It took Laurent a moment to realize the man he'd come in search of was right in front of him, just as it took Mirk a moment to start breathing again and feed enough potential into his mental shielding to ward off the worst of Laurent's seething rage. Then he stormed down the hall, stopping a few paces away from Mirk. Laurent fumbled in the pocket of his waistcoat for something as he began to rant at him.

"How dare you? You coward! Not even willing to do such a vile deed with your own hand!"

Though Mirk couldn't tear his eyes from Laurent, he could feel Genesis's arm go tense under his hand. Laurent's emotions were so thick that it was impossible for Mirk to focus on anything else, but he was certain the tenseness would be coupled with Genesis summoning his magic. Mirk released the commander's arm and put himself between the two men, bowing low and beginning to stammer out his apologies. "Monsieur Laurent, please, calm down. What's happened? Are you hurt?"

"You damn well know what's happened! Don't play the fool with me!"

Mirk could hear the others gathering in the entryway behind him, though he still couldn't feel anything beyond Laurent's rage. While Laurent continued to dig in his pockets and Mirk searched for words, Am-Hazek arrived on the scene. The djinn's expression was polite and distant; he was completely unruffled by Laurent's sudden appearance. Mirk couldn't help but notice that Am-Hazek's posture was a bit more upright than usual, however, as he took up a position to the side of both him and Laurent, bowing slightly. "Monsieur Montigny. We were not told to expect your arrival," Am-Hazek said.

Laurent ignored the djinn, stomping onward into the ballroom proper. Mirk backed off instinctively, dragging Genesis along with him. "It's fine," Mirk hissed at Genesis, before the commander could get any ideas. "Just...let me sort this out."

There was a grave, offended voice from behind them, cutting through the intrigued whispers of the other guests like red-hot steel through butter. "What's all this?"

Mirk glanced over his shoulder. Seigneur d'Aumont had arrived on the scene as well, Madame Beaumont close at his heels, trying to cut off an alarmed-looking Yvette. The Grand Master closed the gap between them, unhurried but grave. Though Seigneur d'Aumont was prepared to get more involved as well, Mirk thought, should the need arise. He wasn't leaning on his cane in the slightest.

"This man is a murderer!" Laurent bellowed, finally grasping what he'd been searching for in his pockets. A glass orb, small enough to be easily be hidden in the palm of a hand.

"I...I'm sorry, Monsieur Laurent, but I don't understand..." Mirk mumbled, trying to clutch at his stomach as subtly as possible. The grief that was mixed into Laurent's rage was starting to affect him, making his eyes water as Mirk's insides churned.

"I have it all here!" Laurent said, holding the orb aloft for a moment. Mirk knew from the gossip that surrounded Laurent and his constant quarreling with the other mages what the orb had to be. A memorial stone, an expensive device that was usually used to keep a visual record of important contracts and meetings, one that couldn't easily be tampered with through magic. Laurent always kept one near at hand, to capture slights made toward him and his family so that no one could second-guess any of his grievances. Or the motivation behind his constant dueling. "If you won't tell the truth, the stone will."

"Monsieur Am-Hazek," Madam Beaumont said quietly, nodding to the djinn. Her and Yvette had come within arm's reach as well, though Madame Beaumont was keeping a tight hold on Yvette's hand, to keep her from rushing to Laurent's side.

Am-Hazek held out a hand to Laurent. The wiry fire mage slapped the orb down in the djinn's hand without ripping his gaze away from Mirk across from him. It took a substantial amount of potential to replay the scene captured by a memorial stone. And Laurent wasn't about to waste a sliver of his own on it.

As one, the assembled noble mages edged backward, forming a loose circle at the edge of the ballroom. Mirk and Laurent stood on opposite ends while Am-Hazek moved to the middle, so that no one could miss any detail of the record trapped inside the stone. Anxiously, Mirk snuck a look over at Genesis. The commander seemed as perplexed by the sudden turn of events as the rest of them, though it was only evidenced by the slightest furrowing of his brow. Mirk didn't know whether to be reassured or worried by it.

"May I, Seigneur?" Am-Hazek asked Seigneur d'Aumont, holding the memorial stone out in front of himself.

"Please do," Seigneur d'Aumont replied, nodding. Though Seigneur d'Aumont's emotions were too subtle for Mirk to pick up on over the clamoring of Laurent's anger and despair, the slight frown of disapproval on his face said enough. Settling one of Laurent's endless grievances was a waste of magic, even if that magic was a servant's instead of his own. Doubtlessly, Serge Montigny would be hearing of Laurent's blustering, along with Mirk's own accusations. Mirk couldn't help but wonder whether Seigneur d'Aumont lumped both their protests together as symptoms of the same disease: young mages who thought too highly of themselves and felt the need to trouble all the guild masters with unreasonable demands.

Mirk watched with trepidation as Am-Hazek fed his potential into the memorial stone. Though his mind was whirling in five directions at once, torn asunder by Laurent's rage and Yvette's worry and Seigneur d'Aumont's cool indifference, Mirk noticed that Am-Hazek's magic looked different than that of Ravensdale's djinn. He had only caught glimpses of it before from the infirmary steps, when the djinn were called on to attend to the human fighters' armor in advance of a battle, but it always had a pale, sickly cast to it, thin and translucent like air magic, though it often had the same effect on metal as a fire mage's. Am-Hazek's magic was much stronger, a flurry of multicolored tendrils that reminded Mirk of his godfather's. But before Mirk had time to dwell on the meaning of this, the memorial stone engaged, creating a ghostly afterimage of the events Laurent had bore witness to above Am-Hazek's head.

The scene took place in a wood. Not a natural one, thick with undergrowth and full of trees that varied in age and species, but the sort that was found on noble estates, the trees immaculately tended and spaced, betraying a lack of true wildness. The trees thinned further as the memorial stone was carried through it, toward its edge, where it butted up against a well-manicured lawn. Across it was a country house, regal and imposing. Just like the figures clustered near the steps leading up to its front entrance. Tall, white, gleaming figures. Figures with wings.

The figures sharpened and clarified as the memorial stone's focus shifted toward them. Angels. Mirk hugged himself tightly as the image grew more detailed, as sounds began to emanate from the memory stone in Am-Hazek's hand along with the vision. Mirk was uncertain whether any of the other assembled nobles could understand spoken angelic. He struggled a little with it himself -- the angel who was speaking currently, the only one not in armor, had an accent Mirk had never heard before.

But words weren't necessary to understand that something had gone deeply, horribly wrong at the manor. There were humans arrayed on the front steps as well as angels. Each man was restrained by an angel in a kind of armor Mirk had never seen before, plain and utilitarian, their faces obscured by silver masks that had impassive expressions etched into them. The humans among the crowd on the steps all looked dazed, their coats and shirts disheveled, the magicked rifles they'd been hunting with stacked in a messy pile at the base of the steps like cast-off logs for a fire.

Only one of the angels wasn't armored. He was tall, even for an angel, and broad across the shoulders and hips, wearing a plain, heavy gray robe meant to ward off the chill of being separated from the Light Eternal that full-blood angels always complained of when visiting Earth. He had a long knife in hand rather than a sword, flipping it absently as he paced the top of the steps leading up to the manor. "Time's wasting!" he called out, ducking one wing so that he could look over his shoulder back through the manor's open front doors. "Samael! Focus!"

"Leave the child alone," a rough, snarling voice replied from inside the manner, distant but quickly coming closer. A familiar voice, the sound of which made Mirk hug himself even more tightly. "You want something done right, you should do it yourself."

Aker emerged out onto the front steps, dragging Serge Montigny along with him. Although Mirk could tell from the red-black haze surrounding Serge, from the way that he was flailing and screaming, that the Grand Master had to be fighting with all his might against Aker's restraining hand. But it was all fruitless. Aker was able to haul the man who'd stalked Mirk's dreams for the past half year down the steps easily, as if Serge was as inconsequential as a child having a tantrum.

"You're not doing anything yourself," the angel wielding the knife said with a snort, as he watched Aker haul Serge in front of him. The masked angels were all mostly ignoring Serge and their human charges, Mirk noticed, their heads swiveled toward the angel with the knife. Who was smirking at his godfather. And his godfather was glowering back at him. "There's a process."

"Attempted flight," a different voice said, its accent similar to that of the unarmored angel. Yet another angel emerged from the manor's open front doors. That one was armored like the rest, and though he wasn't wearing a mask, his flesh-and-blood face looked just as indifferent. To his right was another angel in gray robes, his wings hunched and expression troubled. The second angel was as tall as a full-grown human man, but Mirk knew enough to tell that the difference in height between him and the others meant that he was a child. That and his flight feathers hadn't yet fully grown in. "Technically, that would add another charge."

"What took you so long?" the older angel with the knife asked the boy as the two angels took up positions beside him, only Aker and Serge left standing in front of them, with their backs to the memorial stone's perspective. "Where was he headed?"

The child stared at Serge. His glance made Serge scream, his legs giving out. Only Aker's hold on Serge's arm keeping him from falling. The boy turned his gaze back toward the angel wielding the knife, and Serge's pain appeared to lessen some. "The demonic realm, Lord Imanael."

The older robed angel, Imanael, flipped his knife yet again and snorted. "The demons are all idiots for indulging these creatures. Don't they know it's bad manners to play with your food?"

Aker released Serge's arm with a disgusted huff, his feathers all standing on end. Mirk wasn't sure whether the disgust was directed at Serge, who collapsed onto his knees before the ranks of angels and the other slack-jawed humans, or Imanael. "Like you can talk about that."

Though Imanael kept grinning at Aker, he didn't reply to him. Instead, he spoke to the child wavering beside him. "Confirm the charges. We don't have all night."

The child stared intently down at Serge. Again, Serge burst into screams. Mirk could hear whispered curses too then, much more clearly than he was able to hear all the angels' voices. It had to be Laurent, who was holding the memorial stone aloft in the recording to bear witness to what was being done to his family. Mirk wasn't certain whether all the men who'd been restrained by the angels were Montignys, but, judging from what Yvette had told Mirk as they'd walked her inside that night, and the fact that at least half of the men on the manor's front steps bore a passing resemblance to Serge, Mirk assumed that must be the case.

"He killed Mikael Dishoael and his human wife's kin," the child said slowly, turning his anxious gaze from Serge back to Imanael beside him. "Would you like the details, my Lord? He has been associating closely with the demonic realm."

Imanael considered this for a moment. "Not Melor, though?"

The boy shook his head. "No. Not Melor."

"Then you can save the rest for the report you'll write for the Emperor when we get back," Imanael sighed, turning his attention to the older, unmasked armored angel. "Is that confirmation enough for you?"

The unmasked angel nodded. "You did not lie, Lord Aker."

Aker's feathers stood further on end as he shifted and crossed his arms over his chest. "Of course I didn't. Why do you think I'd come to you if I didn't have this kind of case? Otherwise I'd have done it on my own. Should have done it on my own," Mirk's godfather added to himself, in a voice so low that the memorial stone almost didn't record it.

Imanael turned his grin on the unmasked angel. "Well? Are you going to get on with it, or are you going to let the barbarian have his blood debt?"

The unmasked angel was the only one on the steps who didn't appear invested in the horrible scene playing out on the manor's front steps. His response to Imanael's goading was as flat as his reaction to Serge's renewed screaming when the Grand Master caught sight of the sword the unmasked angel drew from the scabbard at his waist. "There is a process, Lord Imanael. We are nothing if we don't follow it."

"Then hurry up with it," Imanael said, tucking his knife away up the sleeve of his robes. "Time's wasting. And the boy needs to be taken back to Heaven before he catches a cold. That's an extra moon of endurance training for you when we get back. I thought you were better than this," he added to the boy beside him, who didn't reply other than to hang his head.

Aker remained by Serge's side as the unmasked angel approached, his sword held delicately in both hands. It was larger than any Mirk had ever seen before. Heavy. And yet, the angel lifted it as if it weighed nothing. He stood across from Aker, with Serge sprawled on the stones of the front walk between them, murmuring to the blade as he turned it ins his hands. Though the unmasked angel was focused on his sword, his magic was working on Serge. Serge remained down on his knees, but he sat back on him, bands of golden magic manipulating both the Grand Master's body and the haze of reddish black magic still swirling around him into an upright position. Faintly, Mirk heard Laurent curse to himself in the recording again.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

"You stand accused of murdering an angel outside of honorable combat, through falsity and collaboration with enemies of the Empire," the unmasked angel said, holding the sword out above Serge's twisting and struggling body. "And your mind has been proven guilty. Do you confirm this judgment, Lord High Examiner Imanael?"

Imanael nodded, looking impatient. "Yes, right."

"The punishment for this crime is death. I, Uriel Olraelin, in the name of the Silver Host and serving as the sword hand of Emperor Aetilaein, the first of his name, bear the responsibility to carry out his justice."

As the angel continued to speak, shifting his grip on his giant, two-handed sword and holding it up close to his lips, Imanael rolled his eyes. Aker continued to bristle; the humans swayed on their feet, dazed and lost. One of the masked angels made a counterclockwise gesture, muffling Serge's increasingly loud screaming. And the Laurent in the memorial stone's recording stalked closer to the edge of the forest, the image shaking with his footsteps and emotions.

There was no fanfare to it. One moment, Uriel, the bearer of the Emperor's justice, was still speaking his rituals to his sword. The next he was swinging it. It was a clean, calculated swing. Serge's head slid from his neck, bounced off the cobbles of the front walk, and landed at Aker's feet. The rest of Serge's lifeless body soon followed, his limp shoulders knocking dully against Aker's greaves. Uriel flicked the blood from his sword, then set to cleaning it properly. Imanael laughed outright at whatever face Mirk's godfather was making.

"Well, go ahead. Kick it, you animal," Imanael goaded. "I know you want to."

"It is done," Aker hissed. Then he vanished, the bell-like tinkling of his magic barely audible over the wind among the trees.

"Justice has been served," Uriel agreed, as he sheathed his sword. With a sweeping rightward gesture of his hand, both him and the masked angels vanished as well, the bang of their departure rolling through the forest like thunder. Most of the dazed human men arranged along the front steps fell without their masked guardians there to keep them upright, groaning.

Imanael quickly surveyed the living, making a slight, circular gesture with his knife. The men's bodies, as one, gave a violent twitch. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Imanael tucked the knife away up his sleeve and held out his hand to the boy beside him. The young angel was shaking, staring down at Serge's head. "Come. Your work is only beginning."

"Yes, my Lord," the boy murmured, taking Imanael's hand. Then they were gone as well, soundlessly, their passing obscured by a bright flash of light.

Mirk heard the Laurent in the recording curse. The magic-fueled scene hovering above their heads vanished with a curt gesture from Am-Hazek. Mirk was certain the recording continued -- Laurent was always sure to document every aspect of the ways he was slighted. But Am-Hazek thought it better to both spare the ladies in attendance from witnessing more of the bloodshed up close, and Laurent the aggravation of having to listen to himself curse and cry.

A wave of murmured conversations rose from the assembled mages. Mirk searched all the familiar faces for their impressions of the gruesome scene, still hugging himself against the constant press of Laurent's rage and grief. Most of the women had the lower halves of their faces hidden with their fans, making it impossible for Mirk to gauge their reactions. The exceptions were Yvette, who was, for the first time in Mirk's memory of her, too shocked to say or do anything, and Madame Beaumont, who looked grimly satisfied. Much like his godfather had, before Aker had turned his back to the memorial stone. As for the men, they were controlling their reactions well, speaking in low voices to one another, save for Seigneur Feulaine, whose whole attention was focused on his daughter.

And Laurent. Who, evidentially, was so appalled by the lack of immediate response from the other mages that he thought it best to see to things himself. He shoved Am-Hazek out of the way so that he could face Mirk directly, ripping something else out of the pocket of his waistcoat. A pair of cold-weather gloves. Sneering, he cast them down at Mirk's feet.

"Justice. You monsters call that justice? Then I'll have my own justice as well. I demand satisfaction for what your people have done. Outside. A half hour. In the road, to spare the lady of the house any further embarrassment."

The challenge leveled, Laurent spun on his heel and stormed out of the ballroom and back down the hall. A few moments later, Mirk heard the front doors to the townhouse slam open and shut. Though he tried to control his reactions, Mirk still jumped at the bang. And then the emotions of the rest of the mages rushed in on him, filling the mental space that had been occupied by the weight of Laurent's rage.

Confusion. Fright. Horror. Mirk bore up under all of it, making himself lower his arms to his sides and steep in the consequences of the actions of his father's people.

Seigneur d'Aumont's voice broke through the hushed conversations filling the ballroom, as the head of Le Phare rapped the end of his cane against the polished floor to put an end to all of them. "Seigneur d'Avignon," he said, meeting Mirk's eyes with a level and composed gaze. It startled Mirk to realize for the first time that they were the same height, Seigneur d'Aumont's advanced age bringing him down to Mirk's level. "Did you call upon the Empire to do this?"

Mirk shook his head, instantly. "No, Seigneur d'Aumont. Never. I...I don't even know how to reach anyone in the Empire. I was never close with the angels, aside from the ones who served under my father. It's...they'd never have me, seigneur. Even if I'd wanted to be a part of it. Angels are a very...proud people. Many aren't fond of half-bloods."

Seigneur d'Aumont mused on this for a time, turning his cane in his hand. "This aligns with what I know of the Empire. Which begs the question, what provoked them into doing this?"

Another mage stepped forward out of the crowd to speak — Seigneur Rouzet. His expression was grim. However, what little Mirk could feel of the dark mage's emotions didn't align with his seriousness. Seigneur Rouzet almost felt relieved. "I don't think this turn of events is odd at all," he said. "Think of how we handle this sort of thing. If a foreign mage does harm to one of us in our lands, aren't we allowed to carry out our justice on them? Of course, their home guild might protest, but it's a settled matter that where the crime was done is where the law is applied. Though, of course, we didn't yet have time to evaluate whether or not Seigneur Montigny was responsible for anything before all of this," he concluded, making a vague gesture at where Laurent had been fuming away minutes ago.

"We...had been investigating. To an extent," Seigneur d'Aumont said after a time. "There was some credible evidence that Seigneur Montigny had a hand in what happened to Jean-Luc d'Avignon and his family. Badly damaged evidence, however."

"If I may provide some additional information, seigneurs?" Am-Hazek asked into the silence that lingered after Seigneur d'Aumont spoke, performing a deferential bow to no one in particular.

Both Seigneur Rouzet and Seigneur d'Aumont looked surprised. It wasn't common for a djinn servant to interject himself into such a serious matter. But Seigneur d'Aumont did nod, after first glancing at Madame Beaumont for confirmation that she permitted such forward behavior from her servants. "Yes, all right."

"I do have some knowledge of the ways of the Empire, passed along in the historical records of my people. I believe what we saw in this," Am-Hazek said, lifting the memorial stone he still had cupped in his hand, "confirms that Seigneur Montigny had to bear responsibility for the death of Mikael Dishoael at the very least."

"How so?" Seigneur d'Aumont asked.

"Angels are empathic, almost without exception. Their most powerful mages have some of the strongest mind magic ever recorded by my people. When a conflict arises, it is customary for them to employ a mage specializing in the reading of minds and memories to confirm accusations. A High Examiner. Which is what the older angel in the recording in the gray robes was called by the rest. He gave his word that Seigneur Montigny's mind betrayed his guilt."

Seigneur d'Aumont frowned. "I do not speak angelic. Perhaps we need to play it again and have someone listen in with a translation charm. Though it will take time to find one that's been enchanted to translate angelic."

It took all the strength of will Mirk could summon to make himself speak up. The slight nod of acquiescence that Am-Hazek gave in response to Seigneur d'Aumont's judgment gave Mirk strength. Although Am-Hazek's expression remained composed, blankly polite, something in the tone of Seigneur d'Aumont's voice reminded Mirk uncomfortably of the way that the senior healers in the Tenth spoke about the djinn, as if every instance of them crying out in pain or asking for water or clothes was unbearably aggravating. As if the djinn were mere tools and, like, tools, needed to be silent and still unless reached for. "I understand angelic, seigneur. Monsieur Am-Hazek heard right. And I did hear some talk from my father about this being the way that they do things in the Empire."

Although Seigneur d'Aumont seemed dissatisfied with this, he nodded nevertheless. "Then tell me, please. What caused them to act like this?"

Mirk struggled to calm his racing mind and heart enough to think back to what little he'd been able to glean from his father's discussions with his men about the workings of justice within the Empire. "The Emperor is responsible for dispensing with justice, like the King is among the mortals. But, like with the King, it's delegated. The Silver Host is like the guild guards. I do remember my father speaking about them. The...angels with the masks. The Thrones. They're a little like watchmen. It's custom among the angels for anyone responsible for giving out punishment other than the Emperor and the commander of the Silver Host to hide their faces. Since they give up all their family ties by joining the Host. They become an extension of the Emperor. Sort of."

In truth, the longer Mirk thought about it and the more he calmed, the more he remembered. In particular, he remembered how bitterly his father spoke of the Thrones. Dogs and cowards, he had called them. Mirk got the impression that several of his father's guardsmen had run afoul of them and their Host commander, which was why many of them had decided to join his father on Earth. It was either that, or undergo some process called purification, which all the men in his father's service spoke of only obliquely, and always with a look of distaste.

The other mages were settling as well. Mirk could tell by the cast of their emotions. As horror and shock faded, it was replaced by quieter, more pensive emotions — pity, worry, caution. Though it was hard, with so many emotions pressing up against one another from so many people, to tell exactly who felt what. Seigneur d'Aumont sighed, dipping one hand into his waistcoat and consulting his pocket watch rather than trusting the time on the clock hung on the wall between the windows. "I'm afraid I have another obligation this evening," he said, replacing his pocket watch. "However, for the time being, we'll consider the matter settled. But I will be in contact with you, Seigneur d'Avignon." Seigneur d'Aumont paused, his eyes falling upon Laurent's discarded gloves at Mirk's feet. "As for Laurent Montigny, I leave it for you to decide what to do about that. I disapprove of dueling, but it's a matter of private honor. I trust you may be able to put the mind magic granted to you by your father to good use."

His verdict handed down, Seigneur d'Aumont made his way sedately out of the ballroom. After casting a meaningful look at Mirk, Madame Beaumont gathered up her skirts and went after him. Am-Hazek followed a moment later, after bowing slightly to Mirk with a meaningful look as well, though his was less obvious.

The conversation in the ballroom resumed the instant Seigneur d'Aumont was out the door. Mirk deflated, though he did his best to keep some of the upright bearing expected from a man of his station. None of the other mages, friend or foe alike, seemed eager to engage him. There was a gap of five or so paces between him and the rest of the ball's attendees, Mirk noticed, like someone had cast a ward around him that allowed the rest to look, to talk about, but not with.

That was, until Yvette Feulaine finally escaped her father's hold. There were tears in her eyes as she rushed over in front of Mirk, dropping into a curtsey low enough to send her nearly flat on the floor before she bounded back up again and snatched up both of Mirk's hands, grasping them tightly as all the words she'd forced herself to keep back throughout the confrontation between Mirk and her fiancé poured out of her. "Oh, Mirk, I'm so sorry! Really! I'm sure I'll be able to talk some sense into Laurent, you know how defensive he is about his family, though I haven't a clue why. But he has to be sensible! Everyone knows that Serge hated Laurent, and father, and almost everyone else, and, anyway, I'm sure you would never lie about anything! I'm just...it's all so terrible, isn't it? You can't fix fighting with more fighting! I swear to God and all the Saints, Mirk, I...I..."

"It's all right, Yvette," Mirk said, once she started to stumble over her words, giving him space to reply. He squeezed both her hands gently, pressing a bit of sympathy at her along with the gesture. He'd been friendly with Yvette long enough to know that she wouldn't view the projection as some kind of imposition. "I...well. I can't really blame Laurent, not at all. But I would appreciate if you would have a word with him on my behalf. I promise, I had no idea any of the this was going to happen. No idea at all."

"I'm sure you didn't!" Yvette insisted, pressing his hands so hard Mirk was worried for a moment that something in them might snap. "You'd never hurt an ant, never ever! That's why Laurent has to listen! I just...you know how angry Laurent can get. I forget all about it, always, he's always so gentle and understanding with me. I don't know why he can't be the same with everyone else."

Even though Yvette had to be shielding her mind at least a little, Mirk could feel her emotions as clearly as if she'd been projecting them at him, since they were touching skin to skin. Worry, mingled together with shock and frustration. Mirk inclined his head to her, squeezing her hands again. Though it was hard to manage it, considering how tightly she was holding onto him. "Laurent has every right to be upset. I can't believe Seigneur Montigny..."

Only Mirk could believe half of it. He'd seen himself what Serge Montigny was capable of. What he couldn't believe was that the man was dead. Mirk pushed his mind quickly away from it, lest his emotions inadvertently pass through to Yvette, somehow. "Please, go to Laurent. He needs you. I'll sort something out. And I won't hurt him, I promise."

Mirk carefully extracted himself from Yvette's hold. Then he bowed to her, as low as he could without having to get down on his knees. Yvette was too distracted, too overcome with worry to notice it. By the time Mirk straightened back up, Yvette had already hiked up her skirts and rushed down the hall after Laurent. As Mirk watched her go, the lingering traces of her emotions cleared from his mind. The other mages around Mirk were keeping a more careful hold on their emotions, with the reminder from Seigneur d'Aumont that Mirk was an empath fresh in their minds. Which left Mirk, for the first time since he'd heard Laurent yelling his name, mostly alone with his thoughts. And what Mirk felt in his own heart, now that there was nothing standing between him and what had happened, wasn't what he'd been expecting.

He was worried about Laurent. And he didn't know what to expect from Seigneur d'Aumont, once the Grand Master had time to debate with the other members of the Circle about the events that he'd seen recorded on Laurent's memorial stone. And then there was all the confusion he felt over what the recording had shown, his uncertainty over what had happened to the other men that'd been surrounding Serge, dazed and weak, but not dead.

Dead. Above all else, Mirk was glad Serge Montigny was dead.

Biting down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from visibly gagging, Mirk turned around to face the rest of the mages. Most of them were caught up in their own discussions, but they were all watching him. Waiting to see how he'd respond to Laurent's challenge, unwilling to engage until the die had been cast. All the work Mirk had done that night, to try to cultivate a better image for himself, was all but ruined. No one was eager to approach him.

Other than Genesis. Who, after seeing that Mirk wasn't about to hurry off to speak to the others, shifted out of the shadowy corner near the entrance to the ballroom that he'd sunk back into to observe the confrontation between Laurent and Mirk from. The commander's expression was cold. But Mirk got the impression, from the cast of the shadows that trailed after him and the way he was still staring off over Mirk's head, deep in thought, that none of that coldness was directed at him.

"I believe it...may be prudent to retreat for the time being," Genesis said. Only when Mirk didn't reply right away did the commander look down at him, some of the cold edge to his frown fading. "I am also familiar with...the way the Empire conducts itself. I can explain. Somewhat."

Mirk nodded, gesturing toward the rear of the ballroom, at the door that led to the card room and the less ornate one beside it that lead to the servants hall. "I'd very much appreciate that, messire. Please."

Without further comment, Genesis turned and left. That time, Mirk wasn't certain whether the crowd parted more for the commander, or for him.