The King’s Judgement.

(Paige’s POV)

Stone walls rise high, carrying whispers like secrets. Light falls in thin lines, cutting across worn floors. Every step echoes as if watched. Silence here holds its breath.

Flickering flames fill the room, leaping inside iron holders fixed to cold rock. Shadows stretch upward, twitching across stonework draped in flags - each one showing a dark lion rearing on pale gray cloth. Over there, beyond the hall’s width, high upon steps meant for another ruler, Nolen takes his place where Noah refuses to sit.

A shadow of his brother, worn thin by years. The bones in his face match Noah’s, just as those steady eyes do. Yet while Noah burns with ice and flame, Nolen holds stillness - a surface like stone, untouched. Leather wraps his frame instead of velvet or silk, built for roads not halls. A blade rests at his side, not for show. Not here for speeches. Here because debts must be faced.

Standing beside him, six of his own guards stand motionless like stone figures. Off to one corner, Beatrice waits - hands tied, face white yet unyielding. The moment I appear, her gaze locks onto me, sharp with an odd victory-laced hate. In her mind, the outcome is sealed. What she wrote, she thinks, is what will be.

A twitch runs through Noah’s fingers where they rest on my skin, barely noticeable. We near the platform yet he does not pull me forward like some offering. Ten steps out, firm ground beneath our feet, he plants himself - level with power, not below it. His body shifts, just an inch, breaking the line between me and the throne. Shoulder to spine, quiet shield.

Fog clings to the night, lit by a flickering fire's glow. A single spark hisses in the dark.

That's my brother, Noah says. Not kindly. Just stating it like that sets a line between them.

Quietly, the name hangs in the air - Noah. Dust seems to settle between each syllable. Nolen looks once at Noah’s worn clothes, streaked with road and weather. Then he glances at the plain blue fabric of my dress. Not a muscle shifts on his face. Busy times, it seems, have passed through here already

“Retrieving what was stolen from under your kingdom’s nose,” Noah replies, his tone edged with steel. “While you were holding court, a madwoman was kidnapping and torturing a citizen under my protection. Your justice seems to have a limited range.”

A flicker of irritation crosses the King’s face. “Do not presume to lecture me on justice, little brother. I am here because your ‘retrieval’ involved raiding a noble house, arresting a lady of the court, and exposing secrets that reek of treason and witchcraft.” His gaze, heavy as lead, settles on me. “Secrets that orbit around her.”

The stare sits heavy on my skin. Not wonder - cold math behind the eyes. In their game of power, I’m just one more number to adjust.

Noah’s posture shifts, becoming more predatory. “The only witchcraft here is the poison Beatrice spun to manipulate and isolate Paige for her own twisted ends. The evidence is in her own hand. Journals detailing cycles and narratives. A prison disguised as a refuge.”

“I am the Keeper!” Beatrice’s voice rings out, shrill and sudden in the vast hall. She strains against her bonds. “You are destroying the fabric of the story! He - ” she jerks her head toward Noah, “ - is a corruption! A deviation! And she is the cause! She must be removed!”

He tells them to quiet her, still staring away. A guard moves ahead, pressing his palm hard onto Beatrice’s shoulder. She stops speaking, though her glare stays locked on me.

The King returns his attention to us. “A ‘Keeper.’ ‘Cycles.’ She ranted much the same when my men took her from the icehouse. She claims this one,” he nods at me, “has visions. That she knows things she shouldn’t. Is this true?”

Right here. That one thought, stuck in my head since morning light broke through.

A sound escapes Noah, maybe a word, though I cut in before it lands. My foot moves ahead, placing me right beside him now - no more shadows. He looks my way, surprised, yet I do not turn. The King waits, so my gaze stays locked there.

“It’s true, Your Majesty,” I say, my voice clear and steady, echoing in the hall. “I know things. But not because I am a witch, or a seer. I know them because… I read them. In a book. A story about this kingdom, written in another world.”

A hush settles, deep and heavy. Shuffling comes from the guards, restless on their feet. Quiet holds Beatrice too, uncharacteristically still. Silence lingers longer than expected.

His face shows nothing. It is just a book

A story, I say, sounding strange even to myself - yet completely certain. Not real, but made up. There, I existed only briefly, then vanished. Never reached my twenties. Tied by promise to Christian Zephry. A presence barely noticed. Beatrice lived quietly between the lines. He sits there quiet. I look over. Behind that still expression, his stare locks onto mine - sharp, steady. Then it hits me: Noah wasn’t someone you understood. More like something that happened. Like weather. Like fate shoved into a name

Staring at the king, my thoughts drift. That tale became real when I opened my eyes - living it like it was mine. Memories from there mix with what I know here, especially how things were supposed to go. Survival came from knowing too much. Changing what had already been written - that’s what I aimed for. What I have stops there. Not some prediction. Just recall. Each day, living outside the pages, what's left slips further away

Stillness fills the room, loud enough to catch every pulse inside me. His hand reaches for mine without asking, weaving our fingers together where everyone sees. Right there, under royal eyes, it becomes more than touch - it stands firm. Unity shown, not spoken.

Slouched on the throne, King Nolen folds his hands behind his head. His eyes stay locked on mine, unblinking, stretched silence filling the room. At last he speaks, voice flat, like stone dragged over dirt. The story you tell? Could be real. Might be smoke. Either way, what counts is how things now move because of it. That knowing of yours set fire under everything. Showed where my brother cracks. A reason found her when chaos already lived inside. Now its ripple shakes things loose

Noah’s grip on my hand becomes vise-tight. “She is a victim, Nolen. Not a cause.”

“She is a catalyst,” the King corrects, his voice hardening. “Intentional or not, her presence has altered the board. Your focus, brother, has been divided. Your legendary control, fractured. You raided a noble house without my leave. You have created a power vacuum and a scandal that whispers of dark magic at the highest levels of my court.” He stands, his movement fluid and commanding. “This cannot stand.”

A shiver runs through me - this ending was always close. The air thickens before it hits.

“Beatrice Sandoval will be remanded to the custody of the Royal Asylum for study and containment,” Nolen pronounces, his words falling like stones. “Her property and titles are forfeit to the crown.”

Something catches in Beatrice's throat - a small noise, heavy with loss. Her tale moves on without the Keeper, erased like a name crossed out in pencil.

His gaze lands on us. Then there she is - known now for pulling threads no one else can see. Power follows her like smoke. Nobles whisper, eager for scraps of drama. This story will spread fast. Fear takes root when stories spiral out of control. Years go by before the noise fades. Rumors stick like burrs, hard to shake loose

Something sharp lives in Noah’s voice when he speaks. His words come slow, like a warning. He sees it arriving, just like I do.

“The Northern Duchy,” Nolen states. “It has been without a proper ruler since old Lord Fellstone’s death. It is remote, cold, and of little strategic value to the south. You will go there. As its Duke and Duchess. A reward for your… service… in uncovering treason. And a exile to remove the thorn from my court’s side.”

Out in the cold. Away from the city. Removed from influence. Shut out of the circles Noah once moved through, trying to shift things from inside.

Still waiting on Noah’s outburst. The angry refusal might come next. Conflict could ignite in this very room.

Stillness holds him. Complete. A beat passes. Slowly, his face shifts toward me. Not the throne. Me. His gaze locks on my eyes, pressing without words. Are you able? Will you come? By my side? Beyond maps?

A quiet steadiness lives in his eyes. Not sorrow, not anger over what changed everything. Just someone studying what comes next. Wondering whether I’m part of that picture.

Bones hold the truth. Warmth lingers from that night at the inn. His arms made shelter. Where he is, I am not lost. That place - any place - is where I belong.

A tiny movement of my head is all he gets.

His gaze shifts to his brother, spine straightening. "The answer is yes."

Frozen silence. That’s how it feels. Short phrases carry weight sometimes. A single breath can hang between them. Finality hides in plain sight. Simple things take on gravity.

A flicker of shock crosses King Nolen's face - just for an instant, like he braced for blows. Soon it fades, replaced by what might be sorrow. Maybe even grace. "Up north," he says, voice low, "the land doesn’t care who you are."

“We will be okay,” Noah says, moving his thumb across the skin on the side of my hand.

“You leave at first light,” the King says, turning away, the audience clearly over. “Do not return to the capital without my express summons. Consider the North your kingdom. And consider this my mercy.”

Off they go, the soldiers leading a weeping Beatrice through the hall. Down steps the King, slowing right beside our group. His eyes land on Noah - just for an instant, something cracks. A flicker of sibling fear, the weight of rule showing clear.

“Try to build something there, Noah,” he says, his voice barely audible. “Something better than what we have here.”

After that, silence settles in when he exits, boots of his guards echoing down the stone passage behind. The massive room feels emptier once they vanish into shadowed corridors. Torchlight flickers across empty benches where we stay, breath held, listening to distant footsteps fade completely.

What stays after they go feels unlike anything else. Not quiet shaped by blame. But stillness like standing at the edge of something endless.

His fingers lift my chin. Noah leans close, palms cradling my cheeks like he's seen me before. A question slips out - soft, low: does fear live behind my eyes? The air between us holds still.

“Of the North? Or of a life with you?” I ask, placing my hands over his.

A slight grin, genuine and sudden, appears. He says just one word: "Both."

“No,” I say softly, shifting closer to where he rests a hand. Fear isn’t what fills me now

Down he bends, lips meeting mine in that hollow space - once grand, now nothing but walls we move past. Gentle, the kiss sits between us, like a quiet vow tied to what comes next.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against mine. “Then we go north,” he murmurs. “We build our own court. Our own rules. Away from scripts and Keepers and kings.”

Fortress it seems, that little word. He speaks of us, not just himself. Future tucked inside those letters.

Faint glow climbs above the edge of the world, where night still lingers. Pale pink touches the white cover, then melts into warm yellow. Light spreads slow, not rushing. Colors shift without sound. Snow holds the hush of early morning.

One final sunrise down south.

Light broke across the horizon, marking our initial morning in exile.

Light broke. That morning wore our names differently.