EMMALINE
The courtyard is silent.
The words still hang in the air, sharp and heavy, pressing down on me like a weight I can’t lift. The trial of the Luna.
Me.
I try to breathe, but my chest is locked tight. My legs feel rooted to the ground, unmovable, like stone. Every eye in the crowd is on me, their stares piercing, waiting. Judging.
The announcer steps forward. His voice booms across the space, practiced and precise, each word cutting like a blade.
“Emmaline of House—” he pauses, his eyes flicking toward me, his lips curling as though even speaking my name is distasteful. “Emmaline, you stand accused before this court. Today you will be afforded your rights. You may speak in your defense. You may call for witnesses. You may deny the charges brought against you. But you may not in
