Into the deathly silence, I say, “Allow me to reintroduce myself.”
There will be no questions about whether I am who I say I am.
If they can only think of sages as monsters, I will give them one.
“My name is Yora.”
My voice is low, but nonetheless carries through the shocked-silent room.
“I am the Sage of Wrath.”
With a flick of my wrists I create a wall of pink beneath me and begin to advance across a translucent platform, over the heads of my silent audience.
It’s not flying, but it will do.
“I have stood against the Order before, when I created the Quiet five hundred years ago to protect the people of CrystalHollow from them. And for five hundred years, I granted you that false security with my life.”
I look down at Waten, whose blood has drained out of his face as he shrinks back down into his chair, no longer willing to make himself a target when faced with someone he believes is more than a neighbor.
He has misunderstood, but that’s fine.
A man who would throw away another for his own convenience isn’t worth my effort to save.
I look around the room. “Now it’s your turn,” I tell them, “to protect a sage.”
I hold their attention for a long moment, my wrath pulsing.
And then I simply turn and walk back down the path, allowing it to dissipate behind me.
“You can do it again then, can’t you?” Waten calls out. “You can still keep us safe from the Order’s interference—”
“Why would I burn myself into a husk for you?” I ask without slowing.
“Because we’re people—”
I do whirl then. “So am I. So isTeren, and yes, even Eraya. Do you think it is an accident that gods only come to the world in human form? Do you think in the afterlife, the gods will be impressed with your choices?”
“What about yours?” Waten protests. “If you won’t—”
I cut him off with a slash of my power, a streak of magenta flashing through the air.
It doesn’t do anything but look impressive, buthedoesn’t know that.
“I amWrath,” I say. “My god will not deny me for this.”
Because they deserve my wrath, for allowing—creatingthe conditions for this to happen.
This is a godsdamned boundary: We do not sacrifice people.
I reach the ground again and say to Jiran, whose eyes have widened behind the mask of jadedness, “Thank you for your time. No matter what they or you decide, if you ever wish for me to remove your binding, you know where to find me.”
“Wait!” Sunani stands up on her chair. “We’re not done.”
Jiran tilts his head to look at her.
She’s shaking.
But then Gisa clambers up onto a chair, too, even as Haben swears and shoots up to brace her before she can topple over.
