Page 234 of Of Masks and Fury

The air above the square rippled. Forms took shape, spectral, shimmering with stolen light. Past victims, hundreds of them, their essence drained in my father’s cursed tower.

A man gasped. “That’s my brother. He died in this very square five years ago after drinking the wine.”

“My daughter,” another choked out. “It’s her.”

The forms struggled, their mouths opening in silent screams as ghostly tendrils of magic were torn from their dying bodies.

“Help us,” one cried.

“They’re stealing our essence,” another shrieked.

“Fight,” others chanted. “You must fight them.”

“Magic isn’t bad, it’s just us,” a small child sobbed while a woman, perhaps their mother, cried along with them.

I showed them the moment of death, played out over and over. The poison taking hold. The victim’s magic surging in panic. My father’s apparatus activating, drinking down their power like wine.

Father’s face twisted with something like pious horror. Or was that simply yet another mask?

If hetrulybelieved this was done solely for mercy, then who had stolen the magic?

“This is what happens when they drink the ashwine,” I said, my voice shaking with fury. “It doesn’t just kill. It harvests. Your loved ones died in agony while their magic was stolen to fuel this corruption. We’ve all been lied to.”

Father reeled back, his face ashen. “No! This is mercy. The fates demand we cleanse the taint before it consumes us all.” His voice cracked with conviction, and the wildness of a true believer blazed in his eyes.

He was as deceived as the rest.

Lord Alfred must’ve gotten to him.

“Virginia, your Frederick is there.” I pointed to a spectral form still struggling in his death throes while his power was drained from him. “Do you see mercy in his face?”

She fell to her knees, sobbing.

“This is what you’ve witnessed for generations. This is what you’ve called necessary.”

Gasps echoed through the crowd as they saw what I showed them.

“This is not mercy,” I said, letting them see every horrifying detail. “This is theft. Murder dressed as kindness.”

My father backed away, his face paling to ashen white. “I didn’t… I don’t… I swear. I am not taking their power!” True shock widened his eyes.

He shuddered, and rage twisted across his features as he pointed a trembling finger at me. “Stop this blasphemy. You’re making it worse. People must die for possessing magic. It’s the fates’ will, the only way to cleanse the corruption before it spreads like blight and dooms us all.” His voice rang with the fervor of a fanatic, not that of a thief.

Lord Alfred must be sucking down all their power.

“Let her speak.” The shout came from a woman with a face weathered by years of hard work in the sun.

Others took up the cry.

“Let the princess speak.”

“We want to hear.”

Their opinion had shifted, crumbling the ground beneath Father’s feet.

Still keeping an eye on him, I turned to face them, letting the magical display continue to shimmer in the air.

“We’ve killed healers,” I said, my voice rising. My father lunged, and I darted to the side, knocking his knife from his hand. “Craftspeople with skills that can never be reclaimed. Our wise women and men who could’ve made our lives better, easier, more beautiful. And for what? Your ancestors called this ‘harvest’ and ‘collection’. Mercy was the lie they told you to make you behave.”