"... please, do not do anything rash."

Alaric’s gaze remained fixed on Julian, his blue eyes clouded with a storm of suppressed violence and raw grief. The silence in the cellar stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the distant, rhythmic drip of water.

For a long moment, the Duke looked like a man standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to step off into the abyss of civil war if it meant catching the man who had wounded his scholar.

Then, slowly, the tension in his massive shoulders began to ebb. He exhaled a long, shaky breath that brushed against Julian’s skin.

"You have a heart that bleeds for everyone, don’t you?" Alaric murmured, his voice sounding hollow. "Even for the children of the man who tried to unmake you. Even for the ’commoners’ who wouldn’t know your name if you died tomorrow."

He reached up, his large hand cupping Julian’s face with a reverence that was almost painful. His thumb brushed over the reddened skin where their foreheads had collided.

"Fine," Alaric whispered, a defeated but loyal shadow crossing his face. "For you... I will hold the fire back. I will not be the one to light the match that burns the Empire. But Julian, if they try to take you from me at that trial—if that serum begins to kill you—I will not care about ’rashness’ or the ’throne.’ I will take you, and I will leave nothing but cinders behind us."

Julian leaned into the touch, his heart finally slowing its frantic pace. "I know, Lucien. I know."

The heavy iron bar on the outside of the door slid back with a harsh, metallic scrape. Both men jumped slightly as the door swung open. Sir Kaelen stepped inside, carrying a small wooden tray with a bowl of steaming broth and a hunk of dark bread. His face was grim, his eyes darting briefly to the Golden Guards stationed in the hall before he stepped in and kicked the door shut.

"The meal, Your Grace," Kaelen said, his voice low and clipped. He set the tray on the crate. "But you must hurry. The Healers from the Royal Sanctum have entered the wing. They are setting up the high chamber. The Emperor... he has ordered the trial to begin within the hour."

Alaric’s jaw tightened, his hand dropping from Julian’s face to grip the hilt of his sword with a bone-crushing intensity. The ’preliminary trial’ was a farce, a theater of cruelty designed to extract a confession before the high nobility.

"An hour," Alaric repeated, the words sounding like a death sentence. "He wants to strike while the blood in the ballroom is still wet."

Julian looked at the tray Kaelen had brought. The broth was steaming, the smell of salted herbs filling the damp cellar.

He knew he had to eat; he needed his strength for the performance that lay ahead. But his eyes were fixed on the door, as if a force he couldn’t handle would burst in a moment.

"Kaelen," Alaric barked as he began to untie Julian’s hands. "Prepare the men. I don’t care about the Emperor’s ’escort.’ My northern guards will be the ones flanking that carriage until we get to the courthouse. If the Golden Guards so much as breathe on him too hard, they are to be cut down."

"Already in motion, Your Grace," Kaelen replied, his voice a low, steady anchor in the chaos.

Julian brushed his wrists, finally feeling blood flow through them, and stared at the red jagged mark the coarse rope had left. reached out, his hands fumbling for the wooden spoon.

He forced himself to swallow the broth, the warmth spreading through his chest, grounding his soul back into Julian’s body. He looked at Alaric, who was now pacing the small space of the cellar like a caged predator.

"Lucien," Julian called softly.

The Duke stopped, his blue eyes burning as they locked onto Julian’s.

"I will be fine," Julian promised, a strange, calm clarity washing over him. The Elixir was working, making his own heartbeat steady, his mind sharp. "The serum... it won’t break me. I’m going to tell them exactly what they need to hear to let us go."

"You speak as if you’ve already won," Alaric murmured, stepping closer and kneeling between Julian’s legs. "You do not know what Aurelian is plotting." He took the bowl from Julian’s trembling hands and began to feed him himself, his movements surprisingly tender for a man who looked ready to commit regicide.

"I do not need to know what the madman thinks. I just have to win," Julian whispered. "For you. For Lucius. And for the life you promised me in the North."

Alaric’s expression softens as he hears this. Fine. He will let Julian have things done his way, but he will still have the guards on standby.

The moment things start going wrong, the moment it looks like Aurelian is playing tricks and tries to get Julian executed, even though he knows quite frankly that the man who nearly assassinated him was not Julian—That would mark the end of the beginning of the flames.

He shall take Julian out of there and burn down everything in his path.

The hour passed in a suffocating, heavy silence, broken only by the occasional clatter of armor from the guards outside.

Alaric didn’t leave Julian’s side for a single second, his hand resting firmly on Julian’s shoulder as if he were physically anchoring him to this world.

He watched his breathing, watched his eyes, made sure to take note if Julian began to shake or tremble... If Julian changed his mind even at the last minute, he would act on his lover’s whim.

But Julian did not change his mind, nor did he tremble.

He put on the mask of calmness while he counted the beat of his own heart.

Then, the heavy iron bolt finally slid back for the last time, and a contingent of the Emperor’s elite Golden Guards walked in. Their gilded plate armor shimmered mockingly in the torchlight as they crowded the only exit in the cellar.

"The hour is up," the lead guard announced, his voice echoing off the damp stone. "The High Court is in session. Prisoner Julian Von Astrea is to be moved immediately."