“He really wants to release the lycans,” I provided.
Shaking her head, another dismissal. “You’re oathbound to him. Diehle could have been handled without murdering him, and he had no obligation to override a collection. That alone is cause for death.”
“He feels an obligation to release them, and your success in the war was because of their aid and Goddess Annessa. You all must believe the same.”
The statue of the goddess was an indicator of that.
Sayier didn’t seem convinced that it supported his actions. “It’s you,” she sighed. She leaned across the table. Heat crept up my neck and over my face at her long assessment and the frown that became increasingly deeper with each sluggish moment.
“Maybe he’ll talk to you if I’m there?” I suggested.
She gave me a long assessing look. “I can’t believe that people who displeased Goddess Annessa so much that she cursed them may be the key to releasing her people.” She shook her head. “When he discovered your existence, I don’t understand why he didn’t seek revenge instead of an alliance.” Obviously, she didn’t believe I’d be able to free the lycans. Especially with locked magic.
“Guilt presents itself differently for everyone,” I said.
I realized she didn’t subscribe to human—ephemeral—ideologies. Did they believe erecting a statue in the goddess’s honor absolved them of any further action when it came to the lycanthropes?
“Let’s talk to him. Maybe we can get more answers and create an argument that would grant him some clemency.”
Taking her low grumble as agreement, I quickly ate my food.
“I thought I wasn’t a prisoner, so why am I being treated like one?” I whispered to Sayier as her intense gaze roved over the three guards blocking the door that led to where Cirrian was being held.
“You’re not,” the gentle, familiar voice provided. Turning, I found Nahela out of uniform, in a high-collared aubergine shirt with a soft framing around her throat. It was a pleasing complement to her alabaster skin and pale lashes, sharpening her appearance rather than washing it out. The shirt was paired with slim-fitting slacks that allowed for her fluid, precise, determined movement that she couldn’t shed as easily as her uniform. The subtle flared cut of the hips and the faint iridescent thread that caught the light seemed like a nod to ephemeral fashion.
She seemed comfortable. More at ease in these clothes than in the formal severity of her uniform.
“This isn’t an imprisonment,” Nahela said mildly, her pale eyes flicking to the guards, “it’s a restriction.”
“A distinction without a difference,” I muttered.
Her lips curved into a poor imitation of a smile that suggested she understood frustration. “Cirrian is barred from visitors.” The subtle hitch in her voice and the glance in Sayier’s direction made me scrutinize her words.
“Barred? The Bavelon barred him from visitors?” I let my opinion of the cruelty of that decision land heavy in my words.
Her eyes drifted from me and barely held contact with Sayier.
“Did the Bavelon restrict his visitors?” Sayier stepped closer, intense eyes scanning the micro-expressions that Nahela had very little control over.
My ribs tightened, making it harder to take the deep breaths I desperately needed.
“He’s requested no visitors,” she finally admitted.
Cirrian hadn’t been taking visits from anyone except me. Nahela had skirted around the real decree: He didn’t want a visit from me.
“I won’t see him before the judgment,” I said, the realization tasting like iron.
Nahela chewed on her bottom lip.
Sayier stepped forward, authority rolling off her like it could bend anyone to her will. “Kara is oathbound to him. Denying her access to him when her life is in jeopardy as much as his is?—”
“Respecting his wishes,” Nahela cut in, voice calm but unyielding.
Sayier’s jaw tightened and she sidestepped Nahela, heading toward the guards with a drive that looked as if she was about to give an order. Still figuring out the hierarchy of Umbryth, I gathered that because Sayier was the person who brought Cirrian in, she held an extremely high rank. Definitely one that exceeded that of the guards. The three sentries stayed planted and didn’t move, but the air shifted. Pressure was building, her animosity heavy in the space.
“Sayier,” Nahela barked, her voice losing its honeyed gentleness. The command and her posture served as a reminder that she held a higher position than Sayier. Nahela turned fully to Sayier, poised to challenge her. “It is his decision, one of the few he may get to make. I will respect it even if I don’t agree with him.”
The tension drained from Sayier’s shoulders in a slow, defeated exhale. I felt it, too. But pain and emptiness crowded out the defeat.
