The throne room of Sanguivar was silent save for the measured echo of footsteps against black marble. Light filtered through towering stained-glass windows, casting veins of crimson across the polished floor like spilled blood that never dried. At the center, upon a raised obsidian dais, sat Cassian Vaelros—spine straight, expression composed, one gloved hand resting against the arm of the throne carved with the sigils of his lineage. Before him stretched a single line: commoners, merchants, minor nobles. One at a time, they approached. One at a time, they knelt.

“State your petition.”

His voice carried without effort.

Each subject stepped forward only when summoned, placing parchment upon the silver tray held by a silent attendant. They spoke their request—land disputes, trade permissions, accusations, pleas for protection. Cassian listened without interruption, red eyes steady and unreadable. He asked few questions, but when he did, they cut directly to the flaw in a story or the weakness in a proposal.

When satisfied, he pressed the royal seal into heated wax and stamped the document with calm finality. Approved.

If displeased, he returned the parchment with a single word. Denied.

And if someone dared to lie—if he felt insult, treason, or audacity disguised as desperation—the air would thicken.

A single prick against his finger.

One drop of blood.

Crimson Thorns would bloom unseen within the offender’s body, and the throne room would remain immaculate as guards quietly carried the convulsing petitioner away.

Cassian never raised his voice.

He did not need to.

Justice, in Sanguivar, was delivered softly—and from the inside out.