Margo’s mouth pressed into a thin line, but she pulled the slender hairpin free and laid it across Emmaline’s palm. “All this for a quick death?”
Emmaline hummed low in her throat, slipping the pin between her fingers as she reached into her dress’s hidden pocket with the other hand. “Quick for us.” She drew out a small glass vial, the liquid inside catching the low lantern light, shimmering dark and syrup-thick as she held it up for everyone to see. “I madethisespecially for him.”
Caelith’s eye followed the vial’s rise, his expression flat, curiosity dulled by arrogance. He still didn’t see her as a threat.
“What is it?” Aeren stepped closer, hand lifting, but she stopped halfway. “I can’t read it. It’s not Light magic.”
Emmaline smiled without looking up. “Ursula was wrong earlier, you know.” Her thumb rolled over the glass. “I didn’t tell you everything about the plan. Like how we adjusted the signatures at the statue to frame him.”
Aeren’s brow arched. “I wondered about that.”
“Murder’s one thing. Torture’s another.” Emmaline finally raised her eyes, and the grin on her mouth had no warmth to it—only jagged edges and something far darker. “But this…” She held the vial up, turning toward Caelith. “This is Grey.”
For a second, Caelith didn’t react. Like the word meant nothing, or like his mind simply refused to register it. Then his eye narrowed, flicking between Emmaline and the vial, once, twice—his muscles pressing uselessly against the restraints.
A crackle of light sputtered from his fingertips, a desperate flash, but Ursula’s shadow clamped over it like a steel trap, smothering the spark with a grunt of effort.
“You can’t be serious.” Aeren’s throat worked hard to swallow. “That’s… that’s outlawed.” She looked around the room, pausing on each of them, like maybe one of them would step in and call this madness off before it tipped too far. No one did. “It’s blasphemy. It could take down the whole city.”
Caelith nodded sharply, the movement jerky, almost frantic.
“I love you, Emmaline, but adjusting a signature was one thing.” Cassidy stepped forward, Lara a solid wall at her back. “What does this actually do? I can’t let you endanger the Vale.”
“Since when do you decide what I can and can’t do with my magic?” Emmaline’s breath came faster, her shoulders rising with it. “He deserves this.”
“No one’s arguing that.” Cassidy’s hand slid into Lara’s fur. “But it’s my duty to protect the Vale.”
“And you think I’d do something that could hurt everyone, including all of you?”
Arms circled her waist from behind, warm and certain. Deyric. His chin rested lightly on her shoulder, his breath stirring the hair against her neck. “Just tell them what it does. It’s a reasonable request.”
Without thinking, she leaned back into him, squeezing her eyes shut for a second. He was right.
“Sorry, Cassidy.” Her voice softened just a little. “It’s been a long day, and nearly dying at that asshole’s hand has me on edge.”
“Some thanks we get for patching you up,” Lara muttered, giving Emmaline a heavy dose of side-eye.
“I said I’m sorry, mutt. Want me to bow down and kiss your feet in thanks?”
“It’d be a start.” Lara licked one paw, deliberately looking away as Ursula stood up, the screech of chair legs scraping across stone sharp enough to set teeth on edge.
“Just tell us what it does already.” Ursula’s grin was all teeth, dark eyes practically gleaming. “Then we can send the Sentinel’s little choir girls back to the Patrol to file their precious report.”
All eyes swung to Emmaline, expectant, waiting, and her stomach kicked sideways. She scowled, half to herself. “Well, now the moment is ruined.”
Deyric gave her a quick squeeze, and she shook him off with a muttered, “Fine,” before stomping over to stand next to Caelith.
His breath rasped wet through his nose, his good eye darting between them.
“I just hope this still works with his face all mangled.” Emmaline frowned and angled herself toward Ursula. “Hold him tighter.”
Without waiting, she bent low, pulling Margo’s slim blade from her belt. The metal caught the low light as she slid the edge carefully beneath Caelith’s swollen eyelid—the one eye he still had—and with surgical precision, she sliced it clean away.
Caelith moaned, the sound raw and muffled against the skin sealed over his mouth. His body convulsed, muscles straining, but the shadows binding him didn’t give. Blood slicked his cheek, a thick sheet running the curve of his jaw before spattering onto the floor below, each drop hitting with a soft, wet patter.
“Okay.” Emmaline wiped the blade on his ruined sleeve. “As I was saying…”
She held up the vial again. “His death will be quick for us. We’ll have time to file reports, mop up blood, plant some convenient evidence to link Isolde to Allistair’s crimes, and still be home in time to get ready for the ball.”
