The hand on her shoulder squeezed into a grip of metal, chill and unyielding. Semras snarled at whoever dared touch her. Her gaze fell on Cael.
“For the sake of my brother,” he whispered in her ear, “do not force me to slay you before his eyes.”
“Let mego,” she snarled.
His grip only tightened more, and her bones protested the excruciating pressure with crackling sounds.
So he had chosen to stand in her way. A Seelie would be a hard foe to rip apart, but she knew his weakness; she knew he hated being called a changeling. She could use that to destabilize him, and then—
“Semras is innocent!” Estevan said, raging against his binds. The men who attacked him lay groaning some distance away.
More sword-bearers burst forward to take their places. Two seized his arms while a third man kicked the back of his legs, forcing him to kneel. Through it all, he kept struggling to be heard. “If you want a culprit so badly, tribunals, then take me alone! She has nothing to do with any of this! She is no bleakwitch! Semras would never be one—never!”
Her Wyrdtwined’s words ripped her eyes open. Blinking in shock, Semras stared inwards at the Bleak Path lying before her.
If she walked it, she’d be going where he would never follow. She had always known it; Estevan had dedicated his life to protecting the innocent, lost friends to bleakwitches, and taken the brunt of their violence on his skin. He believed so ardently she could never be one of them. If she proved him wrong, he’d never forgive her.
If she walked the Bleak Path to save him, he would be lost to her.
The realization hit her like a punch to the gut. Her stomach lurched. She felt sick—with herself, with the choice that lay so close beneath her feet. The Bleak Path had been tempting her so much since meeting Estevan, and now … now it almost drove her away from him.
Its voice, a sweet poison pouring into her mind, still whispered to her, but she heeded it no more. Amidst the chaos of the Chamber of Judgment, as more sword-bearers swarmed the room and the rhythmic slamming of gavels filled the air, Semras faced the Bleak, contemplated it, and then turned away.
For good.
Air filled her burning lungs, as if taking a deep breath after holding her head underwater for too long. At long last, her mind was clear.
“I will not go,” Semras said lowly—to Cael, to herself. “I will not.”
Cael slowly removed his hand from her shoulder, then stepped back. Sword-bearers surrounded her at once. They seized her, twisting her arms behind her.
She would not go—and for it, Estevan and she would face a fate worse than death. At least they would be together.
The grim thought brought a bitter smile to her lips as she waited calmly for the searing numbness of witch-shackles. It never came.
Cardinal Velten stood, swept his gaze over the chaos, and took control. His face turned into a mask of cold command. “Sword-bearers, your allegiance is to the Church of Elumenra first and foremost, not to the Inquisition,” he declared. “Stand back at once; your cardinal demands it. On this day, I officially censure the decision of Tribunal Garza, Tribunal Whitmore, and Tribunal Pajov. This farce has gone on for long enough.”
At once, the Venator guards let go of her. After respectfully bowing toward the cardinal, they retreated to the far back of the room.
Semras watched them go blankly. She had only stepped into the eye of the storm; it would not last, and they would return.
Tribunal Garza let out a rage-filled scoff. “So you choose family over duty,” he said. “This will not be the end, Cardinal Velten. I shall file a formal complaint to—”
“No, I did not,” he replied. “I am acting in my capacity as the regulator of the Inquisition. My actions now are only to shield an innocent from a flagrant case of injustice supported only by mere speculation. Not for my son—you made it very clear I cannot intervene in his case. But forher, I can.”
The cardinal stared at Semras. Through his stony gaze, she felt the depth of his sadness and empathy. He couldn’t save his son, but he meant to save her for him, at least.
Faces distorted by rage and resentment, the three tribunals stared at each other, then nodded curtly.
Whitmore broke the silence. “We see things differently, but so be it. Let the ‘injustice’ walk away. For today, at least. No doubt the bleakwitch shall strike again, and then the remaining two tribunals will no longer be able to oppose you, Your Eminence.”
Estevan spat on the ground. “I keep telling you that Semras is not the Anderas bleakwitch. That monster died on the pyre, and I watched her burn until nothing remained of her but ashes and bones!”
“Spoken like the Hammer of Witches, boy,” Tribunal Garza said, head shaking. “Moments like these make me realize why Torqedan claimed so vehemently you would be his true legacy. Letters upon letters of him claiming you would be the one to restore the Inquisition to its former glory, and yet …” The old man threw a contemptuous glare at Estevan, then slid it towardSemras. “What a disappointment you turned out to be. I wonder what he would have had to say about all this.”
Whitmore sighed. “One more mystery among the many we shall have no answer for now. To think we all came here on his personal invitation and arrived only to see him dead.” His glasses slid down his aquiline nose, and he pushed them back up. “Now we shall never know why he insisted on this reunion.”
The old men kept on talking among themselves, reminiscing about old times of greater violence and prejudice. Their voices faded within the blankness of Semras’ mind.
