The Trial of the Lion Without Teeth

The Fall of Gabriel de Lorges, March 6th, 1551 AD — as recorded in shadowed memory by the scribes of the Eventide of Albion

The Hall of Judgment in the Palace of the Louvre had never known such silence.

It was the morning of March 6th, 1551, and though the banners of mourning still hung in heavy velvet folds for the fallen King, the court had assembled. The air was thick with perfume and dread. Even the Garou of Paris, many still shaken by the death of their Silver Fang King in the woods beyond Saint-Germain, had not returned to their Sept cairns. They stood at the edges of the room in half-human forms, watching with lupine stares.

At the center of it all knelt Gabriel de Lorges, Count of Montgomery, Lord of Lorges and Ducey — no longer adorned in his noble blue or the gilded armor he once wore in the king’s service. Now he wore only grey linen, and chains at his wrists. His once-golden hair was unwashed, his face hollow from sleepless nights, yet his spine remained unbent.

They had called him the Lion of Normandy, once. Now he was the lion without teeth.

On the dais above sat Catherine de’ Medici, the Queen Regent, the black widow whose husband lay in sealed stone, and whose son — the boy-King Francis II — sat quietly beside her, wide-eyed, clutching a carved wooden falcon in his small hands.

Her voice was not cruel. It was clear.

“You, Gabriel de Lorges, stand accused of treason against the Crown of France. You have spoken against the lawful Regent in a time of mourning and transition. You have sown doubt in the hearts of noblemen and questioned the divine right of my rule.”

Gabriel raised his head. His voice did not waver.

“I spoke truth. That you now sit the throne not in grief, but ambition. That you’ve dismissed Garou advisors who stood at the King's side for a decade, replaced them with clerics and strangers. That your eyes look east, to Rome and Reason, and not to the sacred spirit of our lands.”

A murmur rippled through the gathered nobles and hidden Prodigals. Some looked away. Others clenched fists behind fine sleeves. Catherine did not blink.

“And would you name yourself above the throne? Would you place your truth before the good of France?”

“I would place Gaia before your alchemy,” he hissed. “And honor before your manipulations.”

She stood.

It was not rage that followed — it was finality.

“You were brought to court upon the death of your wife, Isabeau de La Touche, that you might serve the Crown and find solace among your peers. Instead, you bring poison. Let it be known this day: Gabriel de Lorges is stripped of all titles, lands, and honors. His name shall be struck from the rolls of nobility, and his family line cast out from the protection of the Crown.”

Gasps echoed. One of the older Garou in the gallery snarled beneath his breath.

Catherine continued, gaze cold as carved obsidian.

“You shall not hang. That would make a martyr. Instead, you will live — in iron, in shadow, and in silence. You will be made example.”

And so it was.

They marched Gabriel out, not to the gallows, but to the oubliette beneath the Bastille, where no light reached and no wolves could howl. His lands were seized. His banner torn from the rafters of every Normandy hall. His children were declared wards of the Crown, to be raised in loyalty — or disappear in quiet.

The nobles bowed and said nothing. The Garou bared their fangs and were dismissed. The Kindred of Paris, watching through shadows and masks, made their first note in a new book of alliances.

And Catherine — now alone on the throne — did not weep, did not flinch, and did not falter.

For the game had begun.

Later that evening, a raven flew from the Tower of London with news in its scrollcase, addressed to the Moody Badger Tavern and those with ears in Avalon:

“The first of the wolves has fallen.The Queen-Regent plays not for peace,but power.Let all who remember the Silver Path beware.Catherine makes war with a whisper.”