Page 95
Vaerith sees the flare and lifts one elegant hand. “Forward.”
The guards move.
I do not strike.
Instead, I let the remaining heat slide down through my legs into the stones beneath me. It hurts worse than using it as a weapon. The power wants a target with a pulse, a shape, a soul it can split and drink. I give it dead stone, scorched runes, and Vaerith’s exposed lattice. Black-gold fire leaks from my boots into the cracked grooves, and the circle fractures farther with a grinding crack that jolts through the courtyard.
The guards halt.
The runes split in branching lines around us, shattering the intact portions of the ritual geometry. Red sparks burst upward and die in the damp air. Whatever Vaerith intended to repair, conceal, or explain away after the crowd dispersed, I just made harder to erase. The exposed bait channels remain visible, burned into stone too deeply for a clerk with polish and a lie to fix before morning.
Vaerith’s composure thins. “Stop him.”
“Careful,” Syrenya says, voice carrying through the rising alarm. “If your guards damage the evidence further, people may begin to wonder why you are in such a hurry.”
A nobleman in blue robes, the same one I shoved earlier, mutters, “People already wonder.”
I would enjoy that more if my skin were not still full of demon fire.
Isolde touches my sleeve. “We need to move.”
“Agreed.”
She bends for her ledger satchel before I can tell her to leave it, because of course she does. Even with guards advancing and Vaerith’s fury gathering like a storm over the dais, she snatches the strap and hauls it close against her ribs.
“Really?” I say.
She gives me a sharp look. “Evidence.”
“I was going to say sentimental.”
“You were going to be wrong.”
“Familiar territory.”
Her mouth almost curves, but the nearest guard takes two steps closer and ruins the moment.
I reach for her wrist.
The contact snaps through the bond. I close my fingers around her, firm and certain, feeling her pulse leap under my touch. She does not pull away. She moves with me before I tug, trusting the direction before she fully sees it.
We leave the circle together.
A guard lunges to block us, spear angled toward my chest. I swing my free hand down, palm open, and release a controlled burst of heat into the stones at his feet. The paving cracks with a loud pop, throwing steam and grit upward. He recoils, coughing, and I move Isolde behind my shoulder as we pass.
“Do not burn witnesses,” she says near my back.
“I am being very selective.”
“You are cracking public infrastructure.”
“Public infrastructure tried to frame me.”
“That is legally imprecise.”
“File a complaint.”
She makes a sound behind me that might be outrage or laughter. I take it as victory.
