By morning, the whole campus had heard what had happened. Well, at the very least, they'd heard an interpretation of what had happened. The retellings of the story were as wild and varied as the events that coloured Oliver Patrick's past, and his battles against the Yarmdon, as well as the ascension of his father to the Sixth Boundary.
Some said what had truly happened – that it was an assassination attempt. That Oliver Patrick, along with two of his retainers, had overcome a force of twenty utilising poisoned weapons. That they'd butchered them without a shred of mercy. That it hadn't even been close. Somehow, this narrative was very much in the minority. If anything, it was the scorned view.
As students shared stories over breakfast – both yellow shirts and blue shirts alike – that was a tale that was promptly ridiculed. A more popular one followed, that Oliver Patrick had set upon a group of patrolling guardsmen, and butchered them in a mad rage. This too seemed an unlikely version of events, but surprisingly it was not as well scorned as it should be.
Others told a more balanced tale, that there had been a confrontation. One of the guardsmen had recognized Oliver, and recalled something terrible that Oliver had done to him in the past. What this terrible deed was depended on the teller.
Some said that Oliver had stolen away the guardsman's lover, others said that Oliver had robbed him in the depths of winter, and others said that Oliver had killed a prized hound. But whatever it was that Oliver had done, the reaction remained consistent. The guardsman had choice words for the young noble, and Oliver had reacted without mercy.
He had been, of course, the first one to draw his blade. He'd cut the man before he'd even readied his own weapon, and then the other guardsmen had joined in, attempting to defend their man, only for them too to be promptly cut down. A favoured story, this one was, for it explained much.
The guardsmen had fought without intending to kill Oliver Patrick, for fear of social repercussions, and he had taken advantage of that indecision in order to cut them to pieces.
One particular youth was a little too loud on the matter for nobility, and even louder still for a Lord. It was not particularly mannerly the way he carried himself, but on a morning such as this, no one dared to correct Lord Gargon on his behaviour, for he was just as excited as the rest of them were.
"I knew there was something off about him!" He declared happily. "He had no conception for the natural order of things. He didn't give a Lord the proper respect. It doesn't surprise me that his father offended the High King. Insolence seems to be inherent in that bloodline – and now he's in chains, paying."
There were murmurs of agreement from amongst his circle. None had a particularly good impression of Oliver Patrick. At least, not those that had interacted with him. A small few remained quiet as the others spoke, unwilling to offer their own opinions on the matter, for they could see no reason in either side.
These were just as strongly ridiculed for their silence as others were for their opinions, but they held their ground anyway.
The normally quiet Lasha Blackthorn was even quieter at breakfast that day. Amelia and Pauline stood behind her, having finished her own breakfast. The two of them wore troubled expressions, as they listened in on the noble talk.
It had become so distracting that Lasha had distanced herself right to the end of the table, where she was far enough away from the others that she could block them out if she chose to.
"This is right…" Amelia murmured regretfully, quiet enough that only their circle could hear.
"I agree," Pauline said sadly.
"Just what is going on?" Amelia said. "Sure, he's a pain, and I don't really like him… But he's not insane. He wouldn't just kill twenty people for no good reason, would he?"
Even that was hard to defend, given Oliver's history, given his recent propensity to lose control a little too quickly. Whilst such an incident had only been seen once – in his striking of a professor – it was of such a magnitude that it was attached to his character indefinitely. Even those that wanted to defend him didn't have much of a leg to stand on.
Lasha gripped her fork tightly as they spoke, enough to crush it. "It's wrong…" she murmured. "There wouldn't be a trial if they were so sure."
It was a salient point, one that the others had quickly overlooked. Had they been so sure of what had happened that day, with so many bodies to choose from, the Academy would not have bothered to conduct an official trial. They would have attached his crimes to him, and labelled him for what he was. This was not an institution that used the trial system often – it was only when they were unsure.
In this world where everyone seemed quite sure of what had happened, it seemed almost certain that they were all wrong. With such a loss of life, there ought to have been no questions as to what had happened. Lasha was sure of that. They hadn't conducted a trial for Oliver's previous offence, after all – for they were sure what had happened there.
They'd merely had a meeting to decide what his punishment ought to have been.
She struggled to decide what to think. She wanted to defend Oliver confidently, but even she was unsure, despite spending as much time around him over the past weeks as he had. There was something behind his eyes, something dangerous and reckless, that went against what she'd seen of him. It wasn't impossible that such a part could have shined through.
The trial was not held the next day, as had initially been proposed. Nor was it held the day after that, or even the day following that. It was not until a whole week had passed by that the Trial was given its go-ahead. A whole week of unusual delays, by the Academy's eyes. Their trials – when they were forced to have them – were dealt with immediately. There was no reason to wait.
No reason to let a possibly innocent man rot in a cell, nor any reason to let a criminal live any longer than he had to.