Threxian had never pretended subtlety was one of his defining qualities. The infernal markings had appeared overnight on the doors of the loudest voices calling for my punishment, glowing faintly with warning before fading into the grain of the wood like scars left behind by fire.
I had not asked him to do it. But I had understood immediately why he did.
Those symbols were not threats meant to terrify the innocent. They were lines drawn quietly, meant for the handful of men whose fear had begun to turn toward cruelty. Warnings. Protections.
Even now, standing in the doorway with half the village watching me, I know exactly where he is. Close enough to intervene.
Close enough to burn the entire square to ash if someone crosses the wrong line.
“Your presence,” she continues carefully, “has coincided rather remarkably with these events.”
A few villagers nod grimly.
“You are accusing me of something,” I say.
“I am asking you to explain something,” she replies smoothly.
Another voice speaks up from the crowd.
“Everyone knows what it is.”
The words come from a young man near the back.
“A demon.”
Murmurs spread quickly.
“She made a pact.”
“That’s why the fires started.”
“Witchcraft.”
My thoughts race for an explanation that would not sound like madness to people who already believe the worst. How could I possibly describe him to them?
If I say the word demon, their fear will explode into something uncontrollable before I can finish a second sentence. They will imagine monsters from old sermons and cautionary tales, creatures summoned through blood and dark bargains.
They will imagine something evil. But the being who has stood beside me these past days is nothing like the monster they expect. He has saved me more times than I can count.
He steadies my breathing when fear threatens to swallow me. He listens when I ask him to stop. He restrains power capable of leveling this village simply because I asked him to try.
And somehow, impossibly, I trust him. The realization settles quietly in my chest. Not despite what he is. Because of what he has shown me.
I feel the bond stir. Fear threatens to rise. I force it down immediately. Breathe.
“No,” I say quietly.
Matron Yselle tilts her head slightly.
“Then perhaps you would like to explain why hell flames continue to appear whenever you are nearby.”
Before I can answer, another figure steps forward. Sister Amelithe. Her gray robes move gently in the morning breeze as she places herself between me and the matron.
“That accusation requires proof,” she says calmly.
Yselle’s expression tightens.
“The fires are proof.”
