Sapphrine's grey eyes narrowed.
Without love clouding her judgment, she saw only patterns. Only logic.
Darth: Kind since childhood. Never violent. Devoted to the orphans.
Lance: Ambitious. Calculating. Always positioned near power.
The evidence pointed not to her son's guilt...
...but to her son's framing.
"Guards," Sapphrine commanded. "Remove Prince Darth from the cross."
The crowd gasped. Lance's eyes widened—just for a moment—before his mask of concern returned.
"My Queen," Lance said smoothly, stepping forward. "Are you certain? The evidence—"
"The evidence," Sapphrine interrupted, her voice cold as stone, "suggests daemon corruption. Possession. Control."
She turned her grey, emotionless eyes on Lance.
"And you were the last person to see my son before the murders."
Lance's smile never wavered, but his hand drifted toward the dagger at his belt.
"My Queen, I would never—"
"Strip him," Sapphrine ordered. "Check for daemon marks."
The guards moved toward Lance.
That's when he ran.
Guilt confirmed by flight.
The guards caught him before he reached the edge of the square.
They tore his shirt.
And there, burned into his back—
The symbol of the daemon king who had corrupted the dimension before Sapphrine sacrificed him to the orb.
Lance was Clandareth's servant.
This was revenge from beyond death.
Darth, freed from the cross, collapsed to his knees. Sobbing with relief.
Sapphrine looked down at him.
She felt... nothing.
No joy at his innocence. No relief. No mother's love.
Just cold, logical certainty.
"Justice without emotion is still justice."
What should be done with Lance?
The daemon-marked traitor who framed an innocent prince