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“Yes.” Mira’s voice is quiet. “Every year they burn an effigy of the Va—the Shadowvein Lord. A symbolic execution to remind people of the Authority’s triumph over the Veinbloods.”

She looks away for a moment, her jaw tightening, the smallest hint of something sharp and furious crossing her face before it vanishes. She visibly swallows it down.

We move along the edge of the plaza. Workers hurry around us, arranging seating for Authority officials, distributing ceremonial objects, and attempting to keep everything in order.

A small commotion near the steps leading up to the platform catches my attention. Several high-ranking officials are arriving, judging by their elaborate uniforms and multiple attendants. The crowds whispering changes, becoming more subdued as people lower their heads.

“High Commander Sereven’s lieutenants,” Mira explains. “He’ll arrive last, just before the ceremony begins.”

A horn sounds from the central tower, the brassy note slicing through the murmur of voices. The crowd shifts in perfectsynchronization, like a well-rehearsed dance of submission, people moving to designated viewing positions.

"They're getting ready to start the procession." Mira adjusts our course toward a side street. "Perfect timing. The guards will be focusing on the ceremony and not people leaving."

Our path has taken us almost the entire way across the plaza when I glance back at the platform. The effigy is clearly visible from here, and my steps falter.

The life-sized figure has been crafted with disturbing attention to detail. Dressed in black clothing, the long coat bearing silver embroidery identical to what Sacha wore at the Stonehaven celebration. A replica shadowblade hangs at its hip. The face bears only a general resemblance, but the proud stance, the positioning of the hands—someoneknewhim,studiedhim.

The realization that someone invested hours crafting this grotesque monument to his supposed defeat makes bile rise in my throat.

This is the Shadowvein Lord as the Authority wishes him to be remembered. An enemy defeated. A threat erased. A warning hung in plain sight.

Not the man who traced patterns on my skin with gentle fingers, whose rare smiles transform his entire face.

Ice spreads through my veins despite the sun's warmth. Somewhere in that tower, the real Sacha is moving toward a vault containing his ring, risking everything while hundreds celebrate his supposed death.

If they knew he lived, what would they do to ensure this effigy became reality?

“Stay focused,” Mira warns, noting my distraction. “We need to be beyond the wall before the formal address begins.”

We continue around the plaza’s edge. I keep my eyes lowered, trusting Mira to guide me.

A second horn sounds, deeper and more commanding than the first. The crowd falls completely silent. Not the gradual quieting of a normal gathering but an immediate, total stillness born of fear.

From the corner of my eye, I catch movement at the tower entrance. A procession emerging from the base, and moving into the plaza. Authority officials walk in perfect formation, their crimson robes creating a river of blood-red flowing toward the platform.

“Don’t look at them directly. Keep moving.”

But something pulls at me despite her warning. A magnetic force I can't resist. At the procession's center walks an elderly man whose presence commands absolute deference. Unlike the elaborate uniforms of his subordinates, his clothing appears almost simple. Deep crimson robes with minimal ornamentation, his power requiring no external display.

“Sereven,” Mira whispers, noticing the direction of my gaze. “High Commander of the Authority.”

The name stops me in my tracks, cold slamming into my chest, locking my lungs.

Sereven. The man who murdered Sacha’s mother.

The knowledge burns in my blood. I can feel Sacha’s loss like a phantom wound layered over my skin.

Slowly I stop to look.

Even from this distance, I can see the cold calculation in Sereven's bearing, the absolute certainty of someone accustomed to unquestioned power. He looks older than I expected. Lines cut deep into his face, silver streaking his dark hair, but none of it softens him.

He doesn’t command the obedience of those around him with words. He doesn’t need to. The crowd bends around him instinctively.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears as our paths nearly intersect. If he looked this way, would he somehow sense what's happening? Would he know his supposedly dead enemy walks within his walls?

Mira pulls me away, half-dragging me to a side street leading away from the plaza just as Sereven ascends the platform. The timing feels perfect. Everyone’s attention is focused entirely on the High Commander.

“Now.” Mira increases our pace as we move toward the outer edges of the city.