“The summons will be sent immediately. Failure to comply will be indicative of a guilty plea. Trade licenses will be revoked and the Tri-Council’s favor will dissolve.”
Roan loses any remaining color from his already-pale complexion. He opens his mouth to speak, but with a few whispered words from the Grand Chancellor, wind whips through the room.
Roan falls to his knees, clawing at his neck, tendons straining.
Pyrok snarls, lunging. I tether him in place with a hand around his arm.
“Don’t,” I growl beneath my breath. “We’re no help if we expose ourselves.”
The Grand Chancellor stands, sneering down at Roan. “On the charge of treason, given your intention to cast bias upon the Council and usurp us from our thrones, we the Tri-Council find you—”
All members raise a hand.“Guilty!”
“On the charge of breaking and entering the chamber with intent to steal the Book of Voyd, we the Tri-Council find you—”
“Guilty!”
“On the charge of perverting the course of justice by burying essential information in your mind, we the Tri-Council find you—”
“Guilty!”
Creators.
“Roan Du Alac’ of The Burn,” the Grand Chancellor bellows, reciting the false name he’s been wearing most of his life, “you will now be stripped of your accolades.Wardens!”
As a group, ten dual-beaded Wardens glide forward from the wall, white eyes fixed on a near-suffocating Roan. They cluster around him and snatch his buttons, ripping them free.
“Two of your three rulings are punishable by death,” the Grand Chancellor continues, landing a blade of ice straight through my heart. “The other will be atoned with fire-lashing.”
Pyrok sways. Only my firm grip on his arm keeps him somewhat steady.
The Grand Chancellor flicks the lid of his weald, ordering a ribbon of flame to tangle through his fingers.
Roan’s robe is torn wide, the sound of splitting fabric loud in the sudden silence.
“Don’t watch,”I growl as Roan’s bony back is bared. As the GrandChancellor snaps that ribbon of flame toward his pale skin. Not that Pyrok listens, trembling in my fierce grip.
Fire meets flesh—again.
Again.
Roan’s body buckles further beneath each seething snap.
The smell of burnt skin fills my nose, my throat growing tight with memories of Pah dishing me the same scorching treatment, screaming for me tostop cryingandtake control of the fucking flameswhile he made a mess of me.
I force myself to watch, even though the little boy inside me wants to fold down and scream. Even though every other part of me wants to leap off this mezzanine and crush the Grand Chancellor’s skull with my fist. Something that will only cause more harm than good, given I’m outnumbered.
Nulled.
By the time the final lash dissolves, Roan’s entire back is red, black, and blistered, his body trembling as he seeks cold comfort from the floor.
“What adisappointmentyou turned out to be,” the Grand Chancellor seethes, pinching his sleeves back into place with the smoking tips of his fingers. “The Wardens will have you cleansed, then feed you to the anthe. May the Creators have mercy on your soul.”
I battle to keep Pyrok standing while the Tri-Council members siphon out the exit, most other folk staying to watch the Wardens unhook Roan’s chains from where they’re tethered to the stage. They kick him flat, then drag him away as he battles for breath, his spectacles left behind. Alone amidst a smear of blood.
“Do I have time to make it to the den’s outer city entrance?” Pyrok rasps, his voice laced with a chronic amount of fear and potent rage.
“I’m not sure how long this cleansing ritual takes.” The crowd begins to thin, weaving out through the many arched exits while we stare at the now-empty stage. “Ouronly choice is to stay within the Citadel and follow them down.”
