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“We will be frank with you, mage. We do not believe you.”

The whole world spun as if Orpheus had taken a blow to his head.

“We do not believe you, and we do not trust you. Atticus may be elected by Sanctuary’s people to lead us in how we execute our forefather’s master plan, but in the end, it is the conclave of Architects as a whole who have final say in the interpretation of what that master plan is. Our current interpretation does not include an enemy mage who has set Sanctuary on this current path towards death.”

If Orpheus wasn’t already on his knees, he’d be there now.

“Atticus retrieved you under the guise of bringing justice to Sanctuary for crimes committed. Your sentencing was to encompass Sanctuary’s healing without your involvement with young Gwen. He has, simply put, complicated things.”

Complicated what? How were they going to leverage him? What did they mean by healing Sanctuary without—

No. No.

“Blood magic?” he snarled, rearing back. Beside him, Atticus cursed softly. “Your plan was to use blood magic?”

“You grow comfortable, mage, assuming that plan is in your past.”

Orpheus lurched to his feet, ignoring the sharp stab spearing through his bad leg.

“Orpheus,” Atticus hissed, reaching for him. “Get down.”

His buckling broken leg sent him to the floor—not Atticus’ hand on his shoulder—certainly not because he’d become—as he feared—yet another man’s dog.

“They’re going to kill me,” he breathed, Atticus’ face swimming at the edge of his vision. The nausea from before was back, his skin flashing between hot and cold, his skin clammy, his vision going black. “I don’t want to die.”

“I know you don’t.” But why did Atticus sound so mournful when he said it?

Why did he sound so angry when he addressed the Architects?

“You’ve crossed a line, Lamont.” The whole room quieted when Atticus spoke, authority rendered. “We have an opportunity here to see through our forefathers' plans and your pride would stand in their way? I will not allow it. Our people have chosen me, and it is my vision with which Sanctuary has put their trust. And my vision includes the most powerful mage the world has seen on our side, rather than against it.”

The lie hid between them, kept now for Orpheus’ safety, rather than the benefit of Sanctuary.

Whenever had he earned that from Atticus?

He’s manipulating you. He only values you for the help you’ve given Gwen.

But Gwen was on her way towards becoming a powerful mage, now. If he died today he’d already planted enough seeds for her magic to blossom. Her curiosity wouldn’t be rendered impotent by his death. If anything, it might compel her faster down the path towards power.

Grief was a powerful motivating force. He should know. He’d benefited from it, once. Feared what it might do to him, again.

“Your vision, Atticus, is fractured, fueled by indecision and born of heartbreak and grief. The conclave fears we have coddled you for too long. Sanctuary heals too slowly. He either reopens the chasm, or we follow through with our plan to do it ourselves.

You have ten days.”

“What’s this?” Gwen squeaked when Atticus swept into the study alongside Orpheus. “What’s wrong?”

“We have a problem.” A gesture from Atticus brought Duluth close, Serval leaning against the door’s threshold, his face pinched, his eyes locked on Orpheus. “I need my bag and my book.”

Duluth turned without a reaction, Serval’s eyes following him before he turned to Atticus.

“Serval, leave us,” Atticus said without looking up.

“You sure, boss? You think it’s safe now of all times?”

“Serval, leave.”

The study door slammed shut, quiet blossoming in its wake. Atticus stared across the table at the mess of notebooks Gwen had already spread out in preparation for that day’s lesson. He picked one up, examining the symbols from beneath a heavy brow.