The sky above the capital was a flat sheet of gray, the kind that pressed down on the city like a weight. At the base of the Citadel’s eastern wall, the crowd gathered—peasants, nobles, guards, and spies all blended into a single, murmuring sea. Saezu stood on the raised stone dais, wrists bound, back straight. Across from him, the King sat on a lesser throne brought down from the Keep, flanked by Varric and Hadric, with Leontes conspicuously absent.

  The trial was a performance.

  Not justice. Just spectacle.

  A court scribe read the charges. Conspiracy. Theft of royal documents. Alliance with traitors. All lies, crafted to be sharp enough for the public, vague enough to be undeniable. Jeren the steward, pale and shaking, gave his testimony. He never looked at Saezu.

  Saezu remained silent.

  Not because he had nothing to say—but because he knew it wouldn’t matter.

  Elayna stood on the edge of the platform, eyes locked on him. Dressed in mourning black though no one had died—yet. Fenric was beside her, hand on his sword hilt, gaze sweeping the crowd like a hawk.

  When the charges were finished, King Alric rose.

  “This court has heard the accusations,” King Alric said. “And in the absence of clear proof to the contrary, it must act to preserve the realm.”

  The crowd murmured.

  “In light of Saezu Goldhearth’s past service, and the uncertain nature of the claims, I do not sentence him to death.”

  Whispers rippled.

  “I sentence him to exile. Effective immediately.”

  Elayna took a step forward. “You can’t—” she began.

  “Silence,” said Varric.

  Saezu spoke then. Loud and clear.

  “No. Let her speak.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  King Alric looked at him. Not as a king. As a father.

  “She speaks from loyalty,” King Alric said. “But this is final.”

  Guards moved forward.

  Saezu turned to Elayna. "I’ll survive," he said.

  She nodded, tears in her eyes. “Then come back with fire.”

  They marched him out of the city with a royal escort—not for his protection, but to ensure he didn’t vanish into some hidden tunnel. He wore no chains, but every step was watched. Fenric walked near the rear. No one spoke.

  The streets were quiet as they moved. Too quiet. Windows closed as they passed. Children stood beside mothers, watching him go as if unsure whether to be afraid or inspired.

  Some guards met his eyes. A few even nodded—almost imperceptibly—as if acknowledging that this was wrong. That the boy walking into exile should have been protected, not paraded.

  At the outer gates, Saezu paused. He turned and looked back at the city of his birth. The towers. The banners. The bloodied legacy that had named him an enemy.

  He didn’t speak. But inside, something shifted.

  A breaking. A beginning.

  At the edge of the Farlands border, they stopped. The land stretched wide and barren, scattered with broken trees and whispers of things not meant to be seen in daylight. A place where laws died, and names were forgotten.

  The captain in charge handed Saezu a pack. A cloak. A waterskin.

  “This is mercy,” the man said.

  “No,” Saezu said. “This is cowardice dressed as justice.”

  The man said nothing.

  Fenric approached quietly.

  “I’ll make sure she’s safe,” Fenric said.

  Saezu nodded. “And I’ll make sure none of them sleep peacefully.”

  Fenric offered his hand.

  Saezu took it.

  Then turned.

  And walked into exile.

  The Farlands greeted him with silence. With wind. With the soft growl of something watching from beneath dead roots. He walked for hours, then days. Through dead woods, across broken streams, past ancient ruins swallowed by moss.

  He fought off scavengers. Wolves. Men who had forgotten names. He bled. He endured. He survived.

  He met a merchant who tried to rob him at knifepoint. Saezu broke his wrist and took his map. He found a village so run-down it barely had a name, where children fled at the sight of him and elders watched with suspicion. He stayed only long enough to gather information: who ruled this stretch, where the mercenary bands gathered, and which passes were safe.

  In a border hamlet, he overheard whispers of a warrior in black who bled but would not fall. That rumor had already begun to grow. His legend had already begun to breathe.

  One night, while camped beneath a collapsed tower, Saezu lit a fire and read the last letter Mirelle had written—one he had never dared open before. In it, she spoke of legacy. Of truth. Of fire.

  “They will fear you because they know what you are capable of,” she wrote. “But you must never fear yourself. Remember your name, Saezu. It is not a stain. It is a weapon.”

  He folded the letter. Stared into the flames. The fire reflected in his eyes, and for a moment, he saw not himself, but the shadow of what he would become.

  He would build strength from this exile.

  He would find others like him. Fighters. Outcasts. Warriors with scars deeper than skin.

  And he would return—not as a bastard.

  But as a reckoning.