The feast had wound down to that peculiar hour where the wine was still flowing but the food had been cleared away, when the court was drunk enough to be easily impressed but sober enough to remember what they'd seen in the morning.
The God King raised his hand, and the hall fell quiet.
"Entertainment," he announced, his voice carrying across the space with effortless command. "And gifts, to honour this union."
A woman was led in from one of the side passages.
She was young, perhaps twenty-five, perhaps younger. It was hard to tell with humans. The Collar around her neck caught the Witchlight. Though my mother's was more elaborate, the principle was the same.
Property. Obedience enforced through Power and pain.
The Witch stopped at the center of the hall. Her hands were steady, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself very still, as though any sudden movement might trigger something she didn't want triggered.
"Show them," the God King said.
She bowed her head. Raised her hands.
Fire bloomed in her palms.
The court gasped, a collective intake of breath that rippled through the hall like wind through grass. The flames rose higher, and smoke began to curl from them, thick and dark and somehow shaped. It twisted and coiled in the air above her head, and then it began to form pictures.
The birth of Toltaria.
Smoke coalesced into the first God King, Amir, standing over a conquered Epili—the first kingdom brought to heel with the aid of the Battleborn.
Then the smoke shifted, and there we were.
The court murmured as they recognized us. The Val'Rhayne brothers rendered in shadow and flame—riding into battle, cities burning, kings kneeling. Kingdom by kingdom, century by century, each conquest added like jewels to a crown.
Propaganda dressed as art, making subjugation look like glory.
The Witch never moved. She had to stay rooted while she cast—the weakness of all Witches and Warlocks, the price for tapping into the River of Power. While Power flowed through them, they were vulnerable. Immobile.
Or easily hurt, if someone could get past the Power.
The smoke-shapes grew larger, more elaborate. Over and over, I saw myself in them—a weapon in the God King's hand. A tool for building an empire.
It wasn't wrong.
That was what made it so difficult to watch.
The story reached its climax: the Empire at its height, spanning continents, the God King supreme amongst mortals.
And then the Witch smiled and brought her hands together.
The explosion was massive.
Fire and smoke erupted outward in a wave that rushed toward the crowd with the sound of a thunderclap. Courtiers screamed. Some threw themselves backward, others froze in place. The wave rolled over them, hot and bright and all-consuming...
And stopped.
Just short of touching anyone.
The flames hung in the air for one impossible moment, close enough that I could feel the heat of them on my face, close enough to see the individual tongues of fire flickering and dancing. Then they collapsed inward, back toward the Witch, and vanished.
Silence.
The Witch stood in the center of the hall, breathing hard, her hands still raised. Sweat gleamed on her forehead. The Collar around her neck glowed faintly, pulsing with the magic that kept her leashed.
And on her face, just for a moment, before she schooled it back to blankness, I saw something.
Not fear. Not exhaustion.
Rage.
Beside me, Tyreal had gone very still. "That wasn't supposed to stop," he murmured. So low I almost didn't hear it.
"What?"
"The explosion. Look at her face. Look at the Collar."
I looked. The Collar was still glowing, brighter now, and the Witch's jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle jumping beneath her skin.
"She tried," Tyreal breathed. "She tried to let it kill them."
The Collar had stopped her. Had forced her Power to halt before it could harm the God King's guests. But she had tried.
The God King began to clap, slow and deliberate, and the court followed suit. Applause filled the hall, drowning out the last echoes of screams. The Witch lowered her hands and bowed, her face blank once more.
As she was led away, I saw her fingers brush the Collar at her throat. Just once. A gesture so small I might have imagined it.
But I knew what it meant.
Someday, that gesture said. Someday this will come off, and when it does, I will burn this place to the ground.
I found myself hoping she would get the chance.
The God King was smiling. "A fine display," he said. "Now. The gifts."
The doors opened again.
This time, guards entered. A dozen of them, surrounding a group of prisoners chained at the wrists and ankles. They moved slowly, shuffling, the chains between them clinking with each step.
I knew what this was before I saw their faces.
Spoils. Trophies. People from conquered lands, brought out to be displayed like prizes.
"From our recent... difficulties in Vraycia," the God King said, his voice dripping with false magnanimity. "Rebels. Traitors. Those who sought to undermine the peace we have so carefully cultivated."
And there she was.
The breath left my lungs.
Azralyth.
She walked with her head high, her spine straight, every inch of her radiating defiance even as silver shackles dragged at her wrists and ankles. Delicate chains this time, meant to look decorative, almost ornamental, but chains nonetheless.
They had dressed her in little more than a whisper of silk. The kind of garment designed specifically to humiliate, so sheer that the Witchlight transformed it into nothing, revealing every curve, every line of her body to the hungry eyes of the court. Her dark auburn hair fell loose around her bare shoulders, and her feet made no sound against the cold marble.
But she did not hunch. Did not try to cover herself. Did not give them the satisfaction of her shame.
Instead, she looked straight ahead, golden eyes blazing with defiance, as though she were walking into a ballroom rather than her own degradation, as though the jeering whispers and cruel laughter were beneath her notice.
"Look at that one…"
"Shameless…"
As if she'd had any choice in the matter. My jaw clenched. My hands tightened into fists at my sides. Something hot and sharp twisted in my chest. Anger, yes, but something else beneath it. Something that felt dangerously close to the need to move, to act, to put myself between her and every leering eye in this Daeude-damned hall.
I forced myself to breathe. To stay still.
Qasim stepped forward, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Your Majesty. Dragon King Kharr." He bowed to each in turn, the picture of courtesy. "I present to you a gift from Vraycia's gardens. Azralyth Dratex, the Rose of Vraycia."
He paused, letting the whispers build. His eyes flicked to me for just a moment. A knowing look. Then back to Azralyth.
"And so," he said, spreading his hands in a gesture of false generosity, "I offer her to you, Lord Kharr. A gift to honour your daughter's betrothal to my most beloved brother, Crown Prince Zahir. A Vraycian rose for your collection."
The crowd clapped.
The Dragon King's expression did not change. He looked at Azralyth, really looked at her, with the kind of assessment that saw past the chains and the humiliation to the person beneath.
"A generous offer," Kharr said slowly.
The God King's smile tightened. "Lord Qasim is known for his... creativity."
"Is he?" Kharr's tone was mild, but there was something beneath it that made the God King's smile fade entirely.
Azralyth said nothing. She stood there, chains clinking softly, her face a mask of controlled fury. Her eyes swept across the dais, across the God King, across Qasim, across me, and I saw the moment she registered my presence.
I wanted to look away. Wanted to pretend I hadn't seen her, hadn't noticed the way her hands shook just slightly where the chains held them, hadn't felt the hot rush of shame that came with standing here in my armor while she stood there in chains.
But I didn't look away.
And neither did she.
Kharr rose from his seat with the same unhurried grace he'd shown all evening, the hall fell silent, watching.
He stopped before Azralyth. Looked down at her with those dark, unreadable eyes.
"I thank you for this gift, Prince Qasim," he said, his voice formal. Then he turned, looking past Azralyth to where my mother sat. "However, I find myself moved by a different gesture this evening."
The God King's fingers stilled against the throne's armrest.
"Lyr'aeth, the Star above us all," Kharr said, addressing my mother directly. "You who have brought such grace to this celebration. I would be honoured if you would accept this rose for your garden."
The silence that followed was absolute.
My mother looked at the Dragon King. Then at Azralyth. A knowing smile flirted across her lips.
He had not refused the gift. He had accepted it, and immediately transferred ownership.
The God King could not refuse without causing an incident. Could not reclaim Azralyth without insulting both the Dragon King and the Lost Star in front of his entire court. Kharr had boxed him in with perfect diplomatic courtesy, and everyone in the hall who understood power knew it.
My mother inclined her head, graceful as always. "You honour me, Lord Kharr." Her voice was soft, but it carried. "I accept your gift with gratitude. I have always loved roses."
She looked at Azralyth then, and something in her expression shifted. Softened, just slightly.
"You will be safe in my garden," she said.
Azralyth bowed her head. "Thank you, my lady," she said, her voice rough but steady.
Qasim's jaw was tight, his smile fixed and false. But he could do nothing. Say nothing.
Kharr returned to his seat, his expression betraying nothing.
Beside me, Tyreal let out a breath so soft I almost didn't hear it. "Well," he murmured. "That was unexpected."
Qasim's smile had frozen on his face. He stood there for a moment, caught between bowing and retreating, before he finally managed a stiff nod and returned to his seat.
The guards moved forward uncertainly, unsure now who they were supposed to be taking orders from.
My mother raised one hand. "Tyreal will escort her to my chambers."
My brother stepped forward immediately, his armor gleaming in the Witchlight. He moved to Azralyth's side and the guards stepped back.
Azralyth was led away, not back to the cells, but toward my mother's wing of the palace. Back to the Star Garden.
Toward freedom, of a sort.