A/N: I apologize to my readers for the repeated content in the last Chapter. I updated it. Please refresh. Thank you for your continued support.
Warning: Mention of child abuse and a rape scene. I struggled with keeping this scene, but I thought it is necessary. You can skip that section if you are not comfortable.
Prince Alaric was very decisive, and his actions were swift.
That very afternoon, the magistrate and his bailiff were arrested and presented as the accused in the very same courtroom where he used to deal with crimes and disputes as the judge.
"The magistrate accepted bribes and sentenced to death my friend who beat and castrated an official who raped his two teenage daughters." A middle-aged merchant was the first to step forward to testify. He was happy that, finally, justice would be served for the unjust death of his friend.
The magistrate glared at him, but the merchant stared back. How dare he still have that proud look on his face? Did he think he was still sitting at the judge’s seat?
A gaunt farmer stepped forward from the crowd, his face lined with deep creases carved by years of hard labor under the sun, his clothes stained with earth and toil. He stood tall, but there was a tremor in his calloused hands—rage barely contained beneath a lifetime of endurance.
"The magistrate," he began, his voice gravelly but clear, "framed me. Falsified papers. Threatened my family. Forced me to sign over the two hectares my parents left me. That land was my legacy—my children’s future. And he took it like it was his birthright."
The room grew quiet for a heartbeat, the words heavy with generational pain.
Then another figure emerged—a balding merchant in fine but slightly disheveled clothes. His face was red, not with embarrassment, but fury long restrained.
"He took one of my shops," the man growled, stepping beside the farmer. "He claimed it was compensation—called it a ’protection token.’ He said if I wanted my other shops safe from bandits, I should hand it over. And when I refused? The next day, two of my caravans were burned to ashes. I was left with no choice but to hand over that shop to him."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd like thunder before a storm.
The magistrate stood shackled, sweat beginning to trickle from his forehead. His lips twitched as if forming a rebuttal, but no sound came out. His color drained as witness after witness laid bare the rot he had sown beneath the surface of his rulings.
His breath came faster. His chest rose and fell in uneven bursts. With a furtive glance, he looked up at the dais.
Prince Alaric sat motionless, but his silence was terrifying. His eyes burned with fury so cold, it felt more dangerous than any outburst. His jaw was tight, and his grip on the armrest of the throne-like chair was white-knuckled.
The magistrate’s heart thundered in his ears. He had to fight back. He had to take control.
"You’re lying!" he barked, his voice cracking. "All of you are conspiring because the court ruled against you! I followed the law—I judged according to the evidence before me. I did nothing wrong!"
The words came out in a desperate rush, more plea than defense.
But no sooner had the last syllable left his lips than something wet and heavy smacked against the side of his face. A rotten vegetable, its foul stench exploding across his skin.
As he opened his mouth to curse, a squelching thwack silenced him—a rotten tomato landed squarely in his mouth, its slimy pulp filling his cheeks and seeping down his throat.
He choked, gagging violently, but before he could spit it out, a voice—ice-cold and sharp as a blade—rang out from the dais.
"Don’t even think about it."
The magistrate froze. The authority in that voice turned his blood to ice.
With a shudder, he swallowed the sour, decaying mess, fighting the urge to vomit. His stomach twisted in rebellion, but he held it down. He had to. He dared not anger the prince further.
The courtroom was no longer a place of law and order—it had become a stage for reckoning. And the man who once believed himself untouchable now stood at the center, exposed, trembling, and utterly alone.
The final witness stepped forward. Lara, seated at the side, recognized her; she was the woman she had encountered during her first visit to Calma—the one who had stepped in front of the soldiers’ horses in a desperate attempt to end her life.
She has grown thinner, and her eyes were dull, lifeless.
But when the woman’s gaze landed on the magistrate, her eyes glinted with so much hate.
"He is a beast." She roared. "He deserved to die a hundred times over. He destroyed many lives and hurt a lot of women. He did not even spare a little child who was just ten years old." Tears started to stream down her face.
She ran towards him and kicked him hard on the crotch.
The magistrate screamed in pain. With his hand restrained at his back, he could only bend and twist his body to avoid the onslaught of her kicks.
"You are a beast! A demon!" the woman cried hysterically. The guards, who were supposed to keep order in the court, were deaf and blind to what was happening.
"She was just a child, so small. Didn’t you have a grandchild? She begged and pleaded for you to stop." The woman started kicking and slapping again. "Yet you still did not take pity on her."
Perhaps the woman became too tired from her relentless kicking and slapping to stand up. She finally slumped on the floor, her gaze landing on her hands, which extended outwards as if she were cradling someone unseen.
"She begged me to take away her pain, to send her back to her parents, but ... I am useless. I am so sorry... There was nothing I could do. She died in my arms, but I was never so relieved at seeing someone die. At least she was no longer in pain."
The room became so still that only the woman’s sobs were heard. Even the magistrate stopped groaning.
The woman stood up. There was an eerie smile on her face as she dragged a chair and slowly approached the magistrate.