Sentry of the Arcane: Engulfed

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Fitz

The surrounding noise of a functioning society drowns out as my thoughts overwhelm my head, waves of anxiety and fear crashing upon me. My breathing quickens as I freeze up, unable to look anywhere else. Beyond the spruce doors lay an empty room, waiting to fill up with twelve ramdon members of the jury, an unknown amount of viewers, two lawyers, one judge, and one Jacob. The numbers are too much to bear, and I find myself gasping for a proper amount of air.

This place is merely a sophisticated building to those who pass by it without another thought. For us, this building will either make or break us. But at the moment, it seems like we'll break either way but in different ways. If Jacob is free, then he may come after us, and we may die. If Jacob is in prison, Nixsift will only move forward and come at us. And we may die.

A lose-lose.

I swallow grimly, clenching my fists to stop them from trembling. Everyone could tell that we're scared; who wouldn't be in our case? Six teenagers were going to testify about the gruesome things they went through to put a serial murderer in jail. We were testifying against a man who ripped... who ripped his own brother's... I stop myself from finishing that thought while bile rises in my throat, a simple yet dangerous warning for my head to stop.

Trying to climb out of the hole of despair I'm falling into, I glance around, my gaze shifting quickly between people I don't know until I fall upon a middle aged man with a large stack of papers in his arms. His suit is crisp and neat, and his face is practically emotionless, telling me that he's done this before. So he's the lawyer, I think to myself, bitterness and gratitude towards him battling within me. The lawyers will twist our fear in their own ways to sway the judge- to gain their own victories. In the court, our feelings don't matter as much as the verdict.

I subconsciously reach into my pocket, expecting to wrap my hand around the test tube. When I don't feel cool glass or crinkled aluminium against my fingers, my breathing hitches momentarily from panic. Only when I remind myself that the tube was submitted as evidence by Mr. Wallace do I actually calm down again. You don't have to kick yourself for being nervous, I warn myself. You've never been on trial as a witness before. It's okay. "It's okay," I whisper, closing my eyes slowly.

Many minutes, possibly hours, pass before the doors to the actual courtroom open, allowing the small crowd of people to flood in. The Sovereigns, Altruistics, Sonia, and I stick together and move as one, collectively scared whitless. Everyone seems to be bunched together, hunched over whispers and snarky remarks and rumours about what will happen. They don't know who Jacob is, or what he's done. They don't know what we've gone through. What we did.

We are the ones with our lives at risk, but it's people who don't know anything who will decide what to do with them, and through that, with us.

"All rise," a voice booms, dragging me out of the hole of despair I continue to trip into. The murmurs gradually rise in volume to borderline shouting before the judge booms, "You may be seated," and bangs his gavel loudly, effectively silencing everyone.

I take in a breath I desperately needed. The room was spinning too early, faces blurring too quickly, blackness creeping from the corners of my eyes too boldly when nothing's happened yet. Rip the scab off, I mentally demand of the judge, who's sitting down himself. Open the bleeding wound because I definitely won't.

"Court is now in session."

There it is.

And I knew, I just knew that this was going to sting like a bitch.

...

It's only after the opening statement and other formalities do we actually get into the first witness. My gaze follows the prosecution as he beckons the first witness to the stand. A brunet in his late twenties to early thirties stands up, and for some reason, something about him irks me. My nose uncontrollably scrunches up as he quietly makes his way to the chair besides the judge. Maybe it's his cool demeanor, or how tolerant he is of the situation, or maybe it's because Jacob is the man that tortured us, but this court is taking the word of somee absolute stranger.

Like I said, he irks me. Don't know why, though.

My mind tunes out the swearing in oath, instead opting to pick out every single discernable feature that I can in order to calm that insatiable nagging in the back of my head. But the thing is, his face seems familiar, but at the same time, it can't be. With chestnut brown hair and almost grey eyes, this man hasn't come up at any point in my life that I can remember for me to have this internal unease.

But as soon as the prosecution opens his mount to ask the first question, I tell myself to shut up.

And pay attention.

"What is your name?"

A purse of the lips.,"My name is John. John Doe." Simple, abrupt. Doesn't give much away. If he says too much from the start, I scrunch my nose up slightly- I don't like him. I don't know him and don't know why, but I don't. Maybe it's that feeling of familiarity- it's on the tip of my tongue, but I just can't remember it.

"How do you know Jacob Grahams?"

Second question in, and he's already pausing. Licking his lips with a hmm, the man- John- looks back at the prosecutor, "I was in the military with him, we were... friends. Comrades." The man's eyes gaze over the crowd, and I instinctively look away when he glances at me. "I would've done anything for him, especially after what we went through."

"Would've?" the prosecution echoes, voicing the very words my head clings onto as well, "then what changed?"

This time, when he pauses, John manages to look directly in my eyes, "I didn't know him as well as I thought apparently." Sighing dejectedly, he runs a hand over his face.

A second ticks by, and then I see it.

His left eye's grey now.