The Speaker cleared his throat. The sound carried across the crowd, that strange device at his throat transforming his thin voice into something that commanded attention.
"Ambassador, you may present your evidence."
Azra rose from his seat with practiced grace. When he addressed the assembled lords and the crowd, his voice carried the warm timbre of a friend sharing difficult truths.
"My fellow citizens, I come before you not with joy but with duty." He paused, his expression shifting to genuine sorrow. "It pains me to bring these accusations against one who shares my family name, even if he bears it without legitimate claim…"
A stir ran through the common folk, angry mutters quickly silenced by the guards’ watchful eyes. Mirok bit his tongue, the taste of blood sharp on his lips. The casual dismissal of Lord Ezekiel’s heritage from the outset was a grim omen, hinting at the harsh tone the day’s hearing would take.
Azra continued as if nothing had happened, his hands spreading in a gesture of reluctant necessity. "We cannot allow sentiment to blind us. Not if Tradespire's neutrality, its very foundation, stands threatened by one man's ambitions."
The wealthy listeners leaned forward, hanging on every word as if it were a bedtime story. Some of the merchant Lords nodded along as well, much to Mirok’s dismay. What kind of judges were these? Weren’t they supposed to be impartial?
"Let us begin with the first charge." Azra's voice hardened. "I call forth witnesses whose children have been manipulated, their futures bound through arcane means to serve a tyrant's will."
Two figures emerged from the crowd's edge where they'd been waiting. They climbed the platform steps with the stiff movements of people forcing themselves forward against their own reluctance.
"Tell us," Azra prompted, his tone gentle, "what happened to your children."
The man’s throat worked silently for a moment before words emerged. "Our son... Keiran... he has awakened with a perfect Space affinity." Pride leaked through despite everything. He painted the perfect picture of a father unable to completely suppress what should have been joy. "He should have had his choice of houses. Any family would have welcomed him."
"…But?" Azra supplied when Konrad faltered.
"But Lord Ezekiel..." The man's voice cracked. "He used some form of influence. Keiran offered himself three times. Three times! No child does that naturally." He stopped, jaw working as if the words had lodged in his throat.
“…And your daughter?" Azra prompted.
The woman found her voice, speaking where her husband faltered. "Kallen was coerced as well. They're children! They couldn’t have understood what they were agreeing to."
The Lords and wealthier citizens hissed in displeasure, yet the crowd at large remained unmoved.
What should have been a stirring plea fell flat in this arena. The reason was simple: both Keiran and Kallen attended Ezekiel’s lectures faithfully, just like the other newly awakened children of the von Hohenheim estate.
Tam had spoken with them many times, and one thing was certain: neither regretted their decision to follow Ezekiel. On the contrary, it was a point of pride, something they often boasted about.
And why wouldn’t they?
If Mirok’s own children had been given such an opportunity, he would have wept with joy. But what about these two? All they knew how to do was complain! Not about any mistreatment their children had suffered, but simply because they disliked the choice.
Mirok scanned the rows of lords and wealthy merchants, his eyes flashing with disdain. Who among them could claim to be a better fit? Who would dare to stand above Ezekiel von Hohenheim when it came to fostering magical talent?
The answer was apparent, yet so conveniently ignored.
"Thank you for your courage," Azra said to the parents. They fled the platform as quickly as dignity allowed, refusing to look at anyone as they disappeared somewhere.
"It is clear that Ezekiel is a vile man, but this is nowhere near the worst of his misdeeds. Now, to the next matter of concern." Azra's voice rose, carrying to the furthest corners of the plaza. "Lord Ezekiel has achieved what no other Merchant Lord has managed in a generation: favorable trade agreements with both the elven courts and the dwarven holds. Some might call this remarkable business acumen..."
He paused, letting doubt sharpen his words. "I call it suspicious. What promises were made? What future influence was bartered away for temporary advantages?"
Lord Matthian shifted in his seat, his golden beard catching the light as he nodded slowly. Other Lords exchanged meaningful glances, their expressions suggesting Azra had voiced what they had all been thinking.
"The elves," Azra continued, beginning to pace with measured steps, "who view us humans as barely more than clever animals, suddenly embrace one of us? The dwarves, who guard their craft resources with legendary fervor, open their markets to a single human merchant?" He spread his hands in mock bewilderment. "No reasonable explanation exists save one: Lord Ezekiel promised them something. Power over Tradespire once he'd consolidated his control."
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Willem's scarred hands had curled into fists. "This bastard," he muttered, just loud enough for those nearby to hear.
Mirok agreed silently. The claim sounded absurd, even to his ears. Wasn’t Azra himself a foreign Lord? How was it that he could stroll through their city, wining and dining Lords as he pleased, yet the moment Ezekiel gained any favour, it was considered a crime?
A few voices rose before guards shifted their positions, hands moving to rest on weapon hilts. The threat was clear: disorder would not be tolerated.
"The next matter…" Azra announced, his voice cutting through the crowd's restlessness, "is perhaps the most damning." He produced a rolled parchment from his robes with a flourish that suggested he'd been waiting for this moment. "I have testimony from Alliance military sources confirming that Lord Ezekiel provided them with a prototype ship. A new design, revolutionary in its potential."
He unrolled the parchment, though he didn't read from it. The gesture was purely theatrical. "In exchange for these weapons, he received preferential treatment. This is not merely corruption—it is a direct violation of Tradespire's sacred neutrality. By arming only one side of the continental conflict, Lord Ezekiel has made our city a participant in war."
The wealthy section erupted in scandalized whispers. Neutrality was more than tradition; it was the foundation of Tradespire's prosperity. To threaten it was to threaten every merchant's livelihood. Several lords were already nodding, their faces set in lines of grim determination.
"Finally," Azra said, his voice dropping to something almost intimate despite the vast audience, "we come to the charge of instigation."
The word fell like an executioner's axe.
"Lord Ezekiel has been teaching magic." Azra let that statement stand alone for a moment, as if its implications were self-evident. "Not simple tricks or household charms, but real magic. The manipulation of Mana. Those are the very same lessons he himself had learned at the Elementium academy for battle Mages."
He turned to address the common folk directly, his expression shifting to one of paternal concern. "I ask you—why? Why would peaceful citizens, content in their trades and crafts, need such power? What use does a baker have for battle Magic? What need does a seamstress have for mana manipulation?"
The pause stretched.
"Unless," Azra continued, his voice now sharp as a blade, "the people were being prepared for something. Unless someone was building an army. Teaching the people to rise against their betters, to overturn the order that has kept Tradespire prosperous for centuries."
The words were poison. They twisted the gift Lord Ezekiel had given freely into supposed proof of treason. Mirok felt rage rise in his chest, hot and suffocating. Around him, the common folk stirred, voices breaking into shouts of anger.
"That's a lie!" someone roared from the back.
"He helped us!" came another voice.
"You bastard!" Henrik's gravelly shout cut through the growing din.
The fury spread like ripples across a pond. This was too much. The first lord who had ever cared enough to improve their lives, to personally teach them—and this was to be his reward?
To be put on trial for rebellion?
This was injustice.
Mirok’s fists clenched as his eyes locked on the dais, where Ambassador Azra gazed down at them as though surveying a nest of vermin. The blood rushed to Mirok’s head at that look.
In that instant, he remembered with brutal clarity what lords truly were. How they saw him, his family, all of them.
He stepped forward before he even realized it.
Behind the regular guards, Grandmages stationed to protect the Lords raised their hands in unison. Mana flared around their fingers, patterns of power forming with practiced ease. Mirok didn’t know the spells, but he could feel their power, enough to flatten a crowd in seconds.
The threat was clear: resist, and they would unleash devastation.
Yet the common folk pressed forward anyway, fury drowning out fear.
“See!” Azra shouted over the chaos. “This is what he planned all along!”
A piece of fruit flew through the air, bursting harmlessly against a shimmering barrier. But it was enough. The Grandmages’ spells flared brighter, moments from release.
The crowd was bathed in a caleidoscope of colors. Red, blue, green, purple. The number and power of spells taking shape would be enough to massacre a crowd. But there was no stopping it anymore.
The mob pushed on, and even the ones that still retained their reason were being swept along. They had crossed the point of no return. Mirok’s eyes fixed on the massive ball of flame forming above him. It would burn him to ash, leaving not even a body to bury. He was certain of it.
And then Ezekiel moved.
He did not rise from his chair, did not gesture dramatically or call out a warning. His hand merely lifted from where it had been supporting his head, fingers spreading in what looked like nothing more than a casual stretch.
Six needles of blood materialized from nothing, so thin they were barely visible against the afternoon light. They moved with impossible precision and speed, each one finding a different spell matrix, sliding through the complex magical patterns like keys into locks. The gathered mana unraveled instantly, dissipating harmlessly into the air.
The blood streamed back through the air in graceful arcs, disappearing into Ezekiel's body as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
The plaza fell silent. Every eye was fixed on the young man in the isolated chair who had just neutralized six Grandmages without apparent effort. The guards themselves stood frozen, hands still raised but now trembling slightly.
Ezekiel rose from his seat.
He did not look at Azra or the assembled lords. His golden eyes swept across the crowd, and Mirok could have sworn they lingered on him for just a moment. Then Lord Ezekiel raised one hand, not threateningly, but with the same casual authority a conductor might use to quiet an orchestra.
The crowd stilled. The anger did not vanish, but it receded like a tide pulled back by some invisible moon. Peace settled over the plaza, not enforced but somehow invited.
When the young man finally spoke, his voice carried without any magical aid. It reached every corner through sheer presence alone, each word striking like a stone cast into still water.
“This is your plan? Spin a web of lies, insult the crowd, and then purchase a guilty verdict? How bland. How predictable. How… utterly disappointing.”
No one dared breathe too loudly in the oppressive stillness that followed his words. Only Ezekiel alone seemed completely at ease.
“Very well. Let’s see how this plays out…” he said, a faint smile curving his lips. “I, Ezekiel von Hohenheim, plead guilty to every charge laid against me.”
The young man’s gaze turned to the jury, his smile gaining a wicked edge.
“Exile me… if you dare.”