That fragile promise had carried her here.

Now she looked up at the godlings.

Anger burned in her gaze, sharp and unrestrained, but it was braided tightly with fear. She was only a commoner. To her, godlings had been nothing more than stories and whispered myths her entire life.

Yet here she stood, staring down beings of legend.

And somehow, unthinkably her words alone were now enough to decide their fate.

Yet it was clear to her that she could not ask for their deaths.

What had unfolded within the court today had shown her that more than justice was being sought here, forces were moving beneath the surface, threads being pulled far beyond the suffering of a single family. Whatever this trial truly was, it was not meant to end with simple vengeance.

She understood then what she was.

A pawn, drawn in by the sweet promise of justice, guided forward by hope and grief alike. And now that her place upon the board had become clear, she chose her words with care. She could not bear the thought of her wishes rippling outward, twisting into the suffering of others she did not know.

With a trembling sigh, she turned once more to the judges.

Her voice was quiet, but resolute.

"I would like the bodies of my husband and my children returned to me," she said. "What remains of them after the disaster. I wish to have them back."

Tears streamed freely down her face, but she did not look away.

"I ask for a proper burial, for rites carried out with dignity. And I ask for the restoration of my home… and my garden, which were broken and lost."

The simplicity of her request echoed through the chamber.

For a moment, the stands were taken aback. Whispers stirred, not of outrage or demand, but of surprise, of disbelief at how little she had asked for, given how much had been taken.

Even the godlings paused. Their expressions, unreadable as ever, softened just slightly as they inclined their heads in solemn acknowledgment.

The nobles, however, scoffed quietly among themselves.

To them, it was a wasted opportunity, an offering of power left untouched. Yet outwardly, they wore bright, pleasant smiles, their faces carefully arranged, as though they had just witnessed something admirable rather than inconvenient.

Meanwhile, among the godlings, an apeling stepped forward, his attention fixed upon the sobbing woman. Something in her grief seemed to stir him, and after a moment of silent consideration, he lifted his gaze to the judges. With a small, respectful gesture toward the woman, he spoke.

"May I?"

A pause followed.

Then, one by one, the four judges inclined their heads.

The apeling took a step forward.

At once, the woman recoiled, fear flashing across her face. Those beside her moved instinctively, placing themselves between her and the approaching godling, their bodies tense with protective resolve.

The godling stopped.

His gaze never wavered from the woman, and after a heartbeat, she met it. There was no hostility in his eyes, only something unreadable, yet steady. Slowly, she raised a hand, offering a small, reassuring gesture to those shielding her. Reluctantly, they eased aside as she stepped forward to meet him halfway.

The distance between them closed.

The godling leaned down, lowering his voice until only she could hear. He whispered a few words, quiet, careful advice meant for her alone.

Her eyes widened.

Tears, which had momentarily ceased, welled up once more and spilled freely down her cheeks. Yet anyone watching could tell these were no longer tears of despair. They shone with fragile, trembling hope.

The woman reached out toward him without thinking.

The godling frowned and took a step back, turning away as he returned to his place among the others.

She did not seem to notice his withdrawal.

"Thank you," she cried out, her voice breaking with emotion. "Thank you so much. This means a lot to me. You have given me hope."

The apeling heard her words.

He did not respond.

The godlings, their senses far keener than any mortal's, had heard every word the apelian had whispered to the woman. Several of them turned toward him at once, their expressions questioning.

He noticed.

With a small shrug, he answered calmly, "It is a method created by humans. I merely extended the knowledge to her. It is up to her, who she shares it with, and how she chooses to use or spread that knowledge."

No more explanation followed.

Throughout the court, curiosity stirred. Many wondered what could have been said to draw such a reaction from her—what words could turn despair into hope so swiftly. What promise, what possibility, had been placed in her hands?

Yet as quickly as the questions arose, they were smothered. This was still the court. This was still judgment. Curiosity had no place here.

There would be time later to uncover the truth of it.

With the woman's request settled, the judges shifted their focus.

Judgment and attention moved to Gram.

Just like before, murmurs rippled through the hall. All eyes turned toward him, waiting to hear what he would demand, what grievance he would voice. Yet Gram stood unmoving, a blank expression carved into his face, as though the world around him barely registered. The echoes of the court seemed distant, muted.

When it was finally his turn, he did not speak at once.

He moved.

His steps carried him not toward the judges, nor toward Xerosis, but directly toward the werewolf godling who had spoken earlier. The godling towered over him, a looming figure of muscle and furs. Gram had to crane his neck just to meet his gaze.

Those icy blue eyes looked down at him, eyes that held both wildness and unmistakable divinity in it.

Gram did not flinch.

He did not lower his gaze and when he spoke, he addressed not the court, not the judges, but the godling himself.

Gram drew a slow breath.

When he spoke, his voice was filled with anger, not unwarranted but by years of being unheard.

"I did not like your last words," he said, eyes locked onto the werewolf godling. "The way you spoke of the lives of common folk, as if we were small things, numbers to be weighed and discarded when convenient."

His fingers curled, knuckles whitening.

"But I will not lie to myself," he continued. "My anger does not make you wrong."

A faint murmur passed through the stands.

"If anything, today has proven how true your words are. We live because we are allowed to live. We survive because it costs less to let us breathe than to crush us."

His jaw tightened.

"I need the strength to kill all of you," he said plainly. "The godlings. The human nobles. Anyone, for that matter."

A sharp gasp tore through the stands. Nobles stiffened, faces twisting with fury, their eyes locked onto Gram as though they would strike him down themselves. Among the godlings, brows rose some in surprise, others in quiet intrigue.

He gestured faintly toward the nobles section, not even sparing them a full glance.

"We are told to obey, to endure, to be grateful for scraps. When our homes burn, when our children die, it becomes "regrettable losses." When our labor builds kingdoms, it becomes "the natural order"

Gram lifted his chin.

"You tell us to keep our leaders in check. To rise when they grow cruel. But how?" His voice tightened. "You have known power your entire existence. You speak of restraint from a height we have never reached."

A sharp inhale echoed from the crowd.

"They do not fear us," Gram said. "Not the nobles. Not you. Because fear requires consequence and we have none to offer."

His gaze burned now, unyielding.

"We cannot threaten men who command armies. We cannot oppose beings who shape the world itself. You ask us to act as equals while denying us the tools to stand."

Silence stretched, thick and brittle.

"So yes," Gram said quietly, the words landing heavier than a shout, "in the grand scheme, our lives may be small."

Then his voice hardened.

"But understand this, small does not mean meaningless."

His eyes flicked briefly toward the woman, then back to the godling.

"When pushed far enough, even those with nothing left will reach for something dangerous. And if the world refuses to give us power, we will seek it wherever it can be found."

He straightened fully.

"So my justice is not mercy. It is not forgiveness. It is not your pity."

Gram met the godling's gaze without flinching.

"It is strength. And the knowledge to decide our own fate."

The werewolf godling held the human's stare, icy blue eyes locked onto Gram's with unyielding intensity. Within that gaze churned hatred, raw and barely restrained but beneath it lay something far more, desperation.

At last, the godling looked away.

Gram followed his line of sight as both of them turned toward Erik.

The godling drew in an exaggerated breath, the sound deep and deliberate, pulling every shred of attention in the court toward him. Then he bent down until he was level with Gram, his towering presence folding into something far more intimate and far more threatening.