When I opened my eyes, everything had changed.
???
I could hear my heavy breathing again and feel my shoulders tightly pressed in the direction of my ears.
Blinding light spilled from the ceiling as I opened my eyes, iron walls hemming us in on all sides.
“Release me now,” Reagan said.
Only then did I realise I had a death grip on his cloak, my fingers numb as I forced myself to let go, the trembling slow to leave my hands.
The lift doors parted with a hollow scrape, voices and laughter flooding in from beyond. My boots, still stained with the woods, came to rest on fine grey carpet.
Before I could gather my thoughts, a hand closed around my elbow and pulled me from the lift.
“Come with me,” Reagan muttered.
“How did we get here?”
Before us stretched a wide hallway with curved blue walls, its geometric black-and-white tiled floor neat, its high ceiling lined with rectangular beams cradling spherical bulbs. The spacewas punctuated by several doorways, with people crammed into every corner, dressed in dark robes and cloaks.
“We flung to this Court,” he said simply. “It’s the closest one to us in my estate.”
“Flung? What do you mean?”
He gave me a side glance before answering, “It means traversing from one place to another without the limits of space.”
“Traversing? How is this even—”
“Keep your voice down, or the entire building will know you’re human,” he warned, pulling me closer by the arm. “If they don’t smell it on you first.”
“Smellme?”
He didn’t answer, but instead entered a long chamber where people sat behind wooden desks arranged in neat rows, a towering column rising at the far end, its middle cradling a stone owl. He pulled me towards the column as strangers cast glances our way, their eyes lingering on the man before me. Long stares, as if they recognised him. As if they were worried.
“Name,” a voice said, coming from the owl’s direction.
“Caedmon Reagan,” he answered, facing the statue.
“What is your business here, Lord Reagan?” the owl asked.
“Confidential. Meant solely for Her Honour.” His eyes flicked to me. “Tell her it’s urgent.”
“She will call you if she wishes to.”
Reagan motioned for me to join him in a quiet corner of the room. Gazes followed us, followed him. Maybe he came here often, bringing lost women to be treated like criminals.
“Who is this person?” I asked, turning to the supposed mage next to me.
“She’s the judge who will decide what happens to you, so I’d try to look less frantic,” he replied, ignoring my glower. He leaned casually against the wall, scanning the room. It waspossible to feel the disdain from a mile away. “But she won’t kill you. It’s against our laws to take a life, whether you’re a mage or not.”
I stared at him, taking in the hollow reassurance, as if it were meant to make me feel better. I answered with as little emotion as he showed. “What a relief.”
He didn’t say anything else, though I might have caught a flicker of amusement.
After a few moments of silence, the talking stone owl spoke on its own, “Magister Nova Malory summons the Lord of Mountheim to her chamber.”
He led us into an office space, where a tall, arched window framed a dense forest beyond. Towering bookshelves filled with hundreds of tomes rose on either side, flanked by dark wood carvings and lit by bright golden lamps.
