Chapter 14 · The Lost Prince

"Carlos." Morath's voice cut through the noise. "Or should we call you something else?"

Valen didn't move. Two trial masters had Eliza between them—one gripping her hair, the other pressing a ceremonial ice-blade against her throat. Blood ran dark down her side, pooling in the white sand.

Eliza's eyes found his. She wasn't crying. Wasn't begging. Just looking at him like she'd already made her choice and now he had to make his.

"The girl spoke a name," Morath said. He stood on the judge's platform, white robes snapping in the wind. "Valen Frostblade. Dead prince. Burned traitor." Each word dropped like a hammer. "So here's what happens. You tell us she's lying. You tell us you're Carlos the sellsword and nothing more. We let her bleed out quiet. Mercy."

Twenty thousand people holding their breath.

"Or," Morath continued, "you claim the name. Claim the bloodline. And we find out if exile really burned the royal marks off."

The ice-blade pressed harder. Eliza made a small sound.

"She's bleeding," Valen said. "Let the healers—"

"Answer the question."

Eliza shook her head. The smallest movement. Don't. Don't do it for me.

Ten years he'd been running.