The murmurs in the amphitheatre swelled like a rising tide.

Some nobles whispered heatedly behind embroidered fans, some commoners sat forward with gleaming eyes, and Carlos stood stiff as stone—shoulders locked, jaw clenched.

Davian was still stunned knowing that his father was actually acting as a judge for these Trials, he had no idea. When his father suddenly announced that he was coming to see the Trials Davian thought that maybe it was because he couldn’t miss a good show but to think he was actually the judge.

"Mother," Davian whispered leaning closer to Lady Dahlia, she leaned over to his side.

"Did you know about this?" He asked in a low voice.

But before Lady Dahlia could answer Grand Duke spoke himself.

"Marquis Ocean asked me to keep it a secret and it was also the royal decree to to disclose the information so, I couldn’t tell you."

Davian and Dahlia exchanged glances before settling in their seats.

Ocean lifted his hand, and the sound in the amphitheatre collapsed into perfect silence, as if the entire colosseum obeyed the gesture alone.

"Now that both Princes have stated their reasons," he said, voice calm and controlled, "we allow the Mana Barometer to reflect the sentiment of the people."

Every head tilted upward in unison.

Suspended high above the arena, the massive crystal hummed—low and deep—its many facets swirling with muted, neutral light, waiting to be stirred.

Ocean turned slightly, his gesture elegant and deliberate, directing the Barometer’s attention.

"Let us see the people’s response to Prince Eric’s decision."

The crystal pulsed once-

A soft ripple...

Then it blossomed open like a blooming tidepool, shifting into a deep, serene blue, rich as the endless sea.

Moments later, thin strands of green threaded through the blue, weaving through it like new growth breaking soil.

A hush of awe spread through the amphitheatre.

Blue of trust.

Green of approval and hope.

The crystal pulsed again, this time brighter—almost warm, as if the arena itself had taken a collective breath and exhaled in acceptance.

On the panel balconies:

Elder Mira pressed her hand to her chest, her eyes misting at the sight.

Sir Godfrey gave a small, approving nod, the corner of his stern mouth softening.

Grand Duke Alarice’s posture eased, just barely, but enough for those who knew him to notice.

Down in the arena, Eric bowed his head modestly, expression gentle but composed.

The old woman he had rescued—seated safely among the audience—sobbed openly, murmuring blessings under her breath. 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

When the glow finally dimmed and dissolved back into soft neutrality, the amphitheatre erupted.

Cheers thundered.

Hands clapped.

Voices shouted Eric’s name.

Carlos stared at the ground, face pale beneath the weight of the moment.

Ocean raised his hand again, the gesture calm and controlled, as if giving Prince Carlos a moment to gather himself before the inevitable verdict.

"And now," Ocean announced, "the people’s response to Prince Carlos."

The Mana Barometer pulsed once.

This time the light didn’t settle immediately—it sputtered, flickering unevenly as though struggling to hold form. A faint ripple of unease ran through the audience.

Then, with a sharp flare, the crystal locked into a harsh, bright orange. The glow was jarring, almost abrasive when compared to the serene blues and greens it had shown for Eric.

A wave of whispers spread across the amphitheatre.

"That’s not good..."

"Orange?"

"Oh, dear..."

Before anyone could speak further, thin, jagged streaks of deep red cracked through the orange like splitting stone. The Barometer’s light fractured in sharp, angry lines—unmistakably severe.

Carlos’s eyes widened, his posture wilting as the meaning struck him.

Orange meant disapproval.

Red meant outright rejection.

This was not divided sentiment.

This was condemnation.

In the royal balcony, Queen Katherine went rigid. Her fingers curled so tightly around the carved armrest that the tendons in her hand stood out starkly. Her face remained composed, but the tension in her jaw betrayed the humiliation burning beneath her skin.

Colette beside her lowered her gaze, quietly mortified. Even she could not defend her brother after such a clear, brutal display.

As the Barometer’s glow slowly dimmed, a suffocating silence settled over the amphitheatre. The last red fissures faded reluctantly, as if clinging to the air a moment longer just to deepen the sting.

Carlos’s head dipped lower.

For once, he looked genuinely small—diminished under the weight of a verdict he could not talk his way out of.

Ocean spoke next, his tone steady but solemn, carrying across the amphitheatre with effortless authority.

"Public sentiment has been recorded. Now," he continued, "we shall hear the judgments of the evaluators appointed by His Majesty and approved by both noble factions."

High above, three crests shimmered into view—the crossed sword and shield of the Knighthood,the open hand of the Civilian Council,and the silver stag of the Noble Panel.

The moment they appeared, the entire arena quieted. Even the breeze seemed to settle.

The Aether Screen shifted, brightening to reveal Sir Godfrey Ashbourne. Broad-shouldered and silver-haired, he carried the aura of a man hardened by decades of battlefield dust and blood. His presence alone commanded respect; he did not need theatrics or grandeur.

He bowed his head toward the Princes, his expression stern but fair.

"Prince Eric," he began, his voice deep and even, "demonstrated discipline, tactical awareness, and a commander’s presence. He kept his mind clear, his formation tight, and his priorities intact. He protected his men without compromising judgment, and he risked his own victory to ensure the safety of those under his watch." Sir Godfrey allowed the weight of those words to settle. "That is what a true leader does."

Carlos stiffened. His eyes flicked nervously toward his knights, as if seeking silent support he knew he wouldn’t receive.

Sir Godfrey continued without softening a single syllable.

"Prince Carlos displayed neither strategy nor regard for his men. His decisions were driven by panic rather than foresight. Leadership," he said, gaze sharpening, "is not merely issuing commands from behind—it is walking the same ground, facing the same danger, and shielding those who look to you."

Carlos’s throat bobbed as he swallowed.

Sir Godfrey lifted his chin in conclusion.

"The Knighthood Panel unanimously votes for Prince Eric."

A thunderous cheer rolled across the arena.The knights in the stands rose instinctively, striking their chestplates in a clear gesture of honor and allegiance. Even some of the neutral nobles nodded in approval.

Carlos stood motionless, the sound of the knights’ salute echoing louder in his ears than the cheering crowd.

The second crest glowed softly, its light warming into gentle gold. The Aether Screen shifted to reveal Elder Mira Thornbrook. Though her body appeared frail—thin shoulders wrapped in simple robes, silver hair braided neatly over one side—her eyes were strikingly bright, carrying the kind of clarity born from decades of quiet service.

She pressed her palms together in a respectful greeting, and the amphitheatre hushed instinctively. Even the nobles who didn’t know her seemed to straighten, sensing the quiet authority she carried.

"My judgment is simple," she began. Her voice was warm, delicate in tone yet unwavering in conviction. "We of the Civilian Council consider the heart before the sword."

Her gaze moved to Eric, softening.

"You saved a helpless woman, my child," she said. "Not because she could fight for you. Not because she would benefit you. But because she needed you. You chose compassion over convenience, and that"—her eyes glimmered—"is what makes a ruler beloved."

Eric bowed his head slightly, humbled.

Then Elder Mira turned to Carlos. Her expression did not turn stern, nor did her tone sharpen. If anything... she looked saddened.

"You saved a knight, yes," she acknowledged gently. "But your decision was rooted in greed, not love. And greed, Prince Carlos, cannot guide a King. A ruler must protect all of his people—especially those who cannot protect themselves."

Carlos shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. Even from across the amphitheatre, the tension in his jaw was visible.

Elder Mira bowed her head in finality.

"The Civilian Council votes for Prince Eric."

The effect was immediate.

A wave of applause surged from the civilian stands, louder than before. Several older women near the front openly wiped their eyes. Some families raised their hands in blessing, calling Eric’s name with genuine affection.

Carlos, meanwhile, stared at the floor again—shoulders slightly hunched, as if Mira’s calm disappointment weighed more heavily than the crowd’s earlier mocking.

The third crest gleamed overhead, its silver stag catching the light as the Aether Screen shifted to reveal Grand Duke Alarice.

He stood with the poise of a man carved from calm marble—tall, impeccably composed, and utterly unreadable. His presence alone made several nobles straighten instinctively. Even Carlos, despite himself, lifted his chin and adjusted his stance, as if trying to borrow some dignity from the Grand Duke’s stillness.

Alarice’s neutral expression didn’t change as he began to speak.

"Prince Eric’s composure, judgment, and restraint reflect the qualities expected of a future King," he said in a measured, steady tone that carried across the colosseum with quiet authority.

Eric did not smile; he merely bowed his head in acknowledgment, respectful but unassuming.

Carlos’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping once beneath his skin.

Alarice’s gaze shifted to him then—not cold, not mocking, simply assessing.

"Prince Carlos," he continued, "your choice—while loyal in appearance—revealed panic and poor judgment. Loyalty without foresight endangers both the throne and the realm."

The words struck harder because of how calmly they were delivered.Carlos’s breath stuttered; his fingers curled slightly at his sides.

Grand Duke Alarice inclined his head in a faint, perfectly measured bow.

"The Noble Observation Panel votes for Prince Eric."

For one suspended heartbeat, the amphitheatre fell into absolute silence.

Not a whisper.Not a murmur.Not a single rustle from the thousands gathered.

It was the silence of alignment—every panel, every judge, and every group represented had cast the same verdict. There was no room left for argument. No ambiguity. No refuge for the losing side.

Carlos looked as if the world had collapsed inward, folding sharply and suffocating him from all sides. His eyes were distant, unfocused, as though even he could not fully process how thoroughly the scales had tipped against him.

Ocean stepped forward, the crystal light glinting off the smooth curve of his black mask. His posture was straight, commanding, the kind that made even silence feel orderly.

"The Mana Barometer has spoken," he said quietly."The Knights have spoken."

"The People have spoken."

"The Nobles have spoken."

He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle into every corner of the colosseum. Even the breeze stilled.

Then his voice rose—firm, resonant, unarguable.

"The victor of the First Trial — ’Secure the Valued’ — is Prince Eric Fairisles."

The Mana Barometer answered instantly, igniting in a brilliant, blazing blue, brighter than before. The glow washed over the arena like a blessing, like a wave of unified approval rolling outward.

Eric bowed slowly, deeply, sincerely—an acknowledgment of the people’s trust rather than a celebration of his win.

Carlos, on the other hand, remained frozen in place, looking neither at the crowd nor his family. The verdict had hollowed something inside him.

Up in the royal balcony, Katherine’s nails dug into her palms so deeply the skin around them blanched white. Her lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Colette closed her eyes, inhaling silently; her resignation was quiet but absolute.

And Ocean, behind the mask allowed himself the faintest, controlled breath of satisfaction—so small no one else noticed, but enough for him to mark the moment in the privacy behind his shadowed glass.