Zevran moves ahead of our group, checking corners and sight lines with tactical precision. “Stay together. Something’s not right.”
I scan the corridor, looking for Ren’s familiar silhouette. She should be here, posted outside the holding chamber and ready to help escort us through to the next trial.
But she’s not here.
The wrongness of that settles in my stomach like ice.
“Where’s Ren?” I ask, my voice too loud in the empty corridor.
“And the other guards,” Lord Castor adds. “There should be security everywhere.”
We reach the massive doors to the assembly chamber. The ancient wood is carved with symbols that predate the Conclave itself, dark with age and polished by centuries of hands.
Lord Castor steps forward and pushes. The doors groan open.
The sight that greets us stops us all in our tracks.
Blood.
So much blood that the ancient stone floors look like they’ve beenpainted crimson. Bodies lie scattered across the chamber – some slumped over the tiered benches, others collapsed on the floor in positions that suggest they tried to run. White Cardinal robes are stained dark, the silver threading dulled by gore. The metallic scent of death hangs heavy in the air, thick enough to taste.
Near the far wall, I see drag marks. Long smears of blood leading toward a side exit, as if someone pulled the injured to safety. The exit door hangs open, emergency lighting flickering beyond it.
“Stars above,” Lord Castor breathes.
Lady Nerida whimpers, pressing her hands to her temples. Her oceanic eyes go unfocused, overwhelmed by whatever psychic echoes linger in this place.
Commander Kaelix goes completely still, their electric blue eyes scanning the carnage with clinical detachment. “Recent. Within the last hour. Some of them were moved.”
“Evacuated,” Zevran says, noting the same drag marks I did. “Some got out.”
“We need to check for survivors,” I say, forcing my legs to move despite every instinct screaming at me to run.
We spread out carefully, stepping around pools of blood that are still warm. The stone is slippery beneath my boots.
I’m halfway across the chamber when I hear it.
A wet, rattling breath.
I change direction immediately, following the sound to where a Cardinal lies bleeding out. He’s maybe thirty, his white robes torn and soaked through with blood.
“Here!” I drop to my knees beside him, my hands already moving to assess the damage. “I’ve got a survivor!”
The others converge quickly. The Cardinal’s eyes flutter open. They’re glassy with shock and pain, pupils blown wide. Blood bubbles at the corner of his mouth.
“Stay with me,” I say, pressing my hands to his chest where the worst bleeding seems to be coming from. “I can help.”
I call the power forward, not caring about the withdrawal or the cost. The cool magic flows from my core through my palms and intohis failing body. I feel his injuries – sliced organs, internal bleeding – and I pour healing into the worst of it.
The familiar euphoria rises, but I push it down as I focus on keeping him alive. Just enough to stabilize. Just enough for him to speak.
His breathing eases slightly. The blood at his mouth slows.
“What happened?” Zevran asks, kneeling beside me. “Who did this?”
The Cardinal’s eyes focus on me with desperate intensity. “Benedict evacuated – just before...” He coughs, more blood.
“Who’s responsible?” I ask urgently.
