The prep rooms behind the Council hall were designed for obedience.
Not overtly. Not with chains.
With mirrors.
With attendants who didn't meet your eyes. With combs and pins and clean cloths that pretended dignity was something you could fasten into place. With a narrow antechamber where you could hear the murmur of the tribunal hall beyond—voices gathering, benches filling, slates warming in hands.
Jina stood at the washstand and stared at her reflection until it stopped looking like a face and started looking like a role.
Crown Heir. Deviant. Asset. Threat.
The poison had quieted to a low ache under her ribs, but it hadn't left. Stabilizer bought time, not peace. Her skin still held a faint sheen of cold sweat at her hairline, the kind that came from adrenaline refusing to let go.
Behind her, a curtain shifted.
Theron entered without announcement.
Immaculate, as always—dark layers, silver seamwork, gloves so clean they felt like an accusation. He shut the door and checked the ward-stone in the corner without looking like he was checking it, a small tilt of his head, a brief listen.
Then his gaze returned to her.
Not warm.
Measured.
"Your condition," he said.
"Alive," Jina replied.
Theron's mouth barely moved. "Temporarily."
Jina exhaled through her nose. "Yes."
Silence stretched—clean, controlled, uncomfortable in the way a scalpel was uncomfortable.
Jina turned from the mirror and faced him fully.
The air in the prep room felt tighter than the corridor outside. Like even the walls were waiting to record her.
"That tribunal," Jina said, voice low, "is a machine."
Theron didn't deny it. "Yes."
"And you," she continued, "are one of the gears they want to show the crowd."
Theron's gaze didn't flicker. "Yes."
Jina swallowed once.
She hated that she needed him.
She hated that needing him meant trusting a man who spoke in outcomes and called it truth.
She stepped closer to the table where the tribunal docket lay under glass and set her hand beside it—not touching the paper, just claiming the space around it.
"I'm asking you for one thing," she said.
Theron's eyes tracked her mouth, then her eyes. "Define."
"Truth on the stand," Jina said. "Nothing else."
Theron watched her like a blade evaluating a throat. "Define 'nothing else.'"
Jina exhaled. "No maneuvering for your advantage. No 'necessary cruelty.' No forcing me into a corner so the court calls it strength."
Theron's mouth barely moved. "Acceptable."
She blinked. "Just—acceptable?"
"I will testify," Theron said. "But I will not do it blind."
His hand lifted. "Your wrist. Permission."
Jina's pulse jumped again, irritated at herself for it. "Why do you keep—"
"Because words lie," Theron said. "Bodies hesitate."
Jina stared, then extended her hand. "One breath."
Theron paused. Then—slowly—he pulled one glove free. Finger by finger.
Bare skin met her pulse point. Warm. Precise. The contact was small, but it felt like standing too close to a window in winter—sharp, exposing.
Theron's gaze didn't leave her face as he felt her heartbeat. "Say it again."
Jina swallowed. "Truth. Nothing else."
Theron's thumb shifted once—an almost imperceptible press.
"No spike," he murmured. "You mean it."
He released her hand and slid the glove back on like a mask returning.
"Then I will stand," Theron said softly, "and I will not call you a tyrant."
Jina's chest tightened. "What will you call me."
Theron's eyes pinned her. "Princess."
A title.
Not a leash.
And somehow that restraint landed hotter than any touch.
Jina looked away first, because if she kept staring at him she'd start reading meaning into a man who treated meaning like a liability.
She forced herself back to the practical.
"They'll try to provoke you," she said. "They'll put your bond in front of you like it's evidence."
Theron nodded once. "They will."
"And they'll try to provoke me," Jina added, voice tightening. "Make me carry. Make the room flinch. Make the crowd beg for the leash."
Theron's gaze narrowed. "You saw the diagram."
"I saw enough," Jina said.
Theron's voice remained clipped. "Then your primary objective is to deny them the event."
Jina's mouth tightened. "And if they force it anyway."
Theron didn't soften it. "Then you control the narrative of the event."
Jina exhaled, slow. "How."
Theron's eyes flicked toward the prep room door. Toward the hall beyond. Toward a world that listened through stone.
"On the stand," he said, "you speak like a ruler, not a defendant."
Jina held his gaze. "I speak like myself."
Theron paused a fraction—almost irritation, almost approval.
"Then speak like yourself," he corrected. "But do not plead. Pleading grants them authority to 'correct' you."
Jina's jaw clenched. "You really are allergic to mercy."
Theron's mouth barely moved. "Mercy is a word they use when they mean compliance."
Jina didn't argue. She couldn't. Not after the infirmary cup, the black wax, the archive template.
A knock sounded—polite, controlled.
"Crown Heir," a voice called from outside. "Two minutes."
Jina's stomach tightened.
The clock moved.
Always moving.
Theron stepped closer—not touching—his presence cutting the air like a clean line.
"One more definition," he said.
Jina's eyes narrowed. "What."
"Truth," Theron said, calm. "Truth is not confession."
Jina's throat tightened. "I know."
Theron studied her for a beat, then nodded once, satisfied.
"Good," he said. "Then we proceed."
Jina turned toward the door.
Her hand hovered over the latch.
A thought hit her—sharp, unwelcome: If he betrays me, it'll be elegant.
She pushed it down.
This wasn't trust.
It was alignment.
She opened the door.
Lanternlight from the corridor spilled in. The murmur of the tribunal hall rose—voices thick with anticipation, ink already thirsty.
Jina stepped out with her face composed.
Theron followed one pace behind, immaculate glove seams catching light.
They walked toward the room that wanted to turn her into a story.
Jina kept one sentence steady in her chest like a vow she could survive:
Truth.
Nothing else.
[Politics]