It was possibly the most straightforward thing anyone had said to me since I’d crossed the Veil.
I almost didn’t know what to do with it.
“The ward anchors,” I said slowly, testing. “How do they work?”
“Crystallised magic keyed to specific signatures. They create a resonance field that alerts us to unauthorised crossings. Think of it as a magical tripwire system, but three-dimensional and significantly more sensitive.”
“Can they be bypassed?”
“Everything can be bypassed given enough time and resources.” Lincatheron’s scarred features settled into approval. “But it would require either intimate knowledge of our ward frequencies or enough raw power to simply shatter them. Both scenarios would give us advance warning.”
“So you’d know they were coming, but not necessarily be able to stop them.”
“Correct. Which is why we’re also implementing physical countermeasures. Increased aerial surveillance, magical scrying posts, and—” He gestured vaguely at himself. “Me.”
“You’re a countermeasure?”
“I’m a complication,” he corrected. “Most people think twice before attempting infiltration when they know the Master of Arms is actively hunting them.”
I studied him over the rim of my glass. “You enjoy it. The hunting.”
“I’m good at it. There’s satisfaction in competence.”
The way he said it—flat, certain, utterly without ego—made me reassess him.
Before I could respond, his gaze flicked to Fenric, weighted with meaning I couldn’t parse. And Lincatheron’s expression did something complicated.
A conversation happening in the space between them. Silent. Private.
My instincts prickled.
“What was that?” I asked.
“What was what?” Fenric’s attention swung to me, innocent as a knife.
“That look. The one you two just exchanged like you were having an entire discussion without words.”
“We work together frequently,” Lincatheron said, tone unchanged. “Efficient communication is essential.”
“Bullshit.”
Fenric’s eyebrows rose. “Eloquent.”
“I don’t need eloquent. I need honest.” I set down my fork with more force than necessary. “Everyone in this fucking castle keeps having these loaded conversations around me while telling me absolutely nothing, and I’m getting really tired of it.”
“Isara—” Shaelith started.
“No.” I pushed back from the table, the chair legs scraping against stone. My voice carried, cutting through the ambient noise. “No more platitudes. No more ‘we’ll explain later’ or ‘it’s complicated’ or any other diplomatic horseshit designed to keep me docile and grateful.”
The table had gone quiet. Even the servants had frozen mid-pour.
I turned to Varyth, who sat at the head of the table looking infuriatingly composed. “You pulled me from the Veil. You brought me here. You’ve been keeping books about Braerlith and bloodlines and gods know what else. And I manifested magic I shouldn’t have, magic tied to a court you claim is hunting me.” I planted my hands on the table, leaning forward. “So I’m going to ask you directly, Lord Varyth. What the fuck is going on?”
Varyth’s expression remained neutral, but calculation flickered in those silver eyes.
“Sit down, Isara.”
“Answer the question.”
