The City That Remembered

Night in the lower halls carried a stillness that did not belong to peace.

It was the kind of silence that followed exhaustion — the breath the world took after cruelty, when there was nothing left to break.

Suzan was returned to her cell long after the trial ended. Her feet dragged; the guards half-carried her, half-pulled her.

She didn’t resist — there was nothing left in her to resist with. The corridor lamps flickered weakly, their light painting trembling gold across the stone, and every shadow stretched too far, as if the dungeon itself were leaning closer to listen.

They left her slumped on the cot, her small frame shaking with the effort to breathe. Her coughs came in broken gasps, thin and wheezing, until she bent forward and pressed her sleeve against her mouth. The taste of iron filled her throat.

“Easy,” one of the kind guards murmured, eyes darting down the hall. “Easy, little one.”

She didn’t answer. Her eyes were open but unfocused — staring past them, past the torchlight, into nothing.

When her coughing stopped, the kind guards stayed a moment longer, exchanging silent looks. They knew they weren’t supposed to help. The overseer had made that clear. But watching her like this — pale, trembling, her breath catching like a thread ready to snap — was more than any of them could bear.

“When the overseer’s gone, we’ll bring the medic,” one whispered.

The youngest hesitated, guilt flickering in his eyes. “And if they catch us?”

“Then let them,” the other muttered. “Better punished than cursed by conscience.”

They slipped away, leaving her to the dark.

The cruel guards replaced them before dawn — heavy boots echoing down the stone hall, laughter too loud for such a quiet place.

They didn’t need orders to be cruel. They simply were.

“Medic!” Suzan’s weak voice echoed once through the corridor. “Please…”

“Criminals don’t get medics,” one answered, smirking as he struck the bars with his baton. The sound made her flinch.

Her voice trembled. “Please… I can’t breathe right.”

“Then confess,” another said. “Maybe that’ll clear your chest.”

When she fell silent, they chuckled and moved on.

Later, when the kind guards returned, they broke the rules again. The medic came — pale and hurried, whispering apologies while he cleaned the blood from her lips and gave her a few careful drops of tonic.

But mercy in that place never lasted long.

Every few hours, the shift changed — and with it, the world.

Kindness, cruelty, kindness again.

Her mind began to fray at the seams.

Sometimes she forgot what day it was.

Sometimes she whispered to the walls as if they could answer.

Once, half-asleep, she murmured Lily’s name — then Jane’s slowly and like a whisper — then a faint, broken laugh slipped out, as though remembering something from long ago.

“Lily, you shouldn’t steal the pears… the man will shout again…”

Her voice was faint, lost in the dark. “You’ll get us both caught.”

No one answered her.

Only the dripping of water from the ceiling, and the curse that stirred in her silence — feeding on her confusion, on the dying spark of hope she still clung to.

It whispered when she was quiet.

It laughed when she wept.

When the kind guards came again, she didn’t even look up. She sat on her cot, hair tangled, eyes hollow. The smallest one among them looked away quickly — he couldn’t bear to meet her gaze.

By midnight, Kael Drosven sat alone in his quarters, a single candle burning low. The parchment before him was already sealed in black wax.

'She weakens. The cruel ones grow bold. If we press now, they will cry bias. I will keep the line until the day ends' he wrote.

He set down the quill, his hand trembling just slightly, and pressed his thumb into the wax to seal it. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it.

A knock came at the door — one of his men.

“Sir,” the guard said quietly, “word from the lower hall. She was mocked, denied water. The medic came later, but not soon enough. She’s… not well.”

Kael’s eyes lifted. They were sharp, cold. “Who led the shift?”

“Captain Jerrin, sir. Of the Court’s detail.”

“Noted,” Kael said, his voice so even it scared the man who heard it. “You may go.”

The door closed. Silence returned. Kael stared at the candle, watching its flame bend and flicker. He wanted to burn the whole dungeon with it.

Instead, he exhaled slowly, forcing the rage back down where no one could see.

In the royal study, the King stood near the window, looking out over the sleeping capital. The moonlight cut pale across his robes, and the city stretched before him in a hush of lamplight and shadow.

He read Kael’s report in silence. No sigh. No sound. Just his fingers tightening around the page until it crumpled slightly at the edge.

“Just two more days,” he murmured to the empty room. “Today… and tomorrow.”

His reflection in the glass looked older than he remembered — the weight of sleepless nights carved into the lines around his eyes. He reached toward the desk calendar and crossed another mark with his pen.

“Two more days… just two more days, little one,” he whispered. “Survive. Don’t let them take the light from you before I can reach you.”

Sunlight crept into the capital like a reluctant whisper. The dawn was pale and hesitant, brushing the rooftops in a ghostly gold. The cobbled streets, still damp from the night frost, began to stir — not with the usual bustle of trade or gossip, but with murmurs carrying one name that now sat heavy on every tongue.

“Suzan,” muttered the vase-seller, setting down a cracked pot with care. “That girl may’ve been trouble, but she didn’t deserve this.”

Across from him, two baker women exchanged glances over steaming loaves. One shook her head, voice low. “They say she’s so thin now she can’t even stand on her own. A child, and they drag her like a criminal.”

The man sighed, rubbing his neck. “Anyone who speaks for her gets called a liar. Still… someone’s got to. Didn’t that friend of hers—Lily—say she went somewhere else that night?”

They fell silent, remembering the wild, sharp-tongued girl who once darted through their stalls, always laughing, always stirring mischief but never malice. To imagine her chained beneath the palace now felt like a wound none dared touch.

Yet wounds fester when ignored.

So, as quiet resolve spread through the market, the murmurs became motion. One by one, familiar faces left their stalls — the baker, the vase man, a washerwoman, a young courier. Soon the whispers passed down alleys, across taverns, through tea stalls and stables.

“She made us laugh,” said the washerwoman.

“She paid her debts,” murmured the butcher.

“She teased, aye—but never to harm,” said the vase man, shaking his head.

By noon, a small group had gathered near the fountain — the same one she’d once danced upon with a stolen ribbon in her hair. No one shouted. No one rioted. They only spoke softly of what should never have happened.

When Lily crossed the square, her hood drawn low, she stopped dead at the sound of her name.

“Miss Lily,” one of the women called, stepping forward. “You knew her. Tell us the truth.”

Lily hesitated. Her lips trembled, her voice cracked when she finally spoke. “She didn’t do any of it,” she said. “The fire, the poison, the relic—it’s all lies.”

The crowd stilled.

“She was sick that night,” Lily continued, fighting for breath. “We even went to a healer. He said she was fine, but she I felt it she wasn’t. She was pale, dizzy—she could barely walk and kept swaying in the library.”

A murmur rippled through them. The baker frowned. “Then maybe he should speak.”

And so they went — through the market’s narrow lanes, up the slope toward the old district, until they reached a crooked door worn smooth by years of salt and herbs.

Inside, Healer Ren looked up from his table as the baker women entered, Lily trailing behind them with red-rimmed eyes.

“Master Ren,” one said, breathless, “you saw her, didn’t you? Suzan—the little one they’re saying stole that relic.”

The healer frowned, wiping his hands on a linen cloth. “Aye,” he said after a pause. “She came here late that night. Her friend brought her—Lily, right?”

Lily nodded, tears already gathering.

“She looked exhausted,” Ren went on. “Said she was fine, but I could see her nose had bled earlier. Her pulse was steady, but her face… pale. She needed rest and nothing seemed wrong. I told them both to go home.”

Lily swallowed hard. “You remember that?”

“I do.”

“Then tell them,” she begged. “Tell them she couldn’t have gone anywhere after that! She was with me. She never left my side!”

Ren hesitated. “You want me to testify?”

“Please,” said the vase man quietly. “You’re all we’ve got.”

The healer’s jaw tightened. He looked around the room—at Lily’s desperate eyes, at the townsfolk who once ignored the child they now defended—and exhaled slowly. “If they’ll hear me,” he said, “I’ll go.”

*******************

As the sun rose high, the courtroom filled with murmurs before the hearing even began.

Ren stood at the front, pale but resolute, clutching a folded parchment in trembling hands. His testimony—handwritten and signed—was a risk few would take.

The judges exchanged uneasy glances; none had expected a witness to come forward, much less one uninvited.

That morning, the court heard its first voice not wrapped in accusation. But defending.

“I was the one they visited,” Ren began, his voice even but strained.

"The night they both came late. The elder girl, Lily, brought her to my clinic. The younger—Suzan—seemed fine. Her breathing was steady. But her handkerchief… it was stained. Old blood, dried and layered. She was exhausted. I told her to rest. They left together, and I never saw her again.”

A murmur swept through the chamber.

“Then why visit a healer if she was fine?” one judge muttered.

“Perhaps to appear innocent,” another replied sharply. “A performance.”

“Or a trick to lay false ground,” added a noble. “Why else would she wander the city at such an hour?”

Lily, standing at the edge of the hall, stepped forward before she could stop herself. “She didn’t wander!” she cried, voice raw. “We went home. Straight home! She could barely walk!”

“Silence,” barked the chief judge. “Another word and you’ll be removed.”

Lily’s voice broke. “You’re killing her for something she didn’t do.”

Ren’s hand tightened around the parchment. “She was fine when she came to me—but not before, I am sure. I checked her myself. Though it left no effects she was tired but came to me looking fine."

He raised his voice firm despite the tension, "You think a child would plan such deceit when she could barely stand?”

A heavy pause followed. Nobles shifted in their seats, some whispering uneasily. The air itself seemed to strain under the weight of possibility.

The head judge’s tone grew cold. “Enough. If she truly was ill, why conceal it? Why not remain home instead of prowling the streets?”

Lily’s eyes glistened. “Because she’s stubborn,” she whispered. “Always was. But she’s not a liar.”

The murmurs grew louder—half pity, half scorn.

“Proof,” one baron hissed. “Show proof she never left her home.”

“She couldn’t have,” Lily pleaded softly. “She couldn’t even stand....... she swayed and her nose bled. She was always healthy but that day—she wasn’t fine. Not at all.”

But her words vanished beneath the judges’ quiet, furious conference.

“This is going nowhere,” one judge muttered.

Then the lead judge leaned toward his peers, voice low but sharp. “If this continues, pity will spread. And pity will undo everything.”

The others nodded grimly. “We cannot afford it.”

They all understood. If the girl was proven innocent, the court would be disgraced—its cruelty exposed before the people. The nobles’ power would fracture. Their pride would collapse. It was already too late to stop now.

And so they did what the frightened ones always do: they silenced the truth.

The gavel fell with a crack.

“That’s it for today,” the chief judge declared, slamming the gavel once. “We will reconvene at dusk. A decision will be made by tomorrow

____________________________

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