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She looked around. Where were the cries of outrage? The aversion? Wasn’t it the Fey’s nature to abhor the depravity of death?

Aimee’s lip curled in distaste, as though she’d smelled something foul. Sarina mostly looked perplexed.

Even Skye—there was no surprise on his face. Only resignation that turned to pity the moment his eyes found hers.

Ivain sat grim-faced and stoic. “It is a shame,” he said mildly. “My own investigation into the matter has yet to conclude, yet now I see you’ve executed all my prime suspects. I would’ve liked to interview them before you rid them of their ability to tell secrets.”

“Yes, I thought you might say that.” Kalahad’s hair gleamed as white as his teeth as he grinned. “Don’t worry. I saved one for you.”

Another snap of his fingers summoned another butler from beyond the curtain.

This one dragged a man clad in long white robes behind him.

His hands were tied. He had a white cloth sack over his head with the Yggdrasil—the official crest of House Arylaan—embroidered in gold thread over where his face would’ve been.

His bare feet stumbled on the stairs of a dais meant for a band that had remained empty until now.

The crowd murmured. What exciting new spectacle had Kalahad arranged for their amusement and delight?

“He has, of course, already been interrogated. As were the others. I have the transcripts, but I understand if you feel the need to verify. Lord Emrys.” Kalahad extended a hand to Skye. “Rumor is you’re a prodigy beyond your years. As the injured party, the honor is rightfully yours.”

It was a subtle transition. A straightening of his shoulders, some tightening around his mouth, a series of minor shifts that nobody else would’ve noticed but Taly immediately recognized as Skye bracing himself.

She scanned the room. She saw the expressions of glee and anticipation, but there was something off about them, something unsettling.

Skye looked to Ivain, who nodded. Kalahad had brought this before the public, so that’s where they needed to settle it. He rose, buttoning his coat as he did, and strode with quiet confidence up the stairs of the dais as the room waited with bated breath.

The butler pulled away the hood as he approached. Long blonde hair spilled out. The man beneath was pale and sweaty, gagged. Bloodshot eyes opened ever wider as Skye found the proper placement of his fingers on the man’s brow.

Where his fingertips pressed, a violet luminescence began to radiate outward. The air stirred, charged with aether.

Taly heard whispers from the crowd. Things like ‘Incredible’ ; or ‘ I can feel the magic in the air... it’s like electricity,’ and at least ten variations of ‘I've heard rumors about his abilities but seeing it firsthand is something else entirely.’

Then there was her personal favorite, ‘It’s like watching a god at work.’

That came from the original woman Skye had been seated beside before Jezebel took her place. She had since relocated to the far end of the table, where she watched Skye while fanning herself vigorously.

Mnemonic extraction was an advanced form of shadow magic, primarily utilized in the more covert domains of governmental affairs.

Skye had never been able to stick to a specific lesson plan, and Ivain had never made him.

He’d let his curiosity take him wherever it might lead, and that path wasn’t always linear.

As a result, Skye possessed a wider breadth of knowledge than his age would imply, coupled with a mastery that was sufficiently adequate.

Taly supposed she could see why some people might be impressed, even if he’d never taken any of his own notes.

The man gave a sudden jerk, but the butler held him in place. Then he began to scream.

Taly didn’t know what Skye saw—what he pulled from the man’s mind. But his face… At first, it was just concentration, the focused intensity she’d seen a hundred times during their training sessions. But as the moments passed, that focus twisted, then sharpened, becoming… predatory.

Anger and aether built like a storm behind his eyes, turning them a terrifying, white-hot violet.

His fingers pressed deeper into the man’s skull. The tension in his arm locked tight. A beat passed. Then another. His grip should have eased, but it didn’t. He wasn’t letting go.

The air crackled. The spell’s hum fractured, twisting into a jagged, volatile hiss. The aether around him whipped and thrashed, like a living thing struggling to break free.

Something was wrong. This wasn’t just anger—this wasn’t him.

“Told you. Guilty as sin,” Kalahad drawled.

Excitement rippled through the crowd, more eager than alarmed.

Taly caught glimpses—whispered wagers exchanged, hands tightening around wine glasses, heads angling for a better view.

She didn’t understand. Had she missed something?

The Weave felt heavier, charged—like a decision had just locked into place.

The man’s eyes were bulging. Blood leaked down his face in thick, wet trails released by Skye’s fingers.

The crowd held their breath. In the silence, there was a ripping sound.

And then Taly realized why they’d laid out tarps on the dais.