Page 52 of Turncloak

Something that had been troubling him ever since.

Why settle for killing servants and carving wings into the marble?

Levan lifted one of the leathery brands between his thumb and forefinger, trying not to gag at the thought this was a dead mage’s skin. “They’ve been having fun with our servants too. Servants, croupiers. Low-rung lox runners.”

Segal visibly paled at the sight of the brand. “Saints.”

“If I were a gambling man, I’d say they want to take over our gamehouses and loxlure operations. They don’t want the hassle of setting up the infrastructures themselves, finding suppliers and establishing trade routes and staffing it all. They’d rather steal the whole piece. Drill holes in our ship then plug them with their own people.”

The rest of the color left Segal’s face. “You think they’ll send people to be intentionally recruited? So that we don’t realize we’ve been taken over until it’s too late?”

“It’s what I’d do.”

“Ah.”

Shoulders stooped, Segal shuffled to the door, then dragged in an unfamiliar figure in a pale blue scholar’s cloak. The young mage was tall, thin, and petrified. Dark brown hair fell to his collarbones, and his pale skin was blotchy with terror. Wide-set chestnut eyes were rimmed with pink, and an eagle earring dangled from one earlobe.

“Relar Zamorin.” Segal folded his arms defensively. “Whitewing scum, but I thought he could be useful if we branded him. Let’s treat him like a pawn. Maybe send him back into the Whitewings, leave them unaware that he’s been burned and turned. Infiltrate them, as they did us.”

Exactly the kind of thing Lyrian Celadon would do—it was how he had eyes everywhere, how he knew everything that happened in this debaucherous city. And the Whitewings deserved it, did they not? They had slain Sevir, among many others, would likely murder countless more scarlets if they were left to gather strength, gather momentum.

The Whitewings were the biggest living threat to the Bloodmoons—to his mother’s resurrection. Levan had to wrest back control of the situation.

“Very well,” Levan said, but his throat was suddenly dry. He gestured toward the brass rack of instruments by the fire. “Would you like to do the honors?”

“I have no magic,” Segal replied, a tilt of defiance to the words. And then a pointed expression—one that said I believe you are unfit to lead, but here is a chance to win me around. “The honor is all yours.”

Relar Zamorin staggered back on his heels, waving his hands frantically in front of him.

“No. Please, no.” He was almost choking on his own tears. “I’ll do anything. Anything but this, please—”

“How old are you, boy?” There was an undeniable adolescence to the Whitewing’s face. Patchy facial hair, a constellation of pimples. A luster to the hair and skin.

“Fourteen.”

Something deep inside Levan lurched with horror. He turned to Segal, aghast. “You brought me a fourteen-year-old?”

Segal shrugged ambivalently. “He looked older.”

“How did you get involved in the Whitewings so young?” Levan asked.

“M-my grandmother is an apothecary—they threatened to kill me if she didn’t do as they asked. The Whitewings had all these rare ingredients they wanted her to source.” A sharp swallow, the words growing raspy. “I’ve been traveling, finding ingredients from farther afield. She’s not as mobile as she once was.”

Levan’s mind caught on this. “Rare ingredients. For what tinctures?”

“I didn’t recognize most of their names.” Another wobble of the lower lip, another overflowing of tears. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

Segal seemed to notice Levan’s apprehension. “We can’t very well release him back into the custody of the Whitewings.” A slow, pointed shrug. “Maybe it’s cleaner just to kill him, if you don’t have the stomach for the brand.”

“I have the stomach,” Levan snapped, though said stomach was roiling.

Fourteen was so young.

Older than Levan had been when he was branded, but only by a few years. It was cruelty, sheer unadulterated cruelty, and if he did this heinous thing, he would cross a line he could never uncross. For all his wrongs, he had never hurt a child. And this boy, with his scattered pimples and eleven chin hairs and gangly limbs, was just that.

Yet could he afford to show more weakness in front of Segal, who was already doubting his command, who didn’t respect or fear him the way he ought to? Though Segal didn’t know it yet, the brand on his chest was no longer active—he could betray Levan without retribution, if he so chose.

Control was slipping, and Levan could not abide it. He had to demonstrate his ruthlessness, his willingness to do what needed to be done, no matter how ugly.