“Are you alright?” He asked.
He didn’t move to touch her. Maeve nodded. Warm salty tears reached the corners of her mouth.
A hand came into vision from her right. Cool knuckles brushed across her skin, gathering her tears. She looked over at Mal.
She wanted to dive into his arms and bury her head against his neck.
Maeve stifled the cry that threatened to erupt from her throat. “They aren’t stopping. Kietel is in control now. His war is only beginning. And. . .” She looked to the Orator. “You have spies in your office, Orator Moon.”
“I have been telling you, Lenny-” started Rowan.
“Magical Militia as well,” said Maeve, her voice dead.
Ambrose didn’t reply. No one said anything except Maeve.
“And you,” she looked at Rowan. “You are a spy as well?”
Her Father spoke now. “Rowan has been aiding me-”
“You tricked me,” said Maeve, hot tears streaming down her face.
Rowan looked away from her.
Mal ignored her statements, like he hadn’t heard it at all. His gaze moved to where she gripped at her throat, and his hand trailed down her cheek until it wrapped gently around her fingers. Her own grip relaxed and her fingers melted into his.
His eyes bore into her, pushing her to speak.
Ambrose was leaned against the desk, his arms folded across his chest and a scowl plastered across his face.
“He saw me,” said Maeve shakily.
Mal’s fingers ran across her throat and spoke calmly and quietly. “He grabbed you.”
She nodded through tears.
“I couldn’t breathe. I was about to die- I think Rolf is dead and I saw-”
“Enough,” said Ambrose. “Congratulations, Rowan,” said Ambrose.“You got your information.”
“Ambrose-” started Elgin, her face pale.
He pushed off the desk and walked to Maeve. Mal dropped her hand and his and stood. Ambrose took her hands and pulled her to her feet. The room spun. But Ambrose steadied her.
He linked his arm around her and made for the door. Where Arman, Captain of the Bellator, stood with his arms folded. The Premier’s second looked to his direct superior and held the door open. Mal followed them.
“Moon,” said Ambrose. “Get to the Double O. I’ll be there shortly.”
The Orator stalked towards the oversized fireplace and vanished into the flames with one last disappointed look at The Headmasters.
“Premier Sinclair,” said Rowan. “I had to know. We needed to know. I had no idea this would happen. She’s jumped a dozen times and never been in danger.”
“She’s jumped a dozen times through minds of students her age and rank,” seethed Ambrose. “Not into the minds of Magical Militia Supreme. If it was by your arrogance, you put her through it you are still to blame.”
“Your daughter agreed, Premier. If you will not put her powers to use in this war then I will-”
The room darkened. Rowan’s face paled. The floor boards groaned and creaked. The fire in the corner rose, its flame now bright blue.
Ambrose turned sharply and said darkly, “Don’t you ever come to her behind my back again. You no longer work for me. And if I had the Authority, you’d be stripped of your titles and ranks and sent to the Dread Lands to die.”
