Supreme Warlock System : From Zero to Ultimate With My Wives
Chapter 449 - 449: The Tribunal Chamber

Warlock Ch 449. The Tribunal Chamber

The guards stood stiff at their posts, hands near weapons but not drawing. Tribunal clerks stared from upper balconies, their enchanted pens hovering mid-air, unsure if they should continue writing or start praying.

And the look in their eyes wasn't anger this time.

It was fear.

It was uncertainty.

Because this wasn't a boy in chains.

This was Damian Blackthorn walking in with half a royal entourage and the kind of backup that could cause a civil war if anyone so much as sneezed wrong.

They reached the inner gate.

The Grand Tribunal doors.

Tall. Towering. Covered in radiant blue sigils and a pressure that made everyone's skin crawl if they weren't welcome.

Two Magus Knights stood on either side, fully armored, their halberds resting on the floor. Their faces were unreadable behind polished helmets, but the subtle twitch in one of their gauntlets said enough.

"You may enter," one of them said, voice slightly cracked.

Damian just nodded. No thank-you. No acknowledgment. Just forward motion.

The doors groaned open.

Inside was the heart of it all.

The Tribunal Chamber.

A massive circular room, domed high above with skylights that filtered pure sunlight through magical prisms. The floor was polished obsidian—dark, reflective, like walking on still water. The council seats rose along the walls like a theater, each tier representing a different branch of magical authority.

War Council, Healing Order, Elemental Division, The Faithful, and of course, the Core Council of Senators.

And above all, at the far end—six high-backed thrones. The Grand Six. The judges who had the final word on any ruling passed in this chamber.

They were already there.

Old. Powerful. Enigmatic.

Wearing white and gold robes layered with silver threads, faces veiled by magic, eyes glowing faintly beneath the hoods. Some had wands. Others staves. One just floated mid-air, legs crossed like he hadn't moved in a decade.

The chamber was deathly still when Damian walked in.

But they all watched.

He could feel it.

No one interrupted. No one cleared their throat. No one reminded him he wasn't welcome.

Because they didn't know if they could.

He didn't walk to the center alone.

Aria walked with him.

And the rest followed. They didn't stand along the edges like guests—they took positions beside him. Behind him. Around him.

Victoria with her hands clasped, regal and unreadable. Lysandra with her arms crossed, daring anyone to challenge the balance. The fae king simply stood and stared, the weight of ancient magic behind his gaze.

And Evelyn?

She didn't smile.

She just raised her chin slightly. Like this was her house, not theirs.

Cassius popped his neck and looked up toward the judges.

"Nice chairs," he said casually. "Real comfy looking. Ever think about adding cushions? Bit stiff in here."

No one laughed.

But Damian did let out the faintest exhale through his nose. Not quite amusement.

Just… remembering what it felt like to not walk into this place alone.

He stopped in the center of the obsidian circle.

Lifted his eyes toward the Grand Six.

And waited.

No chains.

No collar.

No kneeling.

They'd have to speak first.

Because this time?

He wasn't here to defend himself.

He was here to speak.

And they were going to listen.

The chamber was too quiet.

The kind of quiet that followed explosions. Or preceded bloodbaths.

Damian stood in the center of the obsidian floor, the echoes of their entrance still lingering in the massive space. The light filtering through the runed skylights above painted silver rings on the floor around him—like targets.

The Tribunal's silence stretched. Taut. Measured. Then, finally, one of the six judges spoke—his voice magically amplified, crisp and slow like someone reading the terms of an execution.

"Guests are to be seated in the witness galleries," he said, gesturing toward the arc of tiered platforms behind Damian.

Victoria arched one elegant brow. "Guests?" Her voice cut through the chamber like the edge of a polished blade. "We are not guests."

She stepped forward, her crimson dress swaying softly with each controlled step. Her gaze burned into the judge's cowl.

"We are witnesses," she continued. "Same as Damian Blackthorn. And we will stand with him."

The judge's glow-dimmed face didn't shift, but the pause after her words was telling. A flicker of hesitation.

Then a second voice spoke—this one female, colder, older. "Damian Blackthorn is… a criminal."

Evelyn snorted, loud and rude enough to make at least one clerk gasp from the balconies above. "Seriously? You're still on that?"

She reached into her coat, her fingers tapping lightly against another recording rune, this one gleaming with an amber tint. "I've got more. Tons more. You want Ralvek explaining the entire cover-up while crying into his own blood? Or maybe the part where a Tribunal-aligned senator tried to sacrifice a prince?"

The third judge spoke, this one calm and resigned. "We saw it."

"Then why," Aria's voice cut in sharply, "is he still being branded as a criminal?"

She stepped to Damian's right, posture straight, chin raised—not proud, not defiant. Just… done. Done with games. Done with half-truths.

"You saw what he did," she continued. "You saw him save the city. Rebuild it. Heal it. You saw Ralvek's confession. You saw the creature. And yet here we are."

She glanced at Damian, then back to the Tribunal. "He should be cleared. Released. Honored."

The first judge—the old magus with the floating staff—leaned forward slightly. His voice was heavy with old disappointment.

"And yet here you are," he said slowly, "Aria Brightlight. A daughter of the Order. Chosen for leadership. Meant to stand among us. And you walk beside him."

She smiled, sharp and bitter. "Shocking, isn't it?"

The word rang in the room like a blade being drawn.

The pause that followed wasn't long—but it was dangerous.

Then one of the tribunal judges lifted a hand, magic gathering like frost in the air. A binding spell. Elegant. Old. Designed to wrap around Aria's limbs like silk and freeze her in place.

He never finished it.

The spell barely left his fingertips before it shattered mid-air like brittle glass.

A pulse had stopped it.

But no one had seen the caster move.

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