Mirok's mind struggled to process what he had just heard. The words replayed in his mind, each syllable examined for hidden meaning, for some clever stratagem that would explain this madness.
Lord Ezekiel had pleaded guilty. Not to one charge, but to all of them.
The man who had just neutralized six Grandmages without rising from his chair, who commanded the respect of common folk and the fear of the powerful, had simply... surrendered?
No. That couldn’t be. That confident posture, that teasing smile…
These were not the bearings of a man who had lost. The young lord lounged in his isolated chair as if it were a throne, golden eyes sweeping across the assembled crowd with something that looked close to amusement.
The Speaker's throat worked silently, the magical device at his neck flickering as he struggled to find words. His eyes darted between Ezekiel and the panel of judges as if hoping someone would tell him what to do next.
"You..." his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat before trying again. "You admit to committing these crimes?"
"Not at all," Ezekiel replied. "I have simply chosen to plead guilty regardless."
"Why?"
The question had been on the edge of every tongue, and Mirok could not say who had spoken. Perhaps a Lord, perhaps Willem’s gravelly voice, or Henrik’s weathered tone. Perhaps even his own tongue. The single word carried the weight of the bewilderment that seized noble and commoner alike.
Ezekiel’s arms lifted in a careless shrug. "Why bother?"
He rose from his chair with fluid grace, showing no urgency, no fear, and no acknowledgment of the dozens of guards whose hands had strayed to their weapons.
“It’s not like any of you could truly be foolish enough to believe these accusations. Inciting rebellion by teaching Magic to the common man? It is so utterly laughable that I can only look down on all of you for entertaining such a farce.”
He shook his head in disgust.
"Besides, it hardly matters, does it? Guilty? Innocent? Who among you even cares?”
Mirok could barely believe what he was hearing. Never, in all his years, had he known anyone to speak so openly before the council. Lord Ezekiel seemed to care nothing for who he might offend, his words cutting without the slightest restraint. With each sentence, he stripped the assembly of its carefully cultivated facade, baring before all the ugly truths that lay beneath.
“This was never a matter of my guilt. So I will not waste my time proving my innocence either.”
His pacing ceased. When he turned back to face the Lords, something in his bearing had shifted. The mocking ease had hardened into something sharper.
"No," he said. "There is only a single language you people truly understand.” He raised one finger into the air as if to lecture children. “Reward.” A second finger joined the first. "And punishment."
"You think yourself in a position to threaten us?" The voice cracked like a whip across the plaza.
Ezekiel shrugged, unbothered by the interruption. “Perhaps not, Lord Matthian. But then again, I wasn’t in a position to make threats the last time either. And yet… you’ll likely remember how that ended, don’t you?”
Mirok felt his throat tighten, recalling the whispered tales that had spread through taverns and market stalls for a time.
Lord Ezekiel’s unprecedented bounties against the Empire had claimed hundreds of lives. It was said he kept their severed heads on his estate, stacked into the shape of a pyramid as a grotesque tombstone to honor his fallen mentor. Some even claimed the monument rose as high as four carriages stacked atop one another.
Scarier still was the fact that Ezekiel had truly just been a child back then, without the status of a Lord or the power of a Grandmage. Who could say what he was capable of now?
Cold sweat traced a path down Mirok’s spine.
This was not at all what he had expected from their generous and kind benefactor. In this moment, the crimson-haired Lord seemed more beast than man. Mirok felt a surge of relief that he was not the target of his wrath.
"Besides," Ezekiel said, his tone slipping back into casual conversation as though he hadn’t just threatened the entire governing body, "I’ve been contemplating departure for some time now."
Azra regained his wits at that moment, smelling weakness. “…Aren’t those just words meant to save face?”
Ezekiel glanced at him with a twinkle in his eyes, as if he found the attempt to provoke him adorable. “You think so? Then tell me, what benefits do I retain from staying here?”
He began counting on his fingers with theatrical precision, each point landing like a hammer blow.
“Materials? The merchants won’t even supply me anymore. Manpower? There has been barely anyone willing to work for my estate as of late. Connections? Unique infrastructures? Maybe knowledge?" Each question was met with a slight shake of his head. "No, no, and no again."
Mirok watched Ezekiel look from his fingers to Azra, then back again, his expression one of exaggerated bewilderment.
"Strange," Ezekiel mused. "Where exactly are these benefits that should bind me to Tradespire?"
He allowed the silence to stretch, to fill with the weight of unspoken accusations.
“Millions flow into the city’s coffers through me alone, and millions more are to arrive in the coming years. The taxes I pay could sustain a small nation.” His gaze swept slowly across the panel of judges, and Mirok noticed how few could hold that golden stare for more than a heartbeat.
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"…And what do I receive in exchange?"
The question hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall. Even the banners had stopped their restless movement, as if the wind itself held its breath.
Ezekiel stopped, his golden eyes boring into the assembly of Lords as if they were the ones on trial instead of him.
“You restrict me with your rules, chain me with your laws. But where are those same laws when I am the one being suppressed? Where is justice when my name is dragged through the mud, when my students are harassed, when my work is sabotaged? Where were you when my own sister was denied entry to the academy?! WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU!?”
Ezekiel’s voice had risen steadily, but his final words erupted with such fury that the nearby buildings trembled, reverberating the weight of his anger. For the first time, the carefully maintained mask of indifference slipped, revealing the raw rage and bitter disappointment he felt toward his fellow Lords.
It was emotion made manifest, and Mirok struggled to believe such a sound could emerge from a human throat.
“…You forget something in your self-pitying rant,” Azra cut in, seeing that some of the Lords seemed to be on the edge of wavering. “Safety. What you gain by staying here is safety from the Empire’s justice. Or have you forgotten that you are a criminal on the run?”
The two men locked eyes across the plaza, and Mirok felt the very air grow heavy. Time seemed to stretch, each heartbeat dragging into eternity, until at last Ezekiel gave a slow nod, his previous mask back in place.
“You are right,” he said, the admission startling everyone, Azra most of all. “For a long time, I have clung to this city for that very reason, as if it were the only thing standing between me and certain death…”
The words carried none of his earlier levity.
“My family and I have relied on Tradespire to survive. And all of you knew it. You knew I had nowhere else to go. It must have seemed like an invitation to bully me, didn’t it?”
His eyes crinkled at the edges, but there was no mirth in them. “Just a kid with nowhere left to run. Why treat him fairly? He can’t leave anyway, not with the Empire breathing down his neck…”
Mirok felt his chest tighten. He had always known, in abstract terms, the danger Lord Ezekiel faced. But this was the first time he truly heard the details of his plight. The reason the young man had come to Tradespire and why he had remained, even as so many turned against him.
It was to keep his family safe.
That, above all else, was something Mirok could deeply empathize with. Hearing that this young man, who had given so freely, had been systematically exploited because of this vulnerability, stirred a hot, violent fire within him.
"But…" Ezekiel said, and his demeanor shifted entirely, replaced by a presence so commanding that even the guards instinctively stepped back. "Those days are over now."
Azra's sneer could have curdled milk. "What delusion is this? You think you have the strength to stand against the Empire? You're mad! There is nowhere in this world where Imperial reach cannot find you. Quickly. Kneel before your fellow lords and beg them to spare you before it’s—”
"Kneel?"
The word cracked like a whip, silencing Azra mid-sentence. Ezekiel's expression had transformed into something that made Mirok's blood run cold.
"Do you even remember the words of your own house, you pathetic worm??"
Azra’s face shifted from white to red, his carefully maintained composure shattered. The accusation had struck at something fundamental: His position as the rightful heir.
Glory or Death.
Those were their words.
To suggest kneeling, begging, surrendering…
It was antithetical to everything their house represented. Even Mirok, a common man with no stake in noble politics, understood the magnitude of that betrayal.
"Very good," Azra hissed, his voice barely human in its fury. "I hope you will not regret those words…"
“Why should I?” Ezekiel asked. “Or, do you perhaps believe that I’ve been idle over these past few days?”
With that, Ezekiel produced a parchment, not unlike the one Azra had presented earlier. Yet it quickly became clear this was no mere prop, for Ezekiel began to read from it.
“By the authority of the Alliance Council, Ezekiel von Hohenheim is hereby guaranteed sanctuary in any Alliance nation of his choosing, protected by the combined might of the treaty signatories. Furthermore, he is promised safe passage to his chosen destination under the personal protection of one Aurelia Thorsten, who pledges to ensure his family's safe arrival regardless of opposition..."
Ezekiel lowered the scroll, a broad smile spreading across his face. “See? This is what it looks like when I actually trade favors.”
It was an admission of guilt, plain and simple.
Mirok's mind reeled at the audacity.
Ezekiel had just confessed to exactly what Azra had accused him of. Yet no one moved to capitalize on it.
Not Azra, whose face had turned pale.
Not the judges, frozen in their chairs.
“…Where should I go, I wonder,” Ezekiel mused aloud, tapping a finger against his lower lip as he paced in a slow circle. “Invocatia, perhaps? Hmm. That might bring me into conflict with Lady Blackwater, wouldn’t it? Maybe Korrovan, then? What do you think, Lord Erasmus? Then again, Valour has made me a rather generous offer. Oh my. That would put me in competition with so many of you, wouldn’t it?”
One threat after another, spoken openly, without the slightest attempt at concealment. His words left nothing to the imagination: Wherever he chose to go, the merchant Lords of that region would be wise to abandon their business. By leaving his destination unnamed, he threatened them all.
Ezekiel’s gaze swept over the assembly, as if searching for his next victim. None dared meet his eyes, fearing it might mark them as a target. The display was so pitiful that Mirok wondered how these men had ever found the courage to bully such a fiend in the first place.
“What’s the matter?” Ezekiel taunted. “Surely the proud Lords of Tradespire wouldn’t let a criminal like me walk free for the sake of personal gain, would you?”
Silence was his only answer.
“I confessed…” he added, unwilling to waste this chance to point out the hypocrisy.
In that instant, understanding crystallized in everyone’s mind. Lord Ezekiel had been right. This trial had never been about guilt or innocence. It was nothing more than a calculation of costs and benefits for these Merchant Lords. Nothing else.
“Well then… Since I have no intention of presenting a defense, my presence here is no longer required, I assume.” He bowed low, far too low. The gesture was no show of respect, but a mockery of those who claimed the right to judge him.
“Send me a letter once you’ve decided on a verdict. You know where to find me.”
With those final words, Ezekiel von Hohenheim vanished just as suddenly as he had arrived.
That left only Azra, rigid and pale, and the assembly of Lords who still sat in heavy silence. Mirok could see the calculations flickering behind their eyes. It was as if scales were moving, calculating a balance.
On the one side, if Ezekiel left, they would lose his taxes. A blow, yes, but survivable. But if he left and prospered elsewhere, nursing grudges against those who had wronged him…
The pyramid of heads must have loomed large in their imagination.
The silence stretched until it became physically uncomfortable. Then, like ice beginning to crack under spring warmth, one of the Merchant Lords cleared his throat.
"…Perhaps," the voice was thin, uncertain, "we have been too hasty in these proceedings?"
The words seemed to break a spell.
Another Lord nodded eagerly, grasping at this lifeline. "Yes, yes indeed. Such serious accusations require a more thorough investigation. We cannot simply accept claims without extraordinary proof."
"In fact," a third voice chimed in, growing stronger with each word, "this entire matter seems irregular. A foreign diplomat should not be influencing internal Tradespire affairs."
Mirok's jaw went slack. He was witnessing something he had never thought possible. The very Lords who had seemed so eager to exile Ezekiel moments ago were now scrambling to undo their own conspiracy.
And Azra von Hohenheim, once so confident, now looked hollow, as if his soul had fled. His lips trembled while more and more of his former allies denounced him without a moment’s hesitation.
Mirok seared the sight into his memory. So this was the world of the powerful. These were the people he had admired his entire life…
For the first time since his birth, Mirok felt it might not have been so bad to have been born a simple man, free to live his days in quiet dignity.