FROST
Chapter 75: Gail In Trial

Chapter 75: Gail In Trial

Gail sat in the cold stillness of the dungeon cell, a place far removed from the golden halls of Moonstone Academy. The walls were made of obsidian brick etched with faint sigils meant to suppress any trace of magical resistance.

The only light in the room came from a single lantern flickering outside her cell door, casting long, crooked shadows across the floor.

Her wrist, once proudly bearing the radiant mark of the Golden Sands Apprentice, was now marred—no, defaced—by a magic-binding seal. The original mark, once shimmering like sun-drenched dunes, with shifting symbols etched in iridescent gold, now barely peeked from beneath the blackened chains of the seal that bound her.

These chains were not physical, but ethereal—shadowy runes wrapped in loops around her wrist, like coiling serpents. Each loop pulsed with dull scarlet light, burning faintly every time she even thought about drawing mana.

Despite the shackles, Gail leaned back against the damp stone wall with a smirk.

Coast had told her personally: "There is no guarantee of when—or if—this seal will be lifted. It depends on the council’s judgment."

But Gail regretted nothing.

Had she proven herself better than Silvermist? Not exactly. But watching her stagger, bleeding and limping after their clash, made every second of her punishment feel worth it.

She giggled quietly, venom in her voice. "For a Season Apprentice, that bitch is so weak," she muttered, her voice echoing off the cell walls with bitter amusement.

Beyond the cell door, footsteps sounded—heavy, calculated.

A man cloaked in white appeared. He’s one of the cell guards and he’s not even bothering to glance at her as he unlocked a heavy drawer embedded in the wall and retrieved a sealed scroll. "Tomorrow," he muttered. "You’re scheduled to meet the Academy’s Disciplinary Tribunal. Be ready."

Gail’s smirk faltered for a split second. She turned her eyes to the ceiling, breath steadying. Whatever they decided—banishment, more punishment, or worse—she’d face it head-on.

Because to her, nothing was more important than pride... and the satisfaction of seeing Silvermist fall.

But deep within, Gail was hurting.

No one would ever guess it—not from her smug grin, nor the way she had mocked Silvermist under her breath in the cold of her cell. But the truth bit at her like a quiet worm burrowing into pride.

She had heard it from Coast himself: The only reason East stopped the battle wasn’t because Silvermist was losing... but because of Levi.

Gail had seen it too, through the haze of her own adrenaline. Levi had released a surge of magic—dense and crushing. That same gravity magic they had all felt the day he arrived at the Academy. It had flared once again, and this time it was enough to force East and even the other Guardians to step in.

Not to protect Silvermist, but to keep Levi from becoming a threat. It was that moment which changed something in Gail.

She wanted—desperately wanted—to believe that Silvermist was just weak, just a pitiful, unworthy apprentice who had no control over her magic. That she was nothing more than a pampered girl dressed in starlight, floundering in a world too brutal for her delicate hands just because she’s somehow chosen by Frost. But...

But Gail had felt it.

She had felt the resistance in the air around Silvermist. A seal, maybe? A containment? Likely from East himself. It wasn’t just that Silvermist couldn’t fight back. It was that she had been forbidden to. Her magic had been locked, her mana stifled beneath layers of command.

Gail hated how that realization made her feel, because what kind of apprentice takes pride in defeating an opponent already bound?

Still, she shook her head, growling softly. It’s not my fault, she told herself. If Silvermist is truly innately strong, no seal would have held her. Right?

And yet, the doubt lingered.

With a frustrated huff, Gail rolled onto her side on the stone-hard slab they called a bed.

No cushion. No blankets. Nothing but cold brick and rusted chains hanging from the corners of the wall. The cell wasn’t designed to punish her physically—it was meant to chip away at the ego. They wanted her to regret.

This is nothing like the dungeon she had heard the Academy had. Perhaps, for animals? It even smell like a damp dog that had not bathed for a lifetime.

But did Gail show any signs of regret? Absolutely, not.

The next day arrived, pale and silent.

Two cloaked guards dressed in black stood outside her cell. They didn’t speak. They only gestured, and Gail—though still bearing a chained mark around her wrist—was quick to rise.

Her golden apprentice mark, once vibrant and proud, still glowed faintly beneath the magical seal that now coiled like cursed iron across her skin.

They walked in silence through underground halls that stretched farther than Gail had ever known existed beneath the Academy.

Then they arrived at the Council Chamber.

It was unlike any place Gail had seen before. It looks like the place is from another dimension.

Unlike the luminous, enchanted halls Silvermist had entered before her journey to Mist Island, this chamber was ancient—soaked in history and dread.

The walls were carved from blackened moonstone, veined with glowing runes that flickered faintly. Thick roots hung from the arched ceilings, as though the earth itself tried to reclaim this forgotten room. The ceiling was domed and cracked, its murals faded depictions of trials long past.

The floor was made of obsidian tiles, dull with age, and Gail’s footsteps echoed like hammer strikes as she was led to the center of the room. Pillars lined the perimeter, each carved with screaming faces frozen in pain and judgment.

And at the far end of the chamber... sat the Tribunal. Three figures, each more imposing the more she looked at them.

They were not the Lunar King, nor the Thunder God, nor even the celestial Goddess Seraphina.

These were something else.

The one on the left had the face of a fallen star—beautiful, radiant, but with horns curling back from his temples and golden veins pulsing across his neck. His eyes glowed faint red like twin suns, and behind him floated a halo of blades. He calls himself as Cecilion.

The middle figure had pale lavender skin, eyes closed, mouth stitched—literally stitched—with glowing crimson thread, yet Gail felt his voice vibrate directly inside her bones. His long silver hair brushed the floor, and his limbs were wrapped in ceremonial silk robes.

His mere presence felt like standing before judgment itself. He’s known as Damon to the Twelve realms, but he never really had a name. He just heard the word Damon somewhere and decided to take it since it sounded cool and unholy.

The third was the most unnerving. A man with jet-black eyes, no pupils, yet he smiled the entire time. Wings—dark and feathered with streaks of violet—rested against the sides of the throne behind him.

His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest, the sound like a ticking clock. Cecilion calls him Azazel. Like Damon, Azazel is a fallen angel.

He has been exiled from the heaven because he looks unholy and incredibly terrifying the more they look at him.

Now, they are known as demons who once tried to become holy, only to be assigned this role as punishment.

They were known as the Three Arbiters of Judgment, summoned only when a crime had enough gravity to threaten the Academy’s core values.

And today, they were here for Gail.

As she stood at the center of the tribunal chamber, the air seemed to thicken with ancient weight. She lifted her chin, refusing to let the chill in her spine show.

The flickering runes along the walls pulsed in tandem with her heartbeat. Though her hands were shackled in enchanted cuffs and her wrist bore the chained seal over her Golden Sands apprentice mark, her gaze remained steady.

The three Arbiters loomed above her on their thrones, each radiating a different flavor of power and menace.

Cecilion was the first to speak. His voice was silk-wrapped steel, smooth yet cutting. "Gail, the Golden Sands Apprentice. You were granted a mark of prestige, trained under master who barely talks, but anyway, let’s not talk about that. And yet, you attempted to maim—if not kill—a fellow apprentice within sacred Academy grounds. Do you understand the weight of this violation?"

Gail didn’t flinch. "Yes."

Cecilion tilted his head. His glowing red eyes narrowed. "Then answer this: Why?"

Before Gail could respond, the middle arbiter—Damon, the stitched-mouthed one—rose slightly, his feet not even touching the floor. Though his mouth remained sewn shut, his words entered Gail’s mind like cold smoke.

"Why did you attempt to end Silvermist Evermore’s life?" the voice echoed inside her skull. "Speak your truth. Or suffer for lies."

Gail opened her mouth—and for a moment, no sound came out. It was as though her throat locked beneath Damon’s ethereal—terrifying gaze.

The third arbiter, Azazel, leaned forward. His inky black eyes sparkled with mischievous cruelty, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "We’re listening, little warrior," he said, voice like laughter dipped in venom. "And we hate being bored."

Gail’s jaw clenched. She swallowed, struggling to maintain the illusion of pride. "I didn’t plan to kill her. Not at first," she admitted.

Azazel raised a brow. "That’s always how the fun ones start."

Gail continued, her tone harsher. "I only wanted to put her in her place. Everyone keeps acting like she’s special—walking around like she belongs, like she matters more than anyone else. But she hasn’t earned it. She’s just... pitied. She doesn’t even control her own magic."

Damon’s stitched mouth twitched ever so slightly.

Cecilion leaned back, long fingers steepled. "So envy drove your blade. Pride fueled your hands."

"No," Gail snapped. "She was dangerous. Out of control. If no one else was going to stop her, then I—"

Azazel clicked his tongue, the sound loud in the eerie silence. "You attacked a sealed girl. You fought someone unable to use their magic. Doesn’t that make you a coward, Gail?"

The word struck like a slap. Gail’s shoulders tensed.

"She wasn’t helpless," Gail muttered. "She bled, didn’t she? She fought back."

Cecilion sighed, his voice echoing with restrained disappointment. "Is that the justification you offer? That the wounded bird flapped its wings before it fell?"

Damon’s voice slid into her mind again.

"You felt it, didn’t you? The seal. The restraint. You knew she was forbidden to retaliate. Yet you pressed on."

Gail didn’t answer.

Azazel stood from his throne then, stretching his wings lazily. "I don’t care if you hate her. I don’t care if you wanted to see her blood paint the floor." He grinned wider. "But when your intent outweighs your honor, that’s when we must intervene. So tell me again..."

He took one step down toward her.

"What was your true purpose, Golden girl? Why Silvermist? Why now?"

Gail’s voice came out quieter this time. "Because she made me feel like I was nothing. Every time she walked into a room... it felt like we were all just background noise. Like the story was about her, not us."

She looked down at her shackled hands.

"I just wanted to remind her that she’s not."

The silence that followed felt like the world had stopped breathing.

Then Cecilion spoke again, voice colder than before. "You did not remind her of mortality, Gail. You reminded us all of your own."

The runes around the chamber flared once—brighter, sharper.

Damon’s stitched lips glowed softly.

Azazel’s laughter faded as his wings closed behind him.

Judgment had begun.

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