Lucian's vision narrowed. "Vesper?"
One name. That made his wolf growl. Instant cockroach-won't-die reaction. Tristan either didn't notice the growl or was too tired to care.
"The healers won't confirm the source yet. But the signature matches blood magic." Tristan pushed off the wall. "The Willow bitch is using forbidden magic on my wife from inside a dungeon cell, and the council approved her sitting there because nobody wants to deal with the politics of what happens when you tell a General's daughter to go to hell."
Through the matebond, River's unease pulsed. She was asleep, or unconscious, or somewhere between, and the signal was faint and jumbled, carrying the texture of a mind fighting something in the dark.
Lucian kept his face composed. His chest was doing something his face was refusing to acknowledge.
"What are you going to do about it?"
Tristan's green eyes went flat. The particular flat that preceded decisions that couldn't be undone.
