They sat together, just the two of them, taking tea on the greenhouse balcony as though it were naught but a pleasant social call. Beatrice’s hands shook so hard that she was forced to set down the cup, lest she spill its contents all over herself.

“Are you quite well, Lady Stagston?”

Forcing herself to meet the intruder’s politely inquisitive gaze, she pulled her lips into a smile.

“Q-quite my lord,” she managed. “Merely exhausted and a touch overwhelmed, I must admit.”

Lord High Inquisitor Zacharias Metzger returned her smile. It was an expression with all the appearance of kind sincerity, his tawny eyes crinkled at the corners and all. Her insides clenched. Somehow, this was more unsettling to her than the cold, brutal severity she’d expected.

“Ah, I can understand all too well. With your soon-to-be mother-in-law holding court, and now my own unexpected arrival…well, I hope you will forgive my part in your distress. But you see, dear lady, as a member of my brotherhood, your wife Darcy is like family to me.”

“Indeed, my lord?”

“Indeed. And that, of course, makes you like family to me. And so, I simply had to be sure that all was well. For both your sakes.”

Reminding herself to breathe, Beatrice clasped her hands together in her lap to stop them from shaking. It did not work.

“That is kind of you, my lord, but I must inquire as to the cause of your concern. Is Darcy quite alright? I’m…I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to see or speak with her since she left us for the capitol.”

His eyes studied hers, brows coming together. Then he leaned back with a deep sigh, his seat creaking under his weight. He had a tall, broad-shouldered figure, dense with muscle. It was the body of a predator, the almost feline contours of it visible even with the dark obstructions of suit and breastplate. All of it made for a strange counterpoint to his kind face with its neat beard and pale fawn-brown hair, pulled back at the base of his neck.

“I fear that Darcy has not seemed entirely herself in her time with us, my lady Stagston. She claims it to be the result of treatments of the mind administered by her personal Wolf mage. I had not known that Darcy was so troubled as to seek such relief, and I rather consider it a failing of my own that I did not. Thus, I have come to speak personally with her mage…and of course, with you.”

Beatrice could not think of what to say, nor did she dare to take up her tea again. So instead she composed her expression into one of casual inquiry. Or at least, she did her best to.

“You must understand, Lady Stagston, what I am obliged to take into account. For all that may have vexed her, I have never known Darcy to seek refuge in Wolfen arts. She faced her troubles alone, unfettered—as she does most things. But then, her pack takes in a Fox, and overnight, her very nature changes. I am obligated to consider the connection. To examine its implications.”

“O-of course, Lord Inquistor,” chirped Beatrice, voice unnaturally high.

He smiled and set his own teacup down upon its saucer.

“Ah, you do understand. Good. In that case, I pray you will forgive me.”

Before Beatrice could so much as take her next breath, the inquisitor brought up his hands as dark and flashing forms shot forth from his sleeves. It was only when the things curled cold and hard about her wrists, throat, and chest and hoisted her off her feet that she realized they were bands of metal. She cried out once, briefly, then forced herself to stillness.

He cannot truly hurt you. Not legally. Not until you’ve shown a direct sign of power.

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Stay. Calm.

The metal tightened, almost but not quite enough to cut into her skin. Her next breath came hard, for she could not fully expand her chest.

Something in her expression made the inquisitor chuckle.

“You’ve heard whispers of me, I’m sure? Heard tell of the Jaguar who so presumptuously accepted the inquisitorial order’s highest position, thusly denying the title to much worthier Wolves?” He exhaled through his nose, and Beatrice truly could not tell if he was bitter or amused.

She had heard of him, but most of what she knew, she’d learned only minutes before making his acquaintance. She took a deep breath and regretted the action immediately. The metal band about her neck pressed into her flesh, reopening the wound Darcy had left her with. She bit into her lip as a drop of blood welled past the metal to slip down the center of chest. The inquisitor’s eyes narrowed, if only ever so slightly.

“Simple creatures we, of stone and earth and metal,” he said, voice low, almost rhythmic. A deep purr. “So they say.” He took another step closer, looking up into her eyes where she hung, bound, in the air.

“But so few people understand the limitations of Wolves. That theirs is a power gained by sacrifice. And even fewer understand the truths of my kind, the extent of our power.”

The bands tightened almost imperceptibly, but enough that it now cut off the flow of blood from her wound.

“We do not just move stone, twist metal. We are stone. We are metal. Through the earth we feel, through the earth we see. Through the earth we know.”

And then—confoundingly—he closed his eyes and turned away from her.

“So. Tell me, my dear Lady Stagston. Are you, to your knowledge, a mage?”

Her heart raced, her blood ran hot and cold in turns, and her breath came in short, panicked pants as her composure cracked.

“N-no!”

For a moment, all was silent save the rain pattering against the greenhouse glass. Then, slowly, gently, he lowered her to her feet. The inquisitor turned to gaze down at her.

“And tell me, dear lady, what think you of your wife? Are you Called to her? Do you love her?”

Beatrice swallowed, heart pounding against her ribs.

“I—”

The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as the inquisitor released her at last. The metal bands flowed back to their owner and up his sleeves, where she could just make them out as they curled snake-like about his arms.

“No need to say more, my lady, I’ve answer enough. Darcy!”

He bellowed the last so loudly Beatrice flinched. Then the door swung open and her wife strode in, hands clasped behind her back. Her eyes flashed to Beatrice for half a heartbeat and then away as she bowed to her superior.

“Lord High Inquisitor.”

The inquisitor’s blade sang as he drew it from its scabbard to shine ivory and pearlescent between them. Another sword of bone.

“Dame Stagston. If you would present your left hand.”

Darcy did as she was bid. The inquisitor positioned himself to one side of her as he raised the sword, its blade shining sharper than anything wrought of mere bone ever should.

“You will summon a portal,” said Lord High Inquisitor Metzger. “Or your wife shall lose her hand.”

Beatrice’s breath came wild and rapid and shallow, eyes skirting from her wife’s face to her tormentor’s. Darcy stared resolutely away from her.

“I…I cannot, my lord. I’m not—”

“You are. And you will.”

“You w-wouldn’t,“ stammered Beatrice. “You can’t!”

“I assure you, by Darcy’s oaths as a knight, I’ve every right to remove whatever pieces of her I see fit for good of crown and country. And I shall not hesitate to do so, as she well knows.”

Beatrice shook her head, took a stumbling step back.

“I can’t.”

The inquisitor’s brow furrowed and he shook his head, reminding Beatrice—twistedly—of a disappointed father.

“I shall count down from six,” he said.

No matter what, don’t give in to him. No matter what.

Charles’ words echoed in her thoughts as panic like a trapped beast clawed her from within. The inquisitor began to count down.

“Six…five…”

Beatrice wrapped her arms about herself, nails biting into her skin as though she could physically hold back her power.

“Four…three…”

She felt the weight of eyes upon her and looked over to find Darcy’s wide amber gaze fixed her way. Beautiful. Resolute. And then again her wife looked away.

It was too much. It was all too much. She could feel the cracks in her composure, spreading swift as lightning bolts.

Disperse or redirect, she chanted inwardly. Disperse or redirect.

But she knew she’d no hope of the former.

“Two…”

There was a great shuddering within her, and Beatrice gathered the last threads of her resolve, gripped them tight.

Redirect.

“One.”

The blade came flying down, and Beatrice’s power flared. As iridescence burst the air around her, she made her choice…enforced it with every ounce of will she had. The colors flashed and crackled. Her particles flew apart and reconfigured as her fox form bloomed around her soul.

There was a strange sound. Meaty, wet and very brief. And then there was a gentle thud, a sudden exhalation. The mist of colors cleared, and Beatrice found herself staring at Darcy’s severed hand, the air rich with the copper tang of her blood as it pooled across the floor.