“We don’t understand any of this,” he goes on. “We don’t know how derivatives began, how changes in DNA created shifters, vampires, magic users—none of it. But becauseyoudon’t like something, because you don’t understand it, you want to kill her? That’s not who we are, and we’ve already been over this. Touch a hair on her head and I’ll destroy everything we’ve spent the last fifty yearsbuilding.”
“Are you threatening us?”
“Yes—too right I am,” Lander snarls.
For a moment, I cannot breathe. Part of me wants to reach for him, steady him, stop him from burning every bridge in sight. Another part of me—older, colder—watches the room and takes note of who flinches and who does not.
“Sheisa paper mage,” Knox says calmly, tapping the documents I supplied. “Hestia Howard was a paper mage. The magic allowed her to return—and as Harper House, she remains a paper mage. I’ve seen her power. I’ll continue to testify that. Harper is protected under the treaty.”
“No, this goes way beyond the treaty’s guidelines,” another councillor says.
Lander looks as if he is going to rip someone’s head off.
The back doors clank open.
Before I can turn, the disembodied voice intones, “During recess, the Shifter Ministry and the Vampire Council jointly petitioned to call two additional witnesses under Treaty Clause Twelve. The motion was seconded by the Ministry of Magic, and carried by a narrow majority.”
A hiss ripples through the vampire benches.
“This is highly irregular,” Councillor Reep mutters. “We are not a theatre.”
“Character testimony is permitted,” a vampire elder replies dryly. “You voted for the clause, Councillor; do try to keep up.”
Another councillor grumbles, “So we’re letting personal attachments sway policy now?”
“Personal attachments are exactly what’s at stake,” Knox says mildly. “You wish to judge the impact of Harper’s magic; it seems only fair to hear from those whose lives she actually touched.”
Lander says nothing, but the set of his shoulders shifts; some of the fury has burned down to something harder, more focused.
“Heads will roll if this turns into a circus,” a human mutters.
“The Assembly will hear brief statements,” the voice declares. “Witnesses will confine themselves to relevant facts.”
Heels echo. A woman steps from the shadows at the back of the hall: dark hair loose, chin lifted, eyes bright—and a familiar book tucked under one arm.
My chest tightens.
She prowls the aisle towards me.
“I wish to speak,” she says.
“Lark,” a man growls from the shifter delegation, half-rising. “What are you doing?”
“Hush, you. I am saving my friend.”
A ripple passes through the room—surprise, irritation, interest. Protocol or not, they had not expectedher. Stubbornness sits in the set of her jaw. She has come anyway.
“My name is Lark Winters,” she announces. Heads turn properly now; the air shifts. “Miss House saved me. I owe her a life debt.”
She looks at me—reallylooks—her gaze steady and shining. Then she mounts the steps, crosses the stage, and clasps both my hands.
“Thank you,” Lark whispers. “I never had the chance before. You were gone before I understood.”
Her gaze flicks to Lander—chased away, that look says—then back to me.
“I appreciate you,” she says, louder now. “You saved my life. Thank you, House.” She kisses my cheek, and the tears spill.
Lark laughs softly, fond rather than mocking, and brushes them away with her thumb.
