"Then we go. Now."
No arguments. No hesitation. The Mad God of Discord taking direction from a mortal, and Renan falling in line behind us both. Somewhere, my father is having a stroke and doesn't know why yet.
We move.
The central plaza is packed.
Faith priests in formal robes line the raised platform. Acolytes flank the stairs. The High Priest stands at the center, draped in white and gold, delivering reluctant justice with the grief of someone who rehearsed in a mirror.
Nothing says legitimate authority quite like executing your witnesses with nice lighting and formal robes.
The witness kneels at the platform's edge—young, shaking, wrists bound in front of him with ceremonial restraints thin enough to cut circulation and thick enough to look humane from a distance. His face is bruised, but not fresh. They worked him and cleaned him up for public consumption. Can't have the sheep noticing blood on the lamb before you slaughter it.
Around us, the crowd shifts and murmurs. Good citizens in their good clothes, here to watch a man die and feel righteous about it. Half of them will go home after this and tell their families they saw divine order restored. The other half will feel vaguely uneasy and do nothing about it. I know because I've been both halves. I know because that's how this works.
"—and so we gather," the High Priest intones, voice carrying across the plaza with projection, "not in anger, but in sorrow. Not for vengeance, but for truth."
Right.
And I'm the Queen of Coin.
His hands spread wide, palms up—the gesture of a man with nothing to hide. But his weight shifts back on his heels and his fingers are too still, too rehearsed. The crowd can't read it, but I can.
"The tragedy at Discord's compound was an act of unspeakable violence." A measured pause, grief settling into his features. "Faith mourns for the lives lost. We condemn—in the strongest possible terms—whoever committed this atrocity. Andwe pray that the perpetrators are brought to justice swiftly, so that the victims' families may find peace."
The crowd murmurs—some nodding, others uncertain but willing to be convinced.
He's good, I'll give him that. Centuries of practice and it shows in the vocal rhythm, the theatrical sorrow, the way he turns thirty-seven corpses into a prayer opportunity. Condemn the perpetrators. Pray for justice.
Beautiful. Really.
I'd applaud if my hands weren't shaking. My father takes notes on men like this. I just learned to spot the seams.
Speaking of, my father, I find in the crowd. House Solyne, positioned near Coin's delegation—always clinging to whoever seems like the winning side. His face is composed, attentive, the performance of a man doing business while someone dies in front of him.
Seris stands beside him, and my breath stops.
She's thinner. Her dress hangs wrong at the shoulders—too loose, the fabric gapping where it used to fit. Her posture is perfect—spine straight, chin level, hands folded—but she's holding herself too high, too still, when relaxing means shaking. A week since I saw her and she's already disappearing into herself.
Don't.
Focus.
She needs you functional, not fragmented.
Her eyes sweep the crowd and catch on mine. Her lips part—start of my name, maybe—and then she catches herself. Smooths it away. Looks back at the platform because our father is right there.
I taught her that. How to make her face empty, how to survive by not reacting. She's not ignoring me. She's surviving him. And I want to scream, and I can't, because we're in publicand there's an execution happening and I'm supposed to be the one with a plan.
I force myself to breathe.
"This man—" The High Priest gestures to the witness. "—was found at the scene. Contaminated by Discord's chaos. A vessel for their violence."
The witness flinches, mouth moving in silent protest. They've drugged him, or threatened him, or both. Probably both. Faith is nothing if not thorough.
"We do not punish him. We cleanse him. We restore order to what Discord corrupted."
Cleanse. That's a nice word for it. Very holy. Very clean. Much better than silence the man who can prove we murdered civilians for political advantage—doesn't fit on a banner as well, though.
