Ash roughly shoved Bazel into a chair. Bones all over his body cracked and splintered, but he paid them no mind as he looked up at the rows of judgment seats above.
The towering dome, the faceless judges, the gun-wielding guards, the Banshee standing at his side.
Perhaps Bazel should have been afraid, but at this moment, he found himself distracted.
The feeling was familiar. As he looked at everything around him in the Tribunal, memories slowly came flooding back.
Even after undergoing the cleansing of the Forgotten Ones' Sanctuary, there were some things he could never forget.
Those fearful and jealous gazes; the Empress's bloodstained soles; the patent of ennoblement clenched in her hand; the alliance agreement handed to Lina.
Bazel looked up at the Tribunal, his gaze sweeping across one figure after another, until he suddenly met the eyes of a nobleman propping up his head.
The prince. Bazel recognized him, yet the man's cold, indifferent gaze felt strangely familiar.
Bazel sank into his memories.
Ever since he could remember, Bazel had lived amid the praise of others.
Things others spent their whole lives studying, he could pick up in no time. If he was willing to devote enough time to pondering them, he would become an expert in that field.
When he was young, everyone who met him or had dealings with him would smile and praise him sincerely. What a clever child.
Then they would turn away and mutter under their breath—what a pity he was a bastard.
Their regret was deliberately exaggerated, while the schadenfreude in their tone could never quite be concealed.
A bastard. It was the one thing he could never change, no matter how hard he tried.
Bloodline, surname, nobility, lowliness—these were the finest carving knives in the world, shaping free souls