Darin looked between Celia and Finn, and his expression flickered between a hundred emotions as he realized exactly what Celia’s demand meant.
It was commonly known. If a conjurer murdered outside of duel, combat, or cause of justice, punishment could be demanded and delivered. Even a blood oath didn’t always protect conjurers from section three, article one. When invoked, the murderer’s principal had to bow to the law. Retribution. Equal punishment.
There was nothing Finn could do. Darin had murdered my brother, and Celia was demanding his death as retribution.
“Finn—” Darin stepped forward, holding out his hand, beseeching.
Finn shook his head, his expression flattening. “I warned you what would happen,” he said quietly.
Darin nodded. “You did.”
“Did he fight you?” Finn asked, hope warring in him. “Did he attack you? If he attacked?—”
“No,” Darin said, “he did not. He didn’t raise a hand against me.”
“And you’re certain he’s dead?” Finn asked, still hoping to prevent what Celia had demanded.
I reached over and touched the back of his hand. “He is,” I whispered.
For a long, silent moment, Darin looked at Finn, and something unspoken flowed between them. Then Darin looked at the Smiths forming a circle around them. They were his family, and once, they’d thought he was going to lead them. It had only taken a few short breaths for him to recognize what had to happen.
He was a Smith, and he’d never been a coward.
Every Smith knew, from birth on, you followed the law. You followed the orders of your seniors. If you didn’t, then your senior punished you. It was expected.
A leader was expected to be the sword of justice.
The blade was already swinging. Finn was the hand that had to hold it.
There were no exceptions—not even for the heir.
If a leader couldn’t do what was just when it was hard, how could they do what was just when it was easy? The Smiths knew this. No one moved to defend Darin.
Finn turned to Celia and said, in a voice I recognized as one of sorrow and regret, “Your demand has been heard. You’ll have your retribution.”
Finn conjured a sword of blue fire.
Darin stared at the sword and then at his brother. A look passed between them—one of shared confidences; of friendship; of brotherhood that went deeper than blood. Of understanding.
From the moment Darin knew who Finn was, he’d stood beside him. He’d never resented that Finn was the heir—he’d willingly stepped aside. He’d helped him. He’d been his friend.
Like he’d said, he’d always wanted a brother.
Darin’s jaw hardened, and then he nodded. “Make it quick.”
Finn’s knuckles turned white on the sword’s pommel. The blue fire flared brightly. He let out a breath and shuddered.
Then he said, “Heir Smith, I banish you.”
“What?” Celia gasped. She’d been watching Darin with a bone-white, haunted expression, but when Finn released the sword, she jerked forward, her hand raised. “You can’t?—”
“I can. The punishment is equal in weight. It’s just retribution.” Then, turning to Darin, he said, “I banish you?—”
“No.” Darin shook his head. “I’d rather die. Finn. Don’t. Do not. This isn’t a punishment I can bear. It’s not. No. Finn. Do not?—"
Finn held his hand out, twisting it sharply. “You are no longer a Smith. You are no longer a conjurer. From now on, you are nothing. You are no one. I banish you. I banish you. I banish you.”
Darin made a choked, ragged sound. He dropped to his knees, slamming to the concrete. A black tattoo bloomed across his right cheek. It was a large X.
