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“She has forfeited her right to wear it,” Archmage Renthorn the Second said. “Just because she’s your pet—”

“Highmage Sabernyn stood before our forebears in his robe,” Bringham said, “because he was a student and creation of the High Magistry. Sciona Freynan is no less. She is our creation. We, the High Magistry, must acknowledge this and take responsibility for her. I insist on this.”

Take responsibility? Sciona fought a laugh as Archmage Orynhel nodded his agreement to Bringham, and the guards returned the robe to her shoulders. Taking responsibility was suddenly important now that Tiranish homes were burning, now that the Magistry looked bad to its adoring public.

Much of the city’s government was present for the trial, though Sciona noted that two city chairs were missing—City Chairs Nerys and Wynan.

The only female chair and the only Leonite.

Perhaps, they had some sympathy for Sciona’s position.

More likely, they just didn’t want to be party to a mage’s execution.

City Chair Perramis was there, seated alongside the archmages, with his eyes that were large and hungry like Sciona’s. So, on her last day of existence, Sciona got to experience his indifference one last time. But today, she realized, she could at least have some small revenge.

“Archmages,” she nodded to the Council and then to Perramis, “Father.”

The mages and other politicians looked to Perramis in shock as he paled.

There was a rustle of notetaking from the press on the benches, who would surely have every detail dug up by day’s end.

It was petty, but Sciona hadn’t been able to help herself.

Let this haunt Perramis to the premature end of his career and beyond.

His disowned child had brought about the near collapse of Tiran.

No politician, no matter how rich or smooth-talking, was going to bounce back from that.

Nerys and Wynan weren’t the only faces missing from the hall, Sciona noted as she scanned the seating. There were mages absent as well.

“You can’t complete a vote,” she realized aloud.

“Miss Freynan, you will speak when spoken to,” Duris said harshly.

She ignored him. “There are highmages missing. Where is Cleon Renthorn? Where is Jerrin Mordra?”

“Highmages Renthorn the Third and Mordra the Tenth, unfortunately, went missing during the riots,” Archmage Orynhel said. “Fortunately, their fathers are both archmages with the authority to vote for them.”

Sciona’s brow furrowed. How had the Magistry lost not one but two archmages’ sons? Even during city-wide pandemonium, it seemed unlikely. She supposed it didn’t matter. She would never know where they had really gone. She would never leave this building.

Archmage Supreme Orynhel was the presiding authority in all cases involving magic, and if he wanted to change the rules in a state of emergency, there was probably some old law on the books giving him the right.

Sciona only half-listened to the charges.

They weren’t ultimately relevant, were they?

Not in a court where neither life nor truth was important to those in power.

Convenience ruled here, and she was inconvenient.

“In summary, Sciona Freynan,” Archmage Justice Capernai concluded, “you stand accused of fabricating evidence, inciting unrest, and violating the trust of the Magistry Council. Do you have anything to say in your defense before we make our judgment?”

“I do, Archmage,” Sciona said, for all the good it would do.

“As all of you on the Council are well aware, I fabricated nothing. I have presented myself and my spellwork truthfully throughout all my appearances in this hall.” It was abundantly clear that this didn’t matter to a single one of the archmages, but she took a breath and continued as she had planned.

“You still have a chance to do the right and honest thing.” She said this part without her heart in it.

Because she had promised herself that she would try.

For Thomil and Carra, and all the lost Caldonnae.

For the Endrastae. For the Mersynae. For the black-haired women at the edge of the ocean.

For Kaedelli and her baby, who had never gotten to draw breath.

She had to try to make the Council change their minds.

“Whether or not you decide to execute me today, I hope that you use my mapping spells—use what is now public knowledge of the Otherrealm—to siphon without harming anyone. You still have the Freynan Mirror spell I wrote you for the presentation. You can use that to build a more truthful, more compassionate future for Tiran.”

“Is that all, Miss Freynan?” Archmage Justice Capernai said coldly.

“It is.”

“You do not repent your actions?”

“Of everyone in this room, I’m not the one who should be repenting, Archmage Justice.”

“Your unwomanly arrogance notwithstanding, the mages will weigh your case.”

At a nod from the Archmage Supreme, a small army of guards flanked Sciona and escorted her into the antechamber to await the Council’s decision.

So fast, Sciona thought, fairly sure that Sabernyn’s trial had lasted two days.

The speed at which the Council was running through hers spoke to their fear.

They were not at all certain that they could keep the building—let alone the city—secure.

Under heavy guard, Sciona sat on the bench where she should have waited for the Council’s decision on the day of her exam—if she hadn’t run off to the lavatory to cry in Alba’s arms. Abruptly, she found herself blinking hard because, for everything that had changed since that day, some things stayed the same; Sciona still couldn’t stand the thought of crying in front of a bunch of men.

And she had some nerve feeling sorry for herself when this—the fact that she stubbornly swallowed back her tears—proved Alba right.

Ego still ruled her, even now. With death so close, it wasn’t worth trying to mitigate that poison at the center of her being.

If God had judgment for her, it was surely already made.

Leaning her head back against the wall, Sciona smiled bitterly at the mural that loomed over the antechamber: Leon recounted his visions while Stravos and Faene listened adoringly at his feet. At least, she would spend eternity in the company of her heroes.

“Highmage,” a guard said. “It is time to stand for your sentencing.”

When she re-entered Leon’s Hall, the great chamber was eerily quiet, despite being full to bursting with mages, politicians, press, and guards. Archmage Bringham had tears in his eyes. Archmage Justice Capernai stood to deliver the verdict without preamble:

“Highmage Sciona Freynan, by unanimous vote of the High Magistry, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

Unanimous.

Bringham wouldn’t meet her eyes. Neither would Gamwen. They had their own careers to think about, after all.

A desk stood before Sciona as it had the day she tested into the High Magistry.

Only now, there was no spellograph, no paper, just a copy of the Leonid and a single vial of clear liquid.

It was poison. Like Sabernyn, she would drink it and fall into a sleep from which she would not wake.

She had never given much thought to how the tidy, bloodless method of execution served to protect the Magistry’s veneer of civility.

Even when they unanimously willed a death, they refused to see it for the violent thing it was.

“Before you is a vial of sleeping death,” Archmage Justice Capernai said and notably skipped over the requisite explanation of the numbing effect the drug would have on Sciona’s body before she died. “Drink, Sciona Freynan.”

Four guards and a medical alchemist stood close around Sciona, ready to seize her and force the poison down her throat if she refused.

She grabbed the vial and knocked its contents back in a single gulp. At first, it didn’t leave any impression except a foul chemical taste on her tongue. But within a minute, she knew the numbness would set in, followed by unconsciousness and the gradual slowing of her heart.

She was supposed to pick up the Leonid now and read from it to show God her piety and repentance. She left the book where it was as she stepped back from the desk to glare up at the archmages.

“Knowing that these are your last moments alive, do you have any final words for your family or for the Council?” Orynhel asked.

Sciona closed her eyes and drew in a breath to speak. That was when she heard the rumbling above—faint but growing louder in the waiting silence. Her eyes snapped open.

Thomil.

God bless Thomil! He had hated—or loved—Sciona enough to finish her last spell. The laugh started low in Sciona’s stomach and slowly grew to shake her whole body.

“Something amuses you, Miss Freynan?” Orynhel demanded.

Sciona didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. All around, the shaking had intensified as a historically massive spell roared into action.

“What is

that?” Archmage Duris asked.

“That is my final word, Archmage,” Sciona said as God’s Light ignited Leon’s Hall.