5: Just Trial

The deep and ghostly voice belonged to a man, The Standard Bearer. He appeared in Alistair's vision, flanked by the soldiers who had been sent out. They saluted crisply, their armor glinting under the dim light as Alistair's gaze graced them.

The Standard Bearer bore a long black pole with the banner of Wythria on it, below which hung the emblem of House Wyrrex. His armor, though similar to the Black Shackles Operatives, was lighter and more humane, with silver patterns outlined in exclusive gold. Each pauldron bore the emblem of House Wythrain, held aloft by the beak of the Inneusian Blood Hawk.

___________________________

The Standard Bearer, a special combatant tasked with the upkeep of morale, served to remind the soldiers what they fought for and to strike fear in the hearts of their enemies. Comparable to Chaplains, though such a comparison would be illegal and an insult to Wythria's staunch atheism, the Standard Bearers traced their origins to the Wythrian Reunification War, where they were used to test the faith and loyalty of every soldier and even defected enemies.

___________________________

Alistair smiled, a gleam of satisfaction adorning his eyes. "Indeed, without further ado, commence the trial," he said, his voice graceful and tranquil, like a cloudless sky.

The Standard Bearer moved closer to the prisoners, his pole thudding against the ground with each deliberate step. The air was thick with tension. He finally dragged the bottom of his pole, blowing off small amounts of dust before bringing it down with a bang that shattered the cobblestone pathway of the town hall into small bits.

"Decide who is to perish among you," The Standard Bearer spoke with unfurled composure, his voice strict and commanding. He raised his hand, palm to the sky. "Time is of the essence. You have thirty seconds to decide," he added, closing his palm into a fist.

The prisoners exchanged frantic glances, their faces pale and drawn. The soldiers watched impassively, their hands gripping their weapons tightly. The weight of the ultimatum hung heavily in the air, pressing down on everyone present.

The seconds ticked by, each one dragging out in agonizing slowness. The prisoners' whispers grew urgent, some breaking into tears, others shaking their heads in denial. The Standard Bearer remained unmoved, a pillar of unyielding authority.

Alistair observed silently, his satisfactory smile unmoved. This was a test of loyalty, a demonstration of the Wythrian way. In this moment, the true power of House Wyrrex was laid bare for all to see.

"If an ultimatum is not reached within the next fifteen seconds, fate will decide." The Standard Bearer said, bringing his hand to his side before it moved to grasp a lower part of his ceremonial pole. He opened a small golden clasp to retrieve a misericorde, its blade a contrasting silver to its Stygian black hilt, which had a snake head bearing red rubies as eyes, and an equally black handle.

"Ten seconds remain," the Standard Bearer declared again, balancing the misericorde on his open palm.

"I sacrifice myself!" a man shouted. Alistair turned his gaze to the man, curiosity piqued.

He smirked, noticing the man's gaunt figure. "Ah, wonderful. Bravo!" Alistair chuckled, smiling like the crowd at a freak show. He clapped his hands and gestured for the man to come forward.

All the prisoners moved their eyes onto the brave and selfless man, not knowing what would come next. Some sniffled, some closed their eyes to suppress tears, while others had their lips quivering as if they wanted to voice something yet remained silent.

The man did as told, with trembling legs he stood up and walked out of the group of kneeling prisoners.

"Take your place, kneel," the Standard Bearer said, clicking the ground with his pole once and bringing his misericorde down as if to gesture for the man to kneel where the blade pointed.

The man did as told again, he didn't have a choice after all. He knelt, his face towards the ground as he held back tears of sadness. His life had come to an end. One can't expect one's life to end so abruptly, one day so happy and content and then the next day, kneeling silently as you await certain death.

The Standard Bearer took two deliberate and calculated steps forward. He grazed the blade against the man's left shoulder and then the right. He tilted the man's chin upward with the blade's tip so his throat was exposed.

"May your death teach your traitorous brethren, Glory to Wythria, Glory to House Wythrain," the Standard Bearer spoke in a resonant and reverberating voice. He pulled his blade back in a small arc and in one split second, the prisoner's throat was slit. Blood gushed out, the body convulsing and life fading.

A few cries escaped the lips of the prisoners, accompanied by wailing of pure pain and anguish:

"No! No! Why!?"

"This is unfair! This can't be!"

"Why was it him!? Why!?"

Insignificant and nameless voices reached Alistair's ears, which were now nothing but deaf to them.

The Standard Bearer turned to the other prisoners, the corpse still next to his feet. "The trial hasn't ended yet. He has given up his life; now, fate must decide whether you shall survive or not." With that, he moved towards the prisoners. "Line up in a single file line," he ordered in a resonant voice, swinging his blade in a rigid and precise arc as he did so.

The Black Shackles Operatives around sprang to action and with quick and precise moves, they shoved and pushed the crowd of fourteen prisoners into a single file line.

Alistair smiled, satisfaction radiant. Just then, Lucian came over again, "Ah, I'm finally seeing a Trial in action," Lucian mumbled, smiling enthusiastically. Lucian had never witnessed a Trial, simply read about it and seen the Standard Bearers practice.

"Hm, isn't it beautiful how perfect this all is? Their movements, so precise and accurate," Alistair said with a satisfactory chuckle. Glancing at Lucian, he still had Mist in hand, who got excited after seeing Alistair.

Alistair reached towards Mist with one hand and let the serpentine creature climb him.

"Alright, silence now," Alistair commanded, turning his gaze towards the prisoners again.

The Standard Bearer pointed his blade's tip at the first prisoner in line, a teenage boy, no older than sixteen, with gruffy black hair and determined grey eyes. The Standard Bearer pressed on the head of the snake that was designed into the hilt of his misericorde and the eyes of the snake glowed a bloody red..