August could only hope that when Felix woke, he’d offer even a sliver of Petra’s forgiveness.
Orla Lavery had never been the type to track down trouble. She was fortunate enough to have a steady job with a blacksmith in one of the better parts of Fallowmoor, her days spent forming horseshoes and helping with repairs. The old man who ran the forge had hired her specifically for her metalwielding skills. He kept his distance for the same reason.
Rent prices had risen significantly, and all eight of Orla’s siblings combined barely made enough to keep a roof over their heads, let alone put food on the table. Her parents were getting up in years and suffered from aches and pains that made it hard for them to work steady jobs, so it was up to the kids.
Not that Orla was a kid. She was going on nineteen now. The oldest of her siblings. The one they depended on the most.
She knew trouble wouldn’t find her so long as she stayed quiet and did her job. Her magic was a legal one, but the Watch were always on the lookout for reasons to lock wielders away. So she kept her head down and her mouth shut and she worked her hours.
She’d made it for so long that way. Then one stupid mistake, one slip of willpower. A single roll snatched from a baker’s night market stall. A lifetime of abiding laws ruined by a wave of unbearable hunger pains. She’d messed up, and it had landed her in Fallowmoor prison.
Orla reckoned for a crime like that, she’d spend a good five years in that place, but two weeks later, a City Watch officer released her from her cell.
She’d nearly lost her mind when the carriage brought her through the lush gardens of the castle, stopping at the massive carved front doors.
Two royal guards were waiting.
Orla didn’t know what to make of it. The royals despised wielders. Why bring one here?
She hunched her shoulders as she followed them inside, wishing she could make herself invisible. The castle was intimidating, its sky-high ceilings looming overhead and guards with weapons in every corner. A wide staircase swept up beneath a massive, glittering crystal chandelier before splitting in two directions. The air was cold, carrying the scents of polish and wood smoke and something rich cooking in the kitchens, the smell of it tightening Orla’s hollow stomach. She followed silently, gaze sliding over the plush seating and beautiful statues.
The guard led her into a small room dominated by a fireplace taller than two of her, its white marble carved with delicate, dancing figures. A grand window stretched from floor to ceiling, occupying most of the rear wall. Heavy, opulent cobalt curtains were drawn back to reveal the castle gardens beyond, bursting with flowers so vivid that Orla swore she could sense their sweetness in the air.
No, it wasn’t the flowers. It was perfume. Gentle, powdery violet with a layer of something silky and warm beneath.
Her eyes went to the round wooden table, surrounded by five chairs. Three of which were occupied.
When she found Aesran Erynda, her body responded with a violent jolt, gaze dropping immediately. She was in the same room as the aesran, breathing the same air as royalty.
Don’t just stand there like an idiot, she chided herself.
Grabbing her ratty skirt—which in the current company felt more like rags than clothing—she gave the aesran a deep curtsy.
“Mo Aesran.” The words came out small and insubstantial.
Two men sat on either side of the table. One with dark, greying hair studied her, his eyes intense. His suit was a garish display of textures, with gold trim and a sharp collar. The other man was City Watch. A higher-up, she guessed from the three gold lines on his chest. He was older, his white hair like cobwebs spread over his round head. The buttons of his black uniform strained as though locked in battle against the swell of his plump gut.
Black uniform. Not grey.
Oh, no.
He was ministry.
Orla’s heart hammered in her chest, a bird beating against its cage.
The ministry were the scary stories told to wielder children to keep them in line. And here was one of them, sitting right in front of her.
Was stealing a roll honestly worth all this? Did they plan to watch her executed in person? It seemed too messy a business for a fancy place like this.
She glanced back at the window, at the gardens beyond. Did it open? Could she make it out?
“Welcome, Miss Lavery,” the gaudy one said. “My name is Ciaran Ashcroft, and this is Lord Fenholt, High Commander of the Ministry of Arcane Compliance. Please, sit.”
Orla obeyed, though it took a great deal of effort to make her feet move. She dropped into the seat straight across from the aesran. The commander of the ministry? Why? Metalwielding wasn’t outlawed. She’d never used it dangerously.
“Are the pleasantries really necessary?” the commander asked, voice dripping with impatience. “You’re wasting our time.”
Ciaran ignored him. “Your charges are being dropped. Cooperate, and you’ll be free to go once we’re finished here.”
