate and absolute: silk and jewels clustered on the right, rough wool and worn leather on the left. Between them stretched a careful distance, as though an invisible wall kept the two groups apart.
Yet the numbers told their own story. For every merchant in their finery, ten common folk stood witness. Perhaps more.
"Look at them," Willem muttered, nodding toward a group of Third Circle merchants. "Laughing and chatting like it's a festival."
Indeed, the wealthy treated the gathering as a social occasion. Mirok watched them exchange greetings, admire each other's clothing, and conduct quiet business negotiations. Wine sellers moved through their ranks, offering refreshment from silver trays.
No one offered anything to the common folk.
"There," the tall Henrik pointed with his chin.
A raised dais had been erected at the plaza's heart. Three distinct areas were visible: a podium for the Speaker, a section for the assembled Merchant Lords, and set apart, a single chair for the accused.
The symbolism was not subtle. Even from here, Mirok could see how the chair had been positioned to ensure its occupant would face not just their judges, but the entire crowd. There would be no hiding, no dignified distance. Everything would unfold under the weight of a thousand watching eyes.
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A bell began to toll, deep and resonant. The crowd's energy shifted, conversations dying to whispers, then to silence. One by one, figures emerged from the Great Hall, taking their positions with practiced certainty.
These men and women filed onto the platform like actors in a play. They moved with practiced ease, so accustomed to the ritual that it was obvious they were no ordinary people. Their clothing alone made that much clear.
Each wore the finest robes, house crests gleaming in the afternoon sun. Mirok recognized some from glimpses during festival days: Lord Matthian with his golden beard, Lady Blackwater with her severe expression, and Lord Erasmus, whose wealth was rivaled only by his girth.
That last one was particularly familiar to Mirok. After all, Lord Erasmus owned the workshop where he worked. Well, technically, he owned the company that owned the company that owned his workshop.
After the procession of Lords, another familiar face emerged.
It was Ambassador Azra.
His ivory robes were perfectly tailored, his wavy auburn hair caught back with a simple circlet that somehow made him appear more regal than even a crown might have. When he laughed at something Lord Erasmus said, the sound carried across the plaza, warm and genuine, inviting others to share in his amusement.
The crowd from the Second Circle responded, several calling out greetings. Azra acknowledged each with a gracious nod or a raised hand. He almost seemed like a Lord himself, rather than a foreign diplomat.
"Bastard looks comfortable," Willem growled.
Too comfortable, Mirok thought. Like a man who knew the verdict before the trial began.
The Speaker took his place, a strange device strapped to his throat to carry his voice across the plaza. He was a thin man with the kind of forgettable face that suited bureaucracy well, but his voice, when it emerged, commanded attention.
"Citizens of Tradespire," he began. "We gather today to hear evidence in a matter of grave importance. Lord Ezekiel von Hohenheim stands accused of several offenses: coercion, corruption, conspiracy, instigation, and violation of our city's sacred neutrality."
A murmur rippled through the common folk. The wealthy remained silent, their expressions carefully controlled.
"The accuser, Lord Azra von Hohenheim, recognized heir of the noble house by Imperial decree, will present evidence of these violations. The accused will then be permitted to offer a defense. Upon conclusion of arguments, the Assembly of Lords will render judgment."
The Speaker paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "The potential penalties for these crimes range from censure to complete stripping of rank and permanent exile."
Mirok's hands clenched. Exile. They would cast out the one Lord who had ever shown genuine concern for the common people, who had shared knowledge freely rather than hoarding it like all the others.
"Let the accused take his place," the Speaker commanded.
The chair remained empty.
Heartbeats passed. The crowd began to shift restlessly. Some among the wealthy exchanged knowing looks, as if this absence confirmed their expectations. Azra's expression remained composed, but Mirok caught the slight upturn of his lips.
"The accused will take his place," the Speaker repeated, an edge creeping into his voice.
Still nothing.
Willem cursed under his breath. Henrik's weathered face had gone pale. Around them, the common folk began to whisper. Had Lord von Hohenheim fled? Had he decided the trial was pointless, the outcome predetermined?
"If the accused does not appear before the last tolling of the bell, his right to present a defense will be stripped," the Speaker declared after no one came forward.
The bell began to toll, marking the official time. If Lord Ezekiel did not appear...
Mirok’s eyes widened.
There had been no dramatic entrance, no flash of light to herald his arrival. One moment the seat stood empty, the next, a young man lounged in it as though he had been there all along. His crimson hair caught the light like spilled blood, and his golden eyes swept the scene with an expression of profound disinterest.
It was the first time Mirok had seen the man in person, but he recognized him at once.
Ezekiel von Hohenheim.
His handsome face still bore a trace of youth, yet his gaze was sharp and unyielding.
What kind of ordeals had he endured to possess such eyes at so tender an age? Mirok could not say, but it was clear at a glance that this young man was no ordinary soul. Even in a crowd of hundreds, his presence alone would set him apart.
He wore plain black robes, unadorned by finery or crest. The choice was clearly deliberate, a stark contrast to the other Lords weighed down by a vault’s worth of ornaments. His posture suggested ease, head resting against one arm, yet Mirok caught the subtle tension in his shoulders, the precision in his movements.
When Ezekiel's gaze swept over the common folk, something shifted in his expression. His indifference cracked, replaced for an instant by something warmer. His lips curved in the faintest smile, there and gone before most could notice.
But Mirok had seen it. For a heartbeat, their eyes even seemed to have met. Perhaps it was only his imagination, a desperate hope, yet he could have sworn that Ezekiel von Hohenheim, this peerless genius, had looked directly at him and smiled.
Azra spoke, his voice carrying without artificial aid.
"Lord Ezekiel," he called, each word precisely weighted. "I encourage you to take a good, long look at this beautiful city." He gestured expansively at the plaza, the Great Hall, the golden dome above. "Memorize every detail, every stone, every face..."
He paused, letting anticipation build.
"For I assure you, this will be the very last time you ever see it."
The common folk recoiled almost as one, while the wealthy leaned forward, eager for the bloodsport to begin. Mirok’s heart hammered against his ribs. The certainty in Azra’s voice had made it feel like this was no trial at all. It felt like an execution, as if the verdict had already been decided and only the formalities remained.
But Ezekiel's response surprised everyone. He laughed.
Not the bitter laugh of a condemned man or the nervous laugh of fear. This was genuine amusement, as if Azra had just told a particularly clever joke. He straightened in his chair, those golden eyes finding his accuser without a hint of fear.
"Bold words," Ezekiel said, his voice somehow reaching every corner of the plaza without raising above conversational volume. "But then, you've always been good with words, haven't you, Azra? It's actions where you seem to struggle."
The temperature in the plaza seemed to drop. Azra's composed mask slipped for just a moment, revealing something sharp and dangerous beneath.
"We shall see," Azra replied softly, but everyone heard him. "We shall see who struggles when this day is done."