A scream cuts through the square.
Venya.
She sees him—sees what lies on the stone—and something in her breaks. Soldiers catch her as she lunges forward, holding her back as she fights against them.
“You can’t?—”
I don’t turn fully at first. I don’t need to. Power answers before the rest of me does, lifting her and throwing her several feet back before the soldiers seize her again.
“I can.”
This time I turn, my gaze settling on her as she struggles in their grip, her face twisted, her voice gone thin with shock.
“And it’s Queen Asharin to you, dear Aunt.”
The silence that follows is heavier.
As I turn back toward the square, movement at the far edge catches my attention. Uralish steps into view as if he’s arrived for nothing more than mild entertainment, a flask in hand, his eyes sweeping across the scene: Hurstinal on his knees, the blood, the crowd.
He looks surprised, then amused. Then something closer to impressed.
Our eyes meet briefly. “Uncle,” I say, almost as an afterthought, the word easy now.
He lifts his flask slightly, then winks.
When I turn back, no one is looking anywhere but at me. “If anyone here thinks they can touch me,” I say, letting my gaze move slowly across them, “or my child, or anyone I choose to protect… try it.”
No one does.
“I will kill you.”
I let the words settle before I glance toward the soldiers.
“Bring it.”
They move immediately, dragging a heavy trunk into the center of the square. The lid is thrown open, and gold spills into view, coins catching the light, stacked and overflowing.
A ripple moves through the crowd, different now, something alive threading through the fear.
“This was his,” I say, not looking at Hurstinal as I speak. “He doesn’t deserve it.”
I gesture toward the trunk. “It’s yours.”
For a moment, no one moves. Then one person steps forward.
Then another. And then the square shifts, hesitation breaking into motion, into voices, into something that sounds dangerously close to relief. I let it happen. Let them take it. Let them understand. When I look down at him again, my eyes fall on his hands. They’re still intact, still capable, though one of them twitches weakly against the restraints.
That hand. The one that grabbed my breast. The memory comes back at once.
“Take the whole hand,” I say to the soldier, my voice calm. “And save it. My husband may wish to see it when he arrives.”
One of the soldiers hesitates just long enough for me to notice.
I meet his eyes.
He moves. The scream that follows is weaker now, torn and uneven, fading faster than before. I watch it happen without looking away.
For a brief moment, something close to amusement presses in, quiet and private. Colsar would be pleased. I almost want to laugh, remembering how disturbed I was the first day we met. We had been in his study when he told me,"Personally, I find the removal of body parts—some light dismemberment—quite soothing.”
