SERAVEL ROVODIA, the son of the tyrant Fire Potentate, is a model citizen of all sorts. Obedient, punctual, and most of all, silent. When his friend and long-time confidante gets arrested for alleged sacrilege against the administration, Seravel sta...
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2407 Iclis 15, Daleth
Sera pursed his lips, knowing full well they wouldn't be out of that position any time soon. His eyes stared down the raised dais he and his family were slotted in. At the foot of the stairs attached to the clay platform kneeled a disheveled man with clumpy ocher hair and dirt smeared all over his skin, clothes, and face. A criminal. And he was being convicted in front of Sera.
He clenched his jaw and only let go until his temples began pounding. His fists stayed splayed atop his lap, betraying none of the conflicting emotions roiling inside him. Had been roiling inside him. After all, this was Lanbridhr, the territory of silence and oppression. And sitting here on a cushioned throne, staring passively at a convicted member of his race, the Fire Sprites, he had learned to keep everything still on the outside.
Deflect attention. In every way he could. That's the motto he had learned to live by ever since he had enough mental capacity to understand the kind of world he was thrown into. So far, it has stemmed into a lot of sub-mottos and practical methods and, so far, all of them have worked. If Sera would just abide by them now as he always did, he should be able to survive this trial.
"Hear the crimes of the convicted before you, Great Potentate," Adviser Ailun's familiar deep voice rang across the vast hall made from clay bricks that was the throne hall. "For speaking against the government, for slandering His Highness, and for spreading ill-will to others, the Cabinet sentences Oris Thana to a lifetime confinement in Gaimouth, effective immediately."
From his perch a few steps lower than the thrones in another raised ledge, Adviser Ailun turned to the Fire Potentate seated beside Sera in a separate throne. "Any objections, Your Highness?" the adviser asked.
Sera watched his father from his periphery. He saw the Fire Potentate raise a hand to scratch the lush beard covering the lower half of his face. His father's eyes stared at the disheveled man in equal passivity Sera had since the trial started. Then, with his raspy grouch, the Fire Potentate brought his hand down, resting his elbow against the armrest of his throne, and said, "No objections. Carry on."
Suddenly, the convict burst forward, throwing himself to the throne hall's polished stone floor. "Spare me, Your Highness!" his voice filled with evident fear rang across the room, startling Sera enough to make him flinch. "I won't repeat my errors. Please, spare me."
"Get it away from my sight," the Fire Potentate waved a hand in the air, two fingers raised. It was a dismissal. The decision was final.
Sera's eyes flicked to the red-armored soldiers flanking the foot of the stairs. With a swift move, they gripped the convict's arms at either side and began hauling him away. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to the man's flailing form and tune his ears away from the man's desperate pleading. The soldiers guarding the doors to the throne hall yanked the golden handles, the intricately-carved wood whooshing in their hinges in a smooth and silent move.
