Chapter 16 Trial Preparation (Rowan POV)
The guard, Jackson again, opened the cell door at exactly 9:00 a.m. He didn’t meet my eyes. Just jerked his head toward the corridor.
“Advocate’s here. Conference room three. Move.”
I stood slowly. My legs felt steadier than yesterday, but the silver marks still burned under my sleeves like low-grade fever. I followed him down the hallway, past the security desk, past the heavy steel door that led to the administrative wing. The conference room was small, windowless, lit by a single overhead bulb that buzzed like a dying insect. A metal table. Two chairs. A man already seated on the far side, briefcase open, papers spread in precise rows.
He looked up when I entered. Mid-thirties, wire-rimmed glasses, dark suit that looked too expensive for campus. His expression was neutral, professional, but his eyes flicked over the glowing lines on my forearms before settling on my face.
“Rowan Ashford,” he said. “I’m Nathan Grey. Silvercrest pack advocate. The court appointed me.”
I sat across from him. The chair legs scraped concrete. “Appointed. Right. So you’re here because you have to be.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t deny it. Just tapped the stack of papers once.
“Formal charges were filed at dawn,” he said. “Murder in the first degree under pack law, killing a pack member while in feral state. Aggravating factors: premeditation suggested by the blood message, and the illegal Turning itself. Trial is set for three days from now. Eclipse Chamber. Three Alphas presiding. No appeals. Verdict is final.”
I leaned back. “Three days. Generous.”
He opened the top folder. “Evidence packet. Let’s go through it.”
He slid the first page toward me. Crime-scene photo, Tyler’s body on the cobblestones, throat torn open, blood spelling THE HUMAN KNOWS in shaky letters. My stomach lurched, but I forced myself to look.
“DNA match,” Nathan said. “Your saliva in the wounds. Skin cells under his fingernails. Hair, long, dark, caught in the clotting. Witnesses, three separate accounts, saw a girl matching your description running through the woods during the full moon, moving too fast for human, eyes glowing.”
I pushed the photo back. “I don’t remember any of it.”
“That’s the problem.” He tapped another page. “Your blackout is documented. No memory from approximately 10:15 p.m. until 6:03 a.m. the next morning. Convenient for a defense of diminished capacity, but not exculpatory.”
“Exculpatory,” I echoed. The word tasted bitter. “Meaning it doesn’t prove I’m innocent.”
“Exactly.” He closed the folder. “The court will see an incomplete Turning, unstable biology, feral instincts overriding human control. The best we can hope for is arguing diminished capacity. You weren’t in control. You weren’t yourself. The wolf acted. Not Rowan Ashford.”
I stared at him. “You want me to say I did it.”
“I want you to say you don’t remember doing it, but the physical evidence is overwhelming and your condition explains why. The Alphas might, might, spare your life. Life imprisonment instead of execution. It’s the only realistic path.”
I laughed, short, harsh. “I didn’t kill him.”
Nathan removed his glasses, polished them with the corner of his tie. “You don’t remember. That’s different from innocent.”
“I know what I didn’t do,” I said. “I didn’t tear out his throat. I didn’t write that message in his blood. Someone else did. Someone who wanted me to take the fall.”
He slid his glasses back on. “And who would that be?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Then you have no defense.” He leaned forward. “Listen to me, Rowan. I’ve done this before. Pack trials are not human courts. There’s no reasonable doubt standard. There’s evidence, there’s testimony, and there’s precedent. The precedent here is clear: feral killings during Turning are treated as murder unless extreme coercion is proven. You have no coercion. You have a blackout. That’s it.”
I met his eyes. “I won’t plead to something I didn’t do.”
“Then you’ll die.” The words came out flat. Matter-of-fact. “Three days from now, in the Eclipse Chamber, three Alphas will hear the evidence, review the body, hear the witnesses, and they will sentence you to death. They’ll strap you to the stone table, open your throat with silver, and let the pack watch. That’s how it ends.”
I swallowed. “And you’re okay with that?”
“I’m paid to be objective.” He gathered his papers. “I’m telling you the odds. Ninety-eight percent conviction. Ninety-nine percent execution if convicted. The only way to shift those numbers is to give them something, anything, to hang mercy on. Diminished capacity. Lack of intent. Youth. Anything.”
I shook my head. “No.”
He sighed. Closed the briefcase with a snap.
“Then my advice is simple: spend the next three days making peace with whatever god you believe in. Because when they ask for your final statement, they won’t be looking for truth. They’ll be looking for remorse.”
I stood up. “I’m not remorseful for something I didn’t do.”
He looked at me, really looked, for the first time since I’d walked in. Something flickered behind the professional mask. Pity, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
“I’ve defended worse,” he said quietly. “I’ve lost worse. But I’ve never lost someone who still believed they could win.”
He walked to the door, knocked twice.
Jackson opened it.
Nathan paused in the threshold. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll go over witness cross-examination. If you change your mind about the plea...”
“I won’t.”
He nodded once. Left.
The door closed.
I stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched at my sides. The silver marks pulsed brighter, hot under my skin. The wolf stirred, low growl in my chest, not angry, just… awake.
Three days.
I had three days to prove I didn’t do it.
Or three days to die for something I didn’t do.