The trial was held on the Olethepagos.
Everyone in Asteria knew what that meant. It was the hill where Oletheon, the god of bloodlust, slaughter, and the raw, chaotic side of war, stood trial before the gods. The story went that Kerastes, mortal son of Keraion, violated Oletheon's daughter Myrene. Oletheon killed him for it. Keraion demanded justice, and the gods gathered here on this very hill to decide whether a god could be guilty of murder.
They said it was the first time the gods ever argued about right and wrong. When it was over, the gods acquitted Oletheon and called the act justifiable, since he had acted in defense of his daughter. Every trial in Asteria since then was held here, in honor of that first one, and the hill became known as the Olethepagos, the Hill of Oletheon.
The Olethepagus Council took its name from the hill. It was the oldest court in the city, composed of former Archons. Over time the hill became a symbol of justice.
Oletheon himself was never lawful, and rarely just, but the place of his trial endured as a symbol of both. It was almost poetic: the god of chaos and rage gave his name to the hill of order and reason.
Now that I was standing on the same stone, the story felt different. It sounded uncomfortably like my own, and I found myself hoping the judges would see things the way the gods once had—that defending someone you loved wasn't a crime, even if it left a body behind.
There were fewer people than I expected. Trials usually drew half the city, but today the benches were mostly empty. Considering who my mother was, and who Menandros's father was, I'd expected a full crowd. The silence felt wrong.
For a second, a thought crossed my mind that I didn't like at all. Maybe it wasn't empty because no one cared. Maybe it was empty because, officially, I was already dead.
Another thing bothered me. Perry was standing near me, not beside my parents, but also on the accused platform. From where I stood, it almost looked like he was on trial too. That couldn't be right. Perry had been the victim in all this. The only one who hadn't done anything.
Archon Menekrates was there, seated with the judges, pretending not to gloat. Behind him were his witnesses—Menandros' friends. The judges were already in their seats. My parents stood on either side of me.
I looked around again. Not a single Sister in sight. That was strange. They always came to trials when someone of the order was involved.
"Mother," I said quietly. "Something feels wrong about this."
"Keep your mouth shut," she said without turning her head. "Not a single word."
I glanced at my father. Even he didn't look warm. He looked solemn, his eyes fixed on the judges. No quiet smile, no reassuring nod.
Did they all know something I didn't? Was this what it looked like right before they condemned you? Was I really going to die here?
My stomach turned. I forced myself to breathe.
I looked at Perry again. He didn't look at me. He kept his eyes on the ground. His parents stood on either side of him with their hands on his shoulders, both of them staring down too, as if they couldn't bear to meet my eyes.
It wasn't fair.
I'd defended someone. I hadn't hunted Menandros down, I hadn't wanted any of this. He'd grabbed Perry, beat him, taunted me, told me to shoot. And now I was the one standing here, waiting to be judged like a criminal.
It wasn't fair.
Pressure built in my chest. My hands trembled. The words started to rise before I could stop them. "This isn't—"
"[Sigē]," my mother said softly.
My mouth moved, but nothing came out. Not a breath, not a whisper. My throat still worked, but my voice was gone.
I stared at her, wide-eyed. She met my eyes then, and I saw something in hers that scared me more than anger ever could: sadness, regret, maybe even pity.
The judges spoke in turns, their voices calm. I'd expected shouting, accusations, something. Instead they used the kind of language people use when they've already decided what the truth is.
They said there had been an altercation between Menandros and two others. That tempers had flared. That weapons had been drawn. That a life had been lost. They never said who fired, only that both parties had been involved. Both responsible.
I frowned. Both?
The words slid past me before they sank in. They called it complicity. Assistance. As if I'd merely held the door open while someone else pulled the trigger.
The rest blurred. Menekrates gave a speech about mercy and precedent, about the need to honor the gods and the law. The judges nodded when they were supposed to. When he finished, the oldest one stood.
"Hecate, daughter of Kleon and Kalliope, the council finds you guilty of complicity in the death of Menandros. In recognition of your youth and your mother's service to this city, the sentence of death is commuted to exile. You are to depart Graecia and reside in the Kingdom of Silesia. You are forbidden to return."
The world seemed to tilt. Silesia.
They might as well have said execution. Witches weren't even allowed to live there. They were hunted. Burned alive.
They asked if I had anything to say for myself.
I tried to speak, but nothing came out. The spell still held. My lips moved, my throat worked, but there was only silence.
I turned to my mother, but she kept her eyes forward. My father's hands were clenched at his sides. Perry still hadn't looked up.
Then they turned to Perry.
"Perikles of Asteria," the eldest judge said. "You stand accused of the unlawful killing of Menandros, son of Archon Menekrates."
He didn't look up. He just kept staring at the ground. His parents were already crying. His mother whispered something over and over that I couldn't hear. When the sentence came, they both dropped to their knees.
"The council finds you guilty. The sentence is death. The execution shall be carried out by Archon Menekrates, father of the slain."
I tried to scream, but my voice still wouldn't come. My throat tore with the effort, but there was only air. Nothing. I beat my fists against my chest, I tried to claw at my throat, desperate to force a sound out, anything, but the silence held.
Perry still didn't look at me. He just stood there, head bowed, as if he'd known this was coming. Maybe he had known all along.
You don't get it, he'd said after I'd told Menandros off. I remembered the moment exactly: him stopping. He hadn't laughed. I had. I'd been proud, reckless, smug enough to wink. "If he comes after you," I'd said, "I'll protect you." I believed it then. I thought I had.
I hadn't.
If I'd kept my mouth shut that morning, Menandros would probably still be alive. And now Perry would die because of me, because I'd been loud and clever and stupid, and he'd warned me.
"Perikles of Asteria," the judge said. "Step forward."
He obeyed. No fight, no word. Just quiet steps.
Menekrates rose from his seat and drew the ceremonial blade from its sheath. The light caught on the edge as he crossed the floor. He didn't look at the judges or the guards or the small crowd. He looked at me.
He didn't stop looking. Even when Perry was brought forward. Even when the guards forced him to kneel. His eyes never left mine.
I tried to move, to scream, to throw myself between them, but as soon as I shifted my mother whispered another word, "[Lithos]."
It spread through me like cold water. My body locked, and I could no longer move.
I tried again anyway. Nothing. I desperately tried to move, but my muscles didn't even strain, they simply didn't do anything.
Panic hit next. I couldn't reach him, couldn't shout, couldn't cry, couldn't even collapse. Every second felt like an eternity. I was trapped watching it happen, screaming in my head while the world went on without me.
Perry's parents screamed his name. His mother broke free for half a second before the guards dragged her back. Menekrates didn't look at them. He just kept staring at me as if the blade was meant for both of us.
"Look," my mother said quietly. "You owe him that much."
Menekrates raised the blade.
I couldn't even close my eyes.