Chapter 74

At the sharp command of the court guard, the entire gallery surged to their feet. A moment later, the presiding magistrate ascended to the bench, swathed in solemn black robes and crowned with a curled white wig.

Once the room settled into a rustling silence, Dwight emerged at the examination stand from the side entrance. The crowd erupted into a chorus of vitriol and derisive gestures, compelling the guard to bark warnings for order.

“The preliminary hearing is now in session. Dwight Percival Hollingsworth, please state your identity for the record.”

THUD THUD

With two resounding strikes of the gavel, the magistrate formally opened the proceedings. Yet, the platinum-blond man at the stand offered a retort that defied all expectation.

“Your Honor, I have been grievously wronged. Pray, forgive my impertinence, but do you possess any concrete proof that I am indeed this Dwight fellow?”

His brazen audacity struck Elwin with a moment of pure bewilderment. This was the same man who had resided in their home for an entire month, the very person Elwin had visited in the constabulary holding cell only yesterday. A cold dread crept into Elwin’s heart: had he truly welcomed a total stranger into their home?

Unlike the shaken Elwin, the magistrate—a man who had weathered every conceivable brand of mischief and malfeasance—merely turned his gaze toward the man who had escorted the detainee into the court. His expression remained a mask of professional indifference.

Standing beside Dwight was an officer adorned with gleaming rank insignia, clearly the chief of the Northern Constabulary. He appeared well-acquainted with such absurd theatrics and provided his response without a second’s hesitation.

“At the time of this individual’s arrest, we recovered the family seal in his possession. Furthermore, the suspect’s physical profile aligns perfectly with the descriptions provided by the Ravenwell constabulary, which is currently investigating his accomplice, as well as the Graymont constabulary, which governs his place of origin. Finally, we confiscated the seal and the formal estate deed of the Count of Ravenwell from his personal effects.”

Faced with such damning, lucid testimony, the magistrate glared icily at the defendant.

“You heard the report. The evidence is more than sufficient. Detainee, let us be clear: this is a court of law, not a masquerade hall.”

When a wave of laughter rippled through the gallery, the magistrate hammered his gavel once more to silence the room.

“Order in the gallery! Now, Chief Constable, provide a detailed summary of the case circumstances.”

The chief constable’s account was dense with legal terminology, yet Elwin, a dedicated bookworm, parsed the nuances with ease. The spectators fared just as well, having devoured every newspaper article published on the affair, they already knew the case’s grim details by heart.

In fact, the gallery’s constant sighing and outraged tongue-clicking—as if they were listening to a folk legend—forced the magistrate to strike his gavel repeatedly to maintain order.

Through it all, Dwight maintained a sullen, disgruntled pout, clutching his pride as if he were the true victim of a grand conspiracy. When the lengthy explanation finally drew to a close, the floor returned to the defendant.

“Does the detainee wish to offer a rebuttal?”

“Yes, Your Honor. I reiterate: I have been truly and utterly wronged.”

“I trust you do not intend to further insult the dignity of this court by repeating the preposterous claim that you are not the man named Dwight.”

Perhaps cowed by the magistrate’s sharp rebuke, Dwight flinched, yet he compelled himself to continue.

“Th-That is not my meaning. First of all, I have much to say regarding whether I truly committed the acts the chief constable described, but… hm, hm, I shall address that at a later time.”

He had begun as though he meant to insist on his total innocence, only to catch sight of Elwin in the gallery and pivot mid-sentence. It was not a prick of conscience that moved him, but a desperate need to avoid further public humiliation.

“I am being treated with rank injustice. Constables of low birth descended upon me—a nobleman!—and shackled me in handcuffs without a shred of proper courtesy.”

At this, the gallery dissolved into murmurs of derision. “How exactly is one expected to apply handcuffs courteously?” one voice hissed audibly.

“A-And they incarcerated me in a wretched, gloomy dungeon! They fed me nothing but dried-out bread. How can such barbarism be allowed?”

The agitation in the gallery spiked. “They gave that man bread? Is the flour not better spent on the rats?” someone muttered. Dwight’s complaints served only to highlight his petty, arrogant nature rather than stir any sympathy. Before he could blather further, the magistrate shut his case file with a decisive snap.

Just as Elwin’s anxiety began to mount at the prospect of the case closing without his input, a court clerk leaned over to whisper to the bench. The magistrate’s eyes shifted, finally settling on Elwin in the front row.

“We have heard quite enough from the detainee. Before we conclude, I am informed that an interested party regarding the confiscated items is present today. Is that correct?”

At last, Elwin’s moment of truth had arrived. He rose from his seat and offered a formal, respectful salute to the bench.

“If you have testimony to provide, you may step forward.”

Every eye in the courtroom shifted toward Elwin. Though he was bone-weary and wound tight, he adjusted his glasses with deliberate poise and spoke in a steady, resonant voice. “The confiscated items consist of property recovered from the theft, alongside the personal effects of my family. I am well aware that the legal principle dictates the return of stolen property to the victim. There are established precedents, such as the Winslow Harbor Theft Case and the Harry Middleton Case, where the victim successfully petitioned the court for the return of such property, and that petition was duly granted.”

At his articulate statement, the scratching of the reporters’ pens accelerated across their notebooks.

The magistrate, who had been observing Elwin with keen interest, leaned forward. “As you observe, this court acknowledges a victim’s right to request the return of property. However, we must first confirm one crucial detail. Sir Elwin, are you asserting that you are the sole victim of this theft?”

“The seal and the estate deed are family assets. To be precise, I believe it is the Ravenwell estate that has suffered the harm.”

Elwin felt a sharp prickle of alarm. He had anticipated this complication—the very reason he had intentionally avoided mentioning his own inheritance rights. Realizing that retreat was no longer an option, he pressed forward. “I am not requesting the return of these items in a personal capacity. The confiscated goods belong to my family, and without them, the household business cannot proceed. I speak solely as the representative of the Ravenwell estate.”

“You are surely aware that the property of a titled noble house is vested solely in the individual who holds that title. I sympathize with the unfortunate circumstances of the Ravenwell house, but Sir Elwin, you possess no legal authority to represent that family.”

Logically, the magistrate’s assessment was unassailable. The representative of a noble house was, by definition, the titled noble himself—a status Elwin was destined never to attain. Yet, at that cold, clinical dismissal, a terrifying, white-hot heat ignited within Elwin’s chest.

That is the family where I was born, the home where I was raised, the estate I tended, and yet I am deemed unfit to represent it? Simply because I am an Omega?

Once again, that familiar, oppressive wall loomed before him. His strength evaporated. Was every effort he made destined to be rendered meaningless by the secondary gender he had been born with?

Elwin knew from bitter experience that further protest would be futile. He could vent his frustrations in silence, but he could not incite a scene before the magistrate overseeing his case. Resigned, he started to sink back into his seat. Then, a voice cut through the air.

“…Does that gentleman have something to say as well?”

Suddenly, Leon, seated beside him, rose to his feet. As the magistrate acknowledged him, a faint murmur rippled through the gallery.

Elwin turned to him, stunned. Fortunately, in adherence to courtroom protocol, Leon had removed his hat and eyepatch. Even so, there was no telling what sort of chaos that reckless mouth might unleash.

As Elwin’s heart hammered with mounting dread, he noticed the chief of the Northern Constabulary—standing near Dwight—staring at Leon with a look of profound, flustered recognition. Leon caught the chief’s gaze, offered a faint, cryptic smile, and began to speak.

“Honorable Presiding Magistrate, pray forgive the intrusion. I understand the court presumes Sir Elwin cannot inherit the count’s estate simply because he is an Omega. Is that correct?”

Elwin’s premonition crystallized into a horrifying reality. It was a self-evident fact of law that Omegas held no inheritance rights to titles, yet Leon was challenging that reality in the middle of a solemn courtroom.

The magistrate, who had remained composed even when Dwight had spouted utter nonsense earlier, seemed visibly rattled by this unexpected inquiry. He adjusted his glasses before answering. “That is indeed the law. Is there a point of contention?”

“But Your Honor, being an Omega does not universally disqualify one from rights of inheritance, does it? What of the precedents set by the Grand Duke of Northumbria, the Earl of Redding of Montford, and the Duke of Hartwell of Rosemond?”

At Leon’s words, the blood rushed to Elwin’s face. That was the very topic they had debated during their game in the glass conservatory. Discussing such subversive matters in private was one thing, but bringing them before a judge in a public hearing was madness.