Page 72

"It's tradition." He says it like that makes it acceptable. Like centuries of brutality somehow justify continuing the brutality. "You remember your trials, don't you, Atticus?"

The use of my real name makes my jaw clench. "I remember being seventeen and terrified and told I'd die if I didn't perform well enough."

"And yet here you stand. Alive. Successful. A testament to the effectiveness of our methods."

I take a drink instead of responding, letting the burn of expensive scotch distract me from the urge to throw him through the one-way glass.

Below us, Taylor Jackson hauls himself up a rope wall with visible effort, his arms shaking, his face contorted with pain or determination—I can't tell which from this distance. He makes it to the top, drops down the other side, immediately starts running toward the next obstacle.

He shouldn't be here. According to the records Elara and I reviewed last week, he withdrew from the initiation. Called his mother, dropped out, accepted the consequences of leaving.

Except somehow he's back. Running the course with the same desperate intensity as the other initiates, like he never left at all.

"How did Jackson get reinstated?" I ask, keeping my voice casual.

Evander's expression doesn't change. "He petitioned the council. Said he made a mistake, that family pressure influenced his decision to withdraw. The Bastards voted to give him another chance."

"The Bastards." I let the skepticism show. "James's faction."

"James can be surprisingly generous when it serves his interests."

There's something in the way he says it—too careful, too measured—that makes my instincts prickle. I file it away to discuss with Elara later.

Movement near the far side of the deck catches my attention. Nathaniel Davis stands in conversation with someone whose back is to me, their body language suggesting familiarity, ease. The other man gestures with his drink, and Nathaniel nods, his expression harder than usual.

Then the man turns slightly, and I recognize the profile.

James Harrington.

My grip tightens on my glass, the crystal warming under my palm. They're too far away for me to hear what they're saying, but I can read body language well enough. This isn't a casual conversation. This is negotiation. Maybe threat.

Nathaniel's jaw works, his shoulders tense despite his otherwise relaxed posture. James leans in closer, says something that makes the Praefectus Maximus's expression go carefully blank.

Then James laughs. Steps back. Claps Nathaniel on the shoulder like they're old friends instead of leader and subject.

"Politics," Evander murmurs beside me, following my gaze. "Always politics with those two."

"What kind of politics?"

"The kind that keeps James untouchable despite his indiscretions." Evander takes a sip of whatever clear liquid is in his glass—vodka, probably, or gin. "The investigation into your brother-in-law's death has reached an impasse."

My stomach drops. "What kind of impasse?"

"The kind where evidence exists but cannot be acted upon. Where justice is complicated by competing interests." He turns to face me fully, those dark eyes seeing too much. "James has leverage over Nathaniel. Something significant enough that pursuing murder charges—even for an unsanctioned killing—would be... inadvisable."

The clinical way he delivers this information makes me want to break something. Preferably his nose.

"So he walks free," I say flatly. "James kills Brandon Hayes, substitutes him for the sanctioned sacrifice, violates every protocol about unauthorized murders, and he just... walks free."

"Unless circumstances change." Evander's gaze drifts back to the field below, where the initiates are now crawling through what looks like a tunnel filled with ice water. "Unless leverage shifts. Unless someone creates an opportunity for justice that doesn't require official sanction."

The implication hangs in the air between us, dangerous and unmistakable.

Before I can respond, Nathaniel breaks away from James and starts moving through the crowd in our direction. His expression is neutral, professionally pleasant, but I can see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.

"Alexander," he greets when he reaches us, nodding to Evander in acknowledgment. "A word?"

It's not a request.