Page 157 of Fallacies

The Countess flicks her chin to the guards along the wall, and I anticipate the words out of her mouth a heartbeat before she says them. “Take him.”

I release a wave of my strongest magic, as brutal and as violent as I can make it. It surges through the room, slamming the guards back against the wall. Rattling every porcelain teacup. Smacking the walls, floors, and ceilings with enough force that a few crystals from the chandelier fall onto the table.

It’s nearly all I have. All the King’s bargain has allowed me to keep.

But they don’t know that.

Swallowing against the metal taste in my mouth, I straighten my place setting and flatten out the ruffled tablecloth. When I look up, the Countess is still seething, but every breakfast guest, servant, and guard has lost what little color they had in their faces.

The pungent smell of fear is potent, and if I wasn’t fighting to hold onto my consciousness, I’d probably be more satisfied with their response to my power. To a fraction of it.

“I wouldn’t,” I tell her, gesturing a hand towards the guards still pressed up against the walls. The only thing keeping them there is their own hesitance. “If I were you, that is.”

She snarls back at me. “But you’re not.”

“And thank your precious god for that.” I fold my napkin and set it over my plate, grabbing a roll from the basket beside me. Slowly, I rise from my seat, mindful of my balance, and I turn from the table before the Countess can double down on her guards’ orders.

I’m fairly certain I could take them all, even in this state, but there’s no point in lingering when I already have what I came here for.

Happy source hunting.

I wouldn’t describe the experience as happy, but I would consider it successful.

Everyone at that table wreaked of high power—some more than others—but four of them outrank them all.

Our remaining sources are: bloody-knuckled Vance, the ever-feared Umbra, Mr. napkin bib Fairbourne, and last, but certainly not least…

Miss Gwendolyn Tenebrus.

May they rot in hell.

37

Lucina

Isilently search the rest of the tunnels—numb to the bone. I’m unable to relax or even take a full breath. The knife stays firmly gripped in my hand, though I never use it. These passages are vacant. No one knows they even exist, vacant.

I stop by the small alcove on my way back up, illuminating the abandoned space and triple-checking that I’ve not missed anything. Hopeful for a hidden door that leads directly to the dungeons or some clue on how to break open those cages. That and a drink are the only things that would be helpful right now.

Confident that it’s been fully searched, I tug on my orb of light, throwing it forward to illuminate my path to the top. The bench is still closed, but all it takes is a small push for the hinges to creak and the fresh air of the room to hit my flushed cheeks.

The said room is dark. No fire, no lantern, no dreary grey sky to be seen through the windows, just a pitch-black night and a blanket of stars.

Chiaros, I’ve been down there all day.

I fight with the pillows on my way out, losing my footing and barely catching myself on the edge of the bed. It’s my final straw.

The knife I’d evidently been itching to use comes down on the first pillow I see. Fabric rips and feathers explode all around me. It isn’t enough. I grab another, ripping it open too. Another. Then another.

I stab until I’m breathless, a flurry of feathers gently floating to the floor at my feet. I’m only slightly less irritable, and it certainly doesn’t help that I haven’t eaten today.

I’m tempted to rip apart the excessive amount of pillows on the bed too when a light clicks on, and a warm glow fills the room.

I whirl around to face the corner.

The Hound is lounged back in an upholstered chair, his all-black suit exchanged for a more casual ensemble—still void of all color. It’s as if he’s allergic to it.

His elbow is propped on the armrest, and his chin is propped in his hand, his pointer finger curled around his mouth. He isn’t looking at me; he’s looking at the mess I’ve created—the pile of feathers I stand in. Remnants of the tantrum I’ve just thrown.