The trial of silence

They say power changes you.

That's a lie.

Power doesn't change you.

It reveals you.

We were led in silence down a narrow stone corridor, eight of us, masked and cloaked.

The only sound was the soft shuffle of our footsteps echoing like a metronome.

At the end of the hall, a door opened into a room that looked like a courtroom and a slaughterhouse had a baby.

Dim lights. No windows.

Seven chairs lined one wall. One was missing a leg, broken, splintered. Still stained red.

A symbol painted on the far wall: a wolf with its tongue cut out.

Below it, words in old Latin:

Veritas in Strepitu , meaning "Truth in Silence."

A figure stepped out of the shadows.

Tall. Elegant. Voice smooth like silk soaked in venom.

The Keeper.

I'd heard the name whispered before but never confirmed.

Now she stood in front of us, dressed in surgical white. Her face veiled. A long knife in one hand.

"Tonight," she said, "you will prove the first law of the Row:

Loyalty is earned in silence, and tested through betrayal."

She turned toward us slowly.

"You each have a weakness. A person outside this room who matters to you. Someone you have not let go.

We've identified them all."

The blood drained from my face.

"Your trial is simple.

Reveal them to us.

One name.

And you move forward."

My hands clenched at my sides.

Ezra was gone. Remy was hidden.

But Isla…

She was here.

One by one, the others stepped forward. Some names I didn't recognize. Some I did.

A popular senior. A school janitor. A dorm counselor.

Some gave names too quickly, while Others too late.

Those who hesitated..

…Didn't leave the room.

We never saw where they went.

Then it was my turn.

I stepped forward. Mask still on. Voice steady.

"Remy Cavanaugh."

A pause.

The Keeper tilted her head.

"Unusual. She's already marked as disavowed."

"I know," I said. "But she's still alive. Still working against you. I've seen her."

The Keeper said nothing for a long time.

Then,

She nodded.

"Accepted."

I stepped back.

But my stomach turned.

Because I'd just given them Remy's name.

And I meant to lie.

But the lie had become the truth.

Hours later, I returned to my room.

The window was open.

And taped to the glass was a note written in black ink, no signature:

"You're playing a dangerous game, Legacy.

And you just put a knife to your own throat."

The next morning, someone screamed in the hallway.

I ran to the source.

Outside Remy's dorm room—door kicked in, mattress slashed—blood smeared across the desk.

She was gone.

But not erased.

On the wall, someone had carved three words into the plaster:

"You told them."