EMMALINE
The courtyard is silent.
The words still hang in the air above me — trial of the Luna — heavy and sharp, pressing down like something physical. Like hands around a throat.
Me.
I try to breathe. My chest won’t cooperate. My legs have forgotten what they’re for, rooted to the stone beneath me while every eye in this courtyard finds me, settles on me, waits.
The announcer steps forward. His voice carries with practiced precision, each word landing like something dropped from a height.
“Emmaline—” a pause, his eyes flicking to me with something that isn’t quite contempt and isn’t quite pity but lives in the uncomfortable space between them — “you stand accused before this court. Today you will be afforded your rights. You may speak in your defense. You may call for witnesses. Yo
