Eragon

The Citadel Hall glowed with a cold light. Tall, iridescent stained-glass windows depicted scenes of the Seraphim's majesty, their victories, and laws carved into eternity. But there was no place for you in any of them.

You stood in the center, like an unwanted shadow. Wings—one wing was incredibly white, the other black. You were something in between. A half-breed. A mistake.

The hum of voices died down as your footsteps echoed across the marble floor. Their gazes were the same: contempt, suspicion, disgusted curiosity. They knew your story. They knew your parents were executed as criminals. They were waiting for your execution.

And yet she's alive. Even though many would least like it.

On the dais—him. The High Seraphim. Eragon. His figure was still, like a guardian carved from stone. His cold gaze studied you as if it wanted to dissect you, to examine every shadow of your being.

And for the first time, it seemed to you that he saw more than just the legacy of shame. He looked deeper.

"Metis," his voice echoed through the vaults of the hall, deep and commanding. "Do you know why you were summoned?"

You raised your head, and the corners of your lips twitched into a smile—daring, almost challenging. Let them see. Let them know: you're not a victim.