Children of Gehenna

Tristan's chains clinked with each unmeasured stride along the cold stone corridor, the sound echoing in a way that made his heart feel even heavier, it stretched before him like a path to oblivion, its walls lined with ancient tapestries and faded heraldry reminders of a kingdom that now saw him only as a traitor. Every footstep resonated with the memories of days when he had proudly worn his armor, fighting for honor and justice. Now, the thought of that very armor felt like a shackle, a bitter reminder of everything he'd lost.

The walk through the winding passages of Castle Eldoria brought back conflicting emotions. In one moment, he remembered the grandness of the palace—the golden glow of torchlight on polished marble, the jubilant sounds of feasts in the great hall—and in the next, he felt the sting of shame and betrayal. The once-celebrated knight now found himself lowered to a prisoner, marched before a court that had already made up its mind. 

The castle's architecture, once a symbol of strength and heritage, now seemed tyrannical. High arched ceilings loomed overhead, and complex stone carvings told stories of warfare and achievements long past. Yet those tales of honor only served to highlight Tristan's fall from grace. He recalled the pride he'd felt defending these very halls, and the betrayal only stung deeper.

As he passed through an antechamber, Tristan's eyes met those of a servant—a young woman with sorrowful eyes—who quickly averted her gaze. It was as if her silence confirmed what he already knew: every soul in the castle had turned away from him. His mind wandered again to the forged document, that had sealed his fate. It was a filthy piece of paper, its ink neat but its implications gross and unthinkable.

At length, the corridor opened into yet another antechamber that led to the royal hall. Massive oak doors, decorated with the kingdom's coat of arms and complex carvings of past glories, stood like silent guardians. They marked the boundary between the known and the unknown—the world of honor and the realm of judgment. Tristan's pulse quickened as he approached. Every step felt like wading deeper into accusations and finality.

Inside, the large room was hollow and filled with a tense silence that spoke louder than any crowd's howl. Noblemen, courtiers, and soldiers had gathered in groups, their faces a mix of pity, suspicion, and fear. It was lined with towering columns and draped with heavy, embroidered banners that waved slightly in the draft from hidden passageways. At the far end of the room, elevated on a podium, sat King Edric. His presence was commanding—a blend of monarchal authority and sorrowful resolve.

His eyes, sharp and determined, studied the assembled crowd. The king's voice soon broke the silence.

 "Sir Tristan Aldevar." he intoned, each syllable resonating with a hint of shame.

"You stand accused of a most regrettable betrayal. The evidence—an order issued in your name—to approve the opening of the western gate, allowing the Blackthorn Mercenaries to storm our defenses."

A murmur rippled among the spectators. Tristan's gaze swept over the crowd; he saw faces that were once friendly now twisted in anger and mistrust. 

Duke Varos, who stood next to the king with an aura of quiet satisfaction, stepped forward. His voice was calm and planned, yet every word carried an undeniable accusation. 

"The document, sealed with the royal emblem, clearly bears Sir Tristan's mark. How could you deny your role in such treachery?"

Tristan took a deep breath, steadying himself before he spoke. He lifted his chin, trying to protect the pride he once represented. 

"My liege, I did not sign that order. I have always served this kingdom with unwavering loyalty. I beg, that you look beyond the false evidence and see the truth—a truth that will reveal I have been set up by those with darker goals than I can imagine."

A tense silence fell over the hall as Tristan's words hung in the air. It was as if time itself had slowed, each heart beating in anticipation and dread of the verdict.

The accusation carried significant weight. Every person in the hall felt a chill as the circulating rumors about his betrayal were confirmed, and the mutters grew louder. A few faces in the crowd showed signs of doubt, but the momentum of the court's judgment seemed unstoppable. Tristan's eyes burned with a mixture of defiance and anguish as he regarded the evidence. The memory of that night, of the false order that had been conducted to frame him, was a wound that would not soon heal.

A familiar face appeared from the far side of the hall—Prince Alric. He stayed silent, adding nothing to the ruling. His sympathetic, fearful, and almost regretful gaze cut through the viewers' whispers.

King Edric's expression grew even more serious. His eyes, which normally shone with the promise of prosperity, now reflected only the hard need for leadership in uneasy times.

 "The evidence is inarguable," the king declared. "For the safety of the kingdom, and to ensure that treachery never again damages the trust placed in our royal knights and that upon which our kingdom is built, you are sentenced to exile on the island of Gehenna. May the gods have mercy on your soul."

The pronouncement echoed around the hall, his sentence was just as he expected. Tristan felt as if the room were closing in on him. It was absolute. A banishment to a cursed island, a place spoken of only in a hushed manner and fearful whispers. Gehenna was a land of dark magic and ancient curses, a prison not of iron and stone but of constant suffering and isolation.

For a long moment, Tristan stood there in silence, absorbing the finality of his fate. His mind stirred with conflicting thoughts: the unfairness of his sentencing, the mystery of the forged document, and the sudden, crushing but expected weight of exile. And, beneath it all, a spark of resolve ignited within him. 

The guards moved to secure him, clutching his arms with cold, relentless strength. As they began to lead him toward the exit, Tristan stole one last look at the faces in the hall. There was no sign of remorse, only resignation and the grim assurance of royal order. The eyes of the courtiers wore into him, a mixture of judgment, pity, and fear that chilled him to the bone.