Chapter 28

Chains clink with every step he takes.

Calantha makes sure of that. No wagon. No cloaks. No dignity. Jacob Cloud—formerly masquerading as Bocaj Duolc—is paraded like a criminal through Clearwater’s upper terrace. His hands are bound behind him, wrists red with burn-marks from the enchanted cuffs. A collar hugs his neck, tugged slightly forward by the Black Knight at her side. He’s shirtless, ash-streaked, and blood-crusted.

Exactly how she wants him.

They reach the promenade just as the sun breaks above the rooftops. Nobles have already gathered. Some lean on canes. Others whisper behind gloves and fans. Faces painted in mock curiosity. She hears the mutters rising from the crowd like steam.

“Is that the boy from the beach trial?”

“The one Felisia backed?”

“He’s in chains. What did he do?”

Calantha raises her voice just enough.

“Among other things, he just confessed to murdering Valerius Shellford. He lied about his name. What he didn’t do was earn a place in our city.”

The hush that follows is gratifying. She steps forward into full view and pulls Jacob by the collar. His boots scrape against the stone. His steps falter, but he doesn’t fall.

He doesn’t even look down.

He just keeps that same damn look on his face—chin raised, mouth tight, eyes half-lidded like he’s bored. Like this is all a passing inconvenience.

It makes her stomach burn.

She stops at the platform near the justice stone. A raised dais used for public proclamations. Behind it, Guild functionaries stand in formation. Their parchments are rolled and waxed, signatures fresh. She’s seen to that.

Calantha sweeps a hand toward Jacob.

“This,” she says, “is Jacob Cloud. Liar. Vagabond. Murderer. Fraud.”

The nobles stiffen. Lord Shellford himself stands near the front, arms crossed, watching with something between satisfaction and expectation.

Calantha gestures to the Black Knight.

He obeys.

The armored gauntlet lashes into Jacob’s stomach. A heavy, controlled punch. Not enough to kill. Enough to drop most men.

Jacob staggers, breathless.

But he doesn’t fall.

Instead, he straightens, coughs once, and lifts his eyes.

Still that same smile. Crooked. Quiet. A little smug.

Calantha steps in and slams her boot into his ribs.

He grunts—but remains upright.

The crowd doesn’t know how to react. Some laugh. Others whisper. One woman gasps. A nobleman shifts uncomfortably.

Calantha turns toward them.

“He claimed to be a Tutor—a poor miner, a peasant who murdered his colleagues in the mines. He used a false name. He trespassed into our Guildhalls. He lied to the daughters of Clearwater.”

Her voice rings out. The crowd absorbs it. She lets the words hang, waiting for their weight to settle.

This time, the Black Knight kicks Jacob’s legs from under him, slamming his face against the stone.

Then Jacob speaks.

“You’re scared.”

Calantha blinks.

“What did you say?” Her voice drops, cold and sharp.

“You heard me.” His voice is soft, almost conversational. “You don’t drag someone through the streets unless you’re afraid they’ll walk free.”

The nobles stir again. A few draw back slightly. A Guild scribe shifts nervously beside the justice stone.

Calantha takes another step forward, seething now.

“You should’ve died in the mines.”

“And you,” Jacob says, smiling through blood, “should’ve learned how to lose.”

The Black Knight raises his arm again, but Calantha holds out her hand.

“No. Let him talk. Let them see what kind of rat thinks he belongs in Clearwater.”

Jacob tilts his head.

“You already lost the bracelet. You’ll lose the Hunt. What are you going to cling to after that, Calantha?”

She says nothing.

Instead, she turns to the crowd, letting their silence build the pressure.

“He will be tried shortly,” she says, her voice clear and formal now. “Before the Guild Council. And the verdict will be public.”

She turns back toward Jacob.

“And you, Jacob Cloud, will learn what happens to vermin in Clearwater.”

His only answer is a quiet grin.

But she sees the look in his eyes.

What is he plotting?

Calantha frowns.

* * *

They put him in a holding cell beneath the Guild Council chambers.

No chains now. No collar. Just a barred stone room with a mana-sealing array carved into every wall. Felisia stands on the other side of it, arms crossed, breath shallow.

She expected anger. Even shame. What she feels is... tired. Mostly tired.

Jacob doesn’t look up when she enters. He sits on the stone bench, legs drawn up, a sheet of parchment across his lap. He’s writing something. Calmly. As if this is just another morning.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

"You lied to me," Felisia says.

He doesn’t respond.

"I trusted you," she continues. "I vouched for you. In front of my sister. In front of my father.

You held my mother’s bracelet!

"

Jacob’s pen keeps moving. His back is to her, so she can’t see what he’s writing.

“You pretended to be someone you’re not.”

He pauses—barely. Then the pen moves again. His handwriting is fast but clean, like he’s used to writing under pressure.

Felisia takes a step closer to the bars. Her voice drops.

“You made me look like a fool.”

That gets him.

Jacob lowers the pen and exhales. His shoulders shift slightly, not enough to face her.

“I didn’t lie about everything,” he says.

“But you lied about your name.” She swallows. “You lied about who you are.”

“

I didn’t

,” Jacob replies.

“I don’t know what you lied about and what’s true. Did you really kill those miners? Were you a miner? Didn’t you say your master—”

“My relationship with my master, with my past, is complicated, Felisia,” Jacob tells her. “But you saw me. The person I’ve been so far—that’s me. Call me Jacob, call me Bocaj. Call me whatever you want.”

Felisia flinches.

Silence stretches between them. Only the faint crackle of the sealing array hums in the air.

“You knew the Guilds would come for you,” she says, quieter now. “You could’ve warned me. You could’ve told me anything. I could have

helped

.”

“I didn’t know they’d come this fast—well, I didn’t know whether they’d come at all.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Jacob finally looks over his shoulder. His face is pale under the bruises.

Felisia recoiled.

He looks exhausted. Not broken. Just drained.

“Did they beat you?!”

“It’s alright,” Jacob coughs and winks.

“It’s not!” Felisia rages. “Who did it?!”

Jacob nods once. No defense. No explanation.

He folds the piece of parchment. Stands. Walks to the bars. Extends the folded sheet through the gap.

Felisia eyes it but doesn’t move.

“What is this?”

“Nothing much,” Jacob -ay-. “There’s a name on the back. Just deliver it without reading it. Can you do this for me?”

“Bocaj—Jacob, you need to think about the Guild! They’re going to want your skin if what Calantha said was true!”

“Don’t worry about it,” Jacob smiles. “I got this. Just… give it to the person, alright?”

Felisia doesn’t take it.

He holds it there.

After a long moment, she steps forward and snatches it from his hand.

Felisia’s eyes go wide when she reads the name there.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

“Never been more sure than anything.”

Felisia turns to go and Jacob coughs.

“Felisia, wait.”

Felisia turns to him.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have lied to you. I—I care about you.”

“You should worry about yourself,” she says, shaking her head.

“I’ll be there. I’ll be there at the Sky Hunt. Trust me.”

Felisia hesitates, tempted to say she can’t but then she just nods slightly and goes out.

* * *

Clearwater City’s High Council Chamber glows with mage-light and polished stone. The walls rise in sweeping arcs, engraved with runes older than the city itself. At the chamber’s center stands Jacob Cloud—or rather, what remains of him. His wrists are shackled in silver-etched steel. His tunic hangs torn.

Felisia sits in the gallery to the right, behind the barrier reserved for noble observers. Her father is absent. Her sisters are not. Calantha lounges beside Adrienne, smug as ever. Felisia's hands curl into fists on her lap.

At the far end of the room, the tribunal seats curve in a semicircle. Nine councilors sit in robes marked with their guilds and clans. At the center stands Magistrate Orellus, a man with a voice that can cut through stormwind and silence a warcamp.

"Jacob Cloud," he begins, voice echoing. "You stand accused of forging your identity, entering Clearwater under false pretenses, and committing three counts of murder—commoners in Shit's Creek and Valerius Shellford of House Shellford."

Felisia sees Jacob lift his head. His face is bruised. One eye swollen. But his back is straight.

"I admit I lied about who I was," he says, voice even. "And I killed those men. But only because they tried to kill me. Every one of them came at me first. Clayton and his thugs tried to ambush me in my friend’s home. Valerius tracked me into a dungeon with two mercenaries, without a permit. He attacked me." He draws a breath. "I defended myself."

The chamber ripples with murmurs. Councilor Yorn of the Merchants’ Guild scoffs audibly.

"You expect us to believe that? That a classless vagrant fought and killed a Shellford heir in fair combat?"

"He had two mercenaries with him," Jacob says calmly. “I didn’t just kill Valerius, I also killed the other two, milord.”

Another councilor—a woman from the Alchemists' Guild—leans forward. "And how did you, unclassed, untrained, and unranked, survive all that? You didn’t just kill them. You escaped.”

Jacob hesitates. "I’m not untrained."

Felisia sees him glance her way.

"I was taught and I fought them.”

Calantha snorts. "What you did was theft. You murdered a young man who was better than you. How is still a mystery, but you did.”

"Enough," Magistrate Orellus says, raising a hand. "You admit to the killings. Do you deny that you concealed your identity to infiltrate Clearwater nobility?"

Jacob nods once. "I concealed my name. That’s true. But I didn’t infiltrate anyone. I never asked to enter noble society. It came to me. I didn’t trick anyone. I helped Felisia with her Skill. I taught her honestly. I earned my place."

Felisia’s throat tightens.

Orellus leans back. The councilors confer in whispers. The air feels like iron.

At last, Orellus turns to Jacob.

"You are found guilty on all counts. The council will deliberate the penalty."

Jacob doesn’t flinch.

"No need," he says.

Everyone stirs.

"I request trial by combat."

The chamber freezes.

Even Calantha’s smirk drops.

Felisia breathes in sharply.

"You are unclassed," Orellus says slowly. "You—"

“I’ll do it. For the murder count of my cousin.”

A young man gets up from the stands and steps into view.

He’s tall and sharp—plus, he bears a heavy resemblance to Valerius.

“I’ll kill the vermin myself. I am Julius Shellford, Level 20.”

Magistrate Orellus blinks once. Slowly. As if the words took longer to land than expected.

“You are… serious,” the Magistrate says at last.

“I am,” Jacob replies. “I’ll take my trial by combat.”

The room doesn’t erupt. Not immediately. It stirs. Rustles. A few disbelieving chuckles float up from the benches. Then Calantha laughs—openly, fully.

“You?” she says, her voice bright with derision. “You think you’re going to fight Julius Shellford? A Level 20 noble heir? You think this little mud-drenched dungeon prodigy trick is enough to beat someone trained since childhood?”

Even though the Shellfords are mostly a mercantile family, they’re still much more resourceful than any commoners.

“Trained by real knights,” Adrienne adds, fanning herself. “Not some imaginary ‘master.’”

“We’ll see. I think I’ve killed worse already,” Jacob says, voice calm.

Gasps follow.

He doesn’t shout it. Doesn’t raise his chin like some swaggering idiot. He just says it like a fact.

That’s what makes the room go quiet again. Not out of respect—but because they don’t know whether to laugh harder or gape.

Julius Shellford steps forward, cloak shifting like a banner behind him. His boots strike the marble floor with the practiced force of someone who has never lost a duel he didn’t choose.

“Name one,” he says, eyes narrowed. “Name one person you’ve killed with a Class above mine.”

Jacob stares him down. “Not above yours. That’s just going to make it more interesting.”

“Oh, how poetic,” Julius sneers. “You’ll have a chance to recite that again when you’re begging for your life.”

“Let it be on record,” Orellus says, raising a hand again, “that the accused has requested trial by combat for the crime of killing Valerius Shellford, and that a blood relative of the victim has accepted the challenge.”

Felisia doesn’t speak.

She’s frozen in place.

She looks at Jacob. Really looks.

What is he thinking?