Lord Mire kept his mouth shut. Lane could tell, because nobody else asked her about what was going on, and Picot didn’t rescind his invitation to her. He did show up to complain about why she had dragged the prince’s governess into all of this—apparently, he had been unsuccessful in separating her from her charge ever since.

Lane wished she had time to shake hands with the woman.

But she retreated back to the office, to let Mr. Grooch know what she was going to do, and to make sure Duke Stuard’s special servants were ready, too. The offices of Pettau, deVries and Carter should be empty, so that would make their work easier, she hoped.

The spy she spoke to nodded. “Keep them busy for half an hour, and we'll find whatever they’re hiding. Picot will have to wait for another day.”

“We'll take care of Picot,” Lane said. Morgulon turned invisible before the head spy could ask.

“That’s useful to know,” he commented.

It made Lane's stomach cramp with worry, to spread Morgulon’s secrets like that. But she couldn’t stop now.

While they discussed plans, Mrs. Ehricke had drummed up a simple dress for Morgulon. The elder wasn’t thrilled, but put it on anyway. She’d simply take up less space as a human.

She listened in to the planning, too. When the spy left, she asked: “What if. We don’t.”

She waved frustrated, glaring at Lane as if it was her fault she had to speak.

“What if we don’t find anything?” Lane asked.

Morgulon nodded abruptly.

Lane took a deep breath. “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I guess I’ll confront Picot anyway. We have Greg’s testimony and maybe more importantly, Bishop Larssen’s. Just no proof that there’s a connection between Vavre’s missing jars and Picot.”

“Your word. Against him.”

Lane nodded. “That’s what it will come down to,” she confirmed. “The bishop is our best chance, at this point.”

“Talk. To him?”

“You think I should?”

Morgulon just shrugged, which was typical, really. In fact, she had said more than she usually would.

Maybe she should talk to Bishop Larssen.

When she made for the door, Morgulon disappeared from sight. A moment later, Lane felt a tug at the back of her own dress. Morgulon held on with one hand, as Lane took a few steps to test how it felt. It was strange, and it took them walking down a couple of corridors to move together in step without tripping each other up. Doors were the hardest, but by the time they found Bishop Larssen at the infirmary, Morgulon had figured out how to duck through with Lane seamlessly.

When they reached the infirmary, Morgulon became visible again. Larssen jumped, and so did the Royal Healer and Duke Stuard’s physician.

“Do you have a minute, Monseigneur?” Lane asked. “In private?”

***

When Lane arrived with Morgulon at Picot’s door at the agreed time, there were a couple of guards outside the door. However, when it opened, it was the marquess himself smiling at her, not a butler.

“Countess. I’m glad you made it,” he claimed, stepping back to let her in. Lane felt Morgulon pressed against her back as she entered. She wondered what the werewolf’s presence did to the shape of her skirts, but managed to stop herself from looking. There was already someone else approaching the door, and Picot never noticed.

“Marquess Rover,” Picot said. “Welcome.”

“This better not be a waste of time again,” the young man complained. “Lady deLande, my apologies.”

“Not at all, Marquess Rover,” Lane replied.

She was proud that her voice didn’t give away how her heart raced as she curtsied and Morgulon let go of her dress. Picot’s salon was quite large, with three long couches forming a big U around the oversized fireplace. Little side tables had been set up with cakes and other sweets, tea and wine.

Lane had no intention to touch any of it.

Lord Mire was already stiffly sitting at one of the couches, his back to the wall. Pettau had claimed another couch. Lane curtsied towards them both. Was Pettau staring at her chest as she did? Not that there was much to see there. She still took the spot next to Mire—just in time to see the door to the next room move seemingly on its own.

She glanced around the room quickly, but Picot and Rover were glaring at each other. She hadn’t been paying attention to what Rover had said. Pettau—yes, he was certainly staring at her chest.

Lord Mire frowned at the door that gently closed again. If he thought the movement was odd, he didn’t mention it.

Count Levier appeared next, then Counts Carter and deVries. Commander Bacrot showed up, too, as did Michel deBurg, and then finally, Marian Desmarais, oldest daughter of the late duke, walked in, the prince by her side. He had Annabelle and a stern-looking woman dressed all in grey in tow. That had to be the governess. She remained standing behind her charge, who sat down between Marquess Rover and Michel deBurg.

Picot remained standing, while Carter and Levier sat down with Pettau. Did that mean Levier was in on the plot?

But she didn’t have time to worry about that. Morgulon was in Picot’s personal quarters. All she could do at this point was hope that the jars they were looking for weren’t stashed underneath the couch she sat on.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for joining me here,” Picot was already opening the meeting. “Important people aren’t here, and I’d like to express my deepest condolences again, Lady Desmarais. I know this is a trying time, and everyone here has other places to be. So I will make it short. We lost at Port Neaf. The army of the Valoise is landing as we speak. In a day or two, they will surely march towards Deva. Duke Stuard, for all he started this war, might not be alive to see them arrive here. So it falls to us, the remaining nobility of Loegrion, to make a decision on the future.”

“It sounds like you have a plan already,” Lord Mire said. “So save us the theatrics. I certainly have a better place to be.”

Picot looked from one face to the other, then bowed slightly to Mire. “I propose we surrender,” he said. “Plain and simply. Whatever terms the Roi Solei sets, they cannot be worse than what awaits us if we fight.”

“But that’s exactly what the traitors want!” Rover burst out.

“No doubt it is,” Picot said. “But what are our other options?”

“Well, for one, we should continue to search for the murderer,” Lane said. “I think we owe that much to Duke Desmarais? The Roi Solei will hardly turn the poisoner over once we have surrendered.”

“So you would doom us all for revenge?” Pettau asked.

“I would,” Lord Mire said. “And if it were your sons laying on the deathbed, Lord Pettau, I guarantee you would, too. Are there any news yet in that regard, Lady deLande?”

“Investigations are ongoing as we speak,” Lane said. “As soon as there are results forthcoming, I will be sure to inform you all.”

“Investigations by whom?” Rover asked. “And can we help?”

“Duke Stuard has lent me all his own guards and servants,” Lane said. She nodded towards Commander Bacrot. “They are working with the City Watch and Palace Guard already. And the werewolves are helping to the best of their abilities.”

“The werewolves. How can the werewolves help in an investigation this delicate?” Pettau asked.

Sweating, wasn’t he? Lane smiled. “They do have excellent noses.”

Lord Mire stared at the door to the next room. Thankfully, he kept his mouth shut.

“All right—fine. We continue looking for the traitor,” Picot said impatiently. “But that one goal cannot take all our attention at this dire hour! At the very least, we should send a diplomat south! I believe the Levant himself was to land at our shores, surely he would be the first person we need to contact to start negotiations!”

He was an excellent actor, Lane had to give it to him. The way he was wringing his hands, looking pleadingly at them all—very convincing. Maybe he truly was just scared. Maybe it was Pettau, after all, or deVries. Lane had paid little attention to the latter. When they had talked shortly after the Rot had invaded Deva, he hadn’t made much of an impression on her. Just another yes-man, she had thought. Maybe he was in the Roi Solei’s pocket?

She had no idea.

“Is that your only advice, Lord Picot?” Lane asked, when nobody else said anything. “Let’s negotiate? Surrender? Duke Stuard asked me to remind you all of this: Think on why we are even fighting this war. If we cower before the Roi Solei today, we will be cowering before the Rot for the rest of our lives. Our children and children’s children will be cowering before the Rot for all of their lives, too. Do we truly want to invite another High Inquisitor into our land, to murder people by the score and raise them as human sacrifices?”

“Even d’Evier only did that when we started rebelling!” That came from Pettau, leaning forwards, glaring at her.

“That’s a lie,” Lane said calmly. “And you know that. D’Evier’s predecessor left us alone, but d’Evier killed how many people along both the Savre and the White Torrent, to dump them into the river? A dozen? Two dozen? You cannot tell me that he didn’t know it would strengthen the Rot in the rivers.”

“Well, maybe the next High Inquisitor—”

Both Marquess Rover and Lord Mire started laughing derisively before Lord Pettau even finished.

“Lord Pettau, you know the next High Inquisitor won’t be any better,” Lane said calmly.

“But does that truly matter?” Lord Carter asked. “Yes. The Rot is bad. I’m not denying that. But are we really gaining anything if we allow a war to happen on our lands? If it is true that each and every battle field has the potential to grow a new Rot-queen, shouldn’t we be doing everything in our power to prevent as many battles as we can? Lady deLande, I stand with Lord Picot because I love Loegrion too much to hand it over to the Rot or the werewolves.”

“Thank you,” Picot said. “That is precisely my point. If we want to stop the Heartlands from looking like Mannin in a few months, we have to stop this madness!”

Lane took a deep breath. “At the very least, let us wait for Count deVale to get here, to see how many survivors he was able to rally. He’ll be here before the Valoisian army. If we’re going to throw away any chance at a free Loegrion, shouldn’t we at least wait for the men who fought and gave their life for that dream, so they can weigh in on the decision?”

“But do we really want to wait until the warmongers are back?” Pettau asked. “How will that help?”

“Calling your own son a warmonger?” Lane asked. “Marquess, that’s rich.”

“I’m with the Countess,” Commander Bacrot said. “This is not a decision to rush into. We have not heard Count deVale directly. We don’t even know what became of Marquess deBurg, or your son, for that matter, Lord Pettau. It will take the Valoise days to land a whole army, even with Port Neaf secured. We can wait a week.”

“I cannot imagine we’ll learn anything in a week that’s worth waiting for,” Levier said. “I agree with Picot. If we start now, we can use that week to maybe argue more favourable terms. Once the army is standing at Deva’s gates, what are we going to barter with?”

DeVries was, unsurprisingly, with Pettau, Picot and Levier.

Neither Lady Desmarais nor the young deBurg said anything at all. Prince George was sniffling softly. Lord Mire kept looking at Lane, clearly not interested in anything beyond her promise.

Round and round the discussion went. Lane was keenly aware that all her arguments came down to “let’s not be cowards, let’s not rush this, maybe some good news will come to us in a few days.” And those weren’t good arguments while the Grande Armee was marching towards them. It was all she had though.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

She couldn’t tell them “we can’t hang the werewolves out to dry,” as much as she wanted to. It wouldn’t matter to them. These men didn’t stand with their backs against the wall quite the same way she did. Well, maybe Bacrot did. But the rest of them?

They thought they might just save themselves even at the price of all the werewolves, and the damages that would do to all the people who didn’t live in the safety of the heartlands.

It didn’t help that the Heartlands would be safer if they stopped the war. It was the rest of the country that would be screwed over if they allowed the Valoise to take power again. And the werewolves.

She couldn’t allow that.

It was hard not to look over towards the door every few seconds. Nothing moved over there. Morgulon didn’t show herself again.

And Michel deBurg was slowly falling for Picot’s “let’s save at least the Heartlands” pitch. Even while his own father might still be alive. Maybe she shouldn’t blame him. He was even younger than Rover had been when the weight of his father’s position had been dumped on his shoulders.

“So let’s put it to a vote,” Lane said finally. “At the Grande Gallerie. Lord Picot, you will present your side of the argument, and I’ll present mine.”

Picot looked surprised at that. “I was about to suggest the same,” he said. “You know you won’t win that vote, milady?”

“Perhaps,” Lane said grimly. “But if I am to die, then I want all of Loegrion’s nobility to judge me. Not this poor excuse for a war council.”

Picot had the nerve to look shocked at her proclamation. “You—why would you…”

Lane stood up, head held high. “Oh please, Lord Picot, you cannot possibly be this naive. If Loegrion surrenders, the Roi Solei will demand scapegoats, to be burned at the stake at the very least, if not to follow the High Inquisitor into a watery grave. I will surely be one of them. So will my fiance and his family. Possibly Marquess deBurg, should he be still alive. Even Lady Ariana, should she by some miracle survive, is in danger. Do not lie to me about this, milords. You knew this the moment you suggested we surrender.”

“I would, of course, offer you my protection,” Picot said.

How very generous of him. Lane rolled her eyes. “As what, your adoptive daughter? I doubt that would be enough to stay the Roi Solei’s hand, and I would much prefer to stand and die with my chosen family.”

Would he offer to marry her? His own children were scarcely younger than she was, and his wife not dead that long.

But he didn’t say anything more at all.

“A vote then,” Pettau said, as if Lane hadn’t spoken at all. “I say, let’s get it over with.”

He rose, too, and one by one, everyone else followed. Lord Mire grabbed her hand before Lane could walk after Picot as he made for the door.

“You said—you promised—” he hissed.

“I will levy the accusation at the Grande Gallerie,” Lane whispered back.

They were the last to file out, and behind them, the door to the next room clicked. Lane held her breath, then felt Morgulon’s hand on her arm as she walked out of Picot’s chambers. She let herself fall behind a little, but couldn’t shake Lord Mire, who was intend on her.

“Picot,” the werewolf whispered, unseen, after a few yards. “No jars. But smelled. The killer. From the house.”

“What killer—” Lane asked, trying to move her lips as little as possible. Her head was spinning. “Wait, you mean, Vavre’s killer?”

“That.”

“Can you follow that trail?” Lane whispered.

“Will.”

Morgulon let go of her. After a few more steps, Lane glanced over her shoulder. There was the rush of displaced air, and then werewolf claws clicked past them.

Lane lengthened her steps to catch up with the rest of the group before they turned suspicious.

***

To Lane’s endless relief, both Bishop Larssen and Greg were standing ready at the Grande Gallerie, joining her as soon as the group of lords entered. Warning them before the meeting had been a good idea of Morgulon’s. Greg must have spread the word, because Laurent barked sharply before Picot could even open his mouth. Magic rippled across the Gallerie.

Lane took a deep breath, folding her hands behind her back. In the sudden silence after the echo, her voice carried from one salon to the other.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I accuse Marquess Picot of high treason! I also accuse him of the dastardly murder of Duke Desmarais, and the attempted murder of Duke Stuard. Furthermore, I accuse Marquess Picot of the insidious attempted murder of everyone else lying sick here. I accuse Marquess Pettau and Counts deVries and Carter of aiding and abetting him in the crime.”

She took a deep breath to shout over the shocked voices all around: “I call on Lord Gregory Feleke and Monseigneur, Bishop Larssen, as witnesses!”

The counts were yelling something back at her that didn’t fully register. Lane didn’t even try to make out their words.

She braced herself, and yelled: “Marquess Picot, I call on Our Lord Mithras Himself as my witness! I challenge you to a Test of Faith!”

She hadn’t prayed properly in months, but in the sudden silence, she prayed with all her heart that Larssen was right. That she could. She would never even have dared something so presumptuous. But against Picot? She reckoned compared to his, her conscience was indeed clear, her soul pure.

Pettau was the first to find his voice again. “You can’t do that! No woman can possibly pass that test! It’s for priests only!”

“Blasphemy,” Bishop Larssen said calmly. “Any man, or indeed, woman, can test their faith and be judged in front of our Lord. Any believer can present this challenge.”

“Unless, of course, Marquess Picot would rather prefer to explain to a human judge why he consorted with a spy of Rambouillet who had a specific interest in wild mushrooms,” Greg added.

“Lies!” Picot screeched. “This is slander! Slander, lies and trickery! This is not why I agreed to come here!”

He was looking around wildly, but the pent up fear of the past few days was turning to anger fast. The sick and their relatives wanted to see someone burn for this. They probably didn’t care if it was Picot or Lane or anyone else.

Lane gritted her teeth. Bishop Larssen had picked up the basin of coals which the healers used to burn their magical waste in, carrying it towards her. All eyes were on the old Bishop now. It was a well-known fact that he feared no fire, so he set down the brazier in the middle of the room.

“I invite the lords and ladies, and indeed the healers and servants present, to ascertain that this fire has not been tampered with,” he said, as he sat it down.

“Where is your proof!” Picot yelled, as people streamed forwards. Lord Mire was first, and then a grey-faced Imani followed. Several of the nurses. Sick people and healthy people got as close to the fire as they could bear.

“Where is your evidence?” Picot screamed, face turning white and whiter. “You cannot just make a claim this outrageous and expect me to simply entertain this challenge!”

“I have no proof,” Lane admitted. “Not yet. I do have the testimony of Bishop Larssen—”

“And a werewolf!” Picot howled. “A half-animal!”

“And Lord Gregory Feleke, yes,” Lane said. “I also have the results of the investigation of Duke Stuard’s own men, and the testimony of a second werewolf that places the killer of the spy in your office. Make no mistake—in a week or two, I will have proof. We will have all the proof you could possibly ask for. But there are too many people in this room who do not have that much time. And they deserve to know why they suffer so.”

Duke Stuard was the last to hold out his hands over the burning coals. He pulled it back without another word, but remained standing next to the brazier.

Lane moved to join the duke. Her hands itched, already wet with cold sweat.

“You’re mad, you know that?” Duke Stuard muttered.

It hadn’t even been her idea. Larssen had proposed this solution in case Morgulon couldn’t produce solid proof of Picot’s treachery. But it had to be her.

And if there was one thing she had faith in right now, it was Picot’s guilt.

“Lord Picot, do you forfeit this challenge?” Duke Stuard asked. “Do you confess the murder?”

The duke looked bad, like he could barely keep himself upright. All he wore was a nightgown with a dressing robe and felt slippers. But the mere fact that he had dragged himself out of bed for this lent the challenge weight.

“I confess nothing,” Picot growled. He looked around the room wide eyed, and finally stepped forwards. He glared at the duke, then addressed Larssen: “So tell me, Monseigneur, how do I prove my innocence in this madness?”

“Pray with me to Lord Mithras,” Larssen said. “And reach into the flame. If your heart is pure, you have nothing to fear. Hold up a piece of burning coal as the unmistakable sign that Lord Mithras smiles on you. As the challenged party, it’s your choice if you want to go first or leave it to Lady deLande. It will not make a difference either way.”

“You’re saying that even if she bursts into flame—”

“Her guilt has no mark on your innocence,” Bishop Larssen said calmly. “Are you ready, milady?”

“I am,” Lane said.

“Well then.” Bishop Larssen kneeled. “Lord Mithras, Lord of Flame, we have gathered together here today for your judgement. Judgement of character. Judgement of heart. Judgement of the truth of the allegations levied against Marquess Picot by Countess Lane deLande…”

Lane didn’t hear the rest of it. The words didn’t matter. He would continue to ask for judgement in different words until she made her move. It would only get harder the longer she waited, especially if she let him get to the part of what would happen to her soul should she be wrong in her accusation.

She had seen this ritual as a very small child, had seen people chicken out at the last minute—but she wouldn’t. The flames licked against her hands, hot and soft and sharp at the same time. She wished Larssen hadn’t mentioned the judgement of her character. That, she wasn’t sure about at all.

But she was certain of Picot’s guilt. If nothing else, she trusted in Morgulon’s nose. In Greg’s words. In her own two eyes.

A drop of sweat fell into the fire, sending up a shower of sparks against her dress’s sleeves. Flames licked up her arms. Was this what Morgulon had gone through when the circus burned down around her?

But no. The flames didn’t consume her. They were hot, and they hurt, but they were hot in the same way sand in the summer was hot, stinging underfoot without actually doing harm. She had endured far worse.

When her hands closed around a lump of coal, she couldn’t hold back a smile. She looked up at Picot and raised the coals high over her head—hate contorted his face. He leaned forwards to stare into the brazier, flinching back when another series of sparks erupted towards his face.

“Well played, milady,” he finally whispered, whipping out a blade, grabbing her. She tried to dump the lump of coal into his face, but he ducked away, the blade on her neck never wavering.

“I am leaving,” he announced to the room. “May you all rot in hell! She’ll go there first, if you try to stop me!”

But he had hesitated too long. Lord Mire had pulled out a pistol, pointing it at Picot. It was the only part of him that wasn’t shaking madly with rage. Lane tried to free herself, to get away from Picot, but the Marquess pulled her closer, holding her right in front of his own body.

“Explain yourself, Picot,” Lord Mire demanded. “Explain this, or Mithras help me, I’ll judge you on the spot!”

Duke Stuard was already pulling his son out of the way, pushing him behind Annabelle. Lane approved of that. She very much wanted to hide behind a werewolf, too. Greg was too far away though, and Morgulon was nowhere in sight.

Lord Mire’s gun never left her face.

“Mithras help me, I’ll shoot you both, Picot,” the stewart said softly. “Tell me if you poisoned my sons. No, tell me why! And who else was in on this?”

“Why?” Picot snarled. “There’s a bloody pack of werewolves standing on the Grande Gallerie, and you have the nerve to ask me why? There is a woman in this room, thinking it’s her place to make decisions about the future of the whole country, and you have the nerve to ask me why? Commoners are taking land—women run around in men’s trousers—and you dare ask me why?”

“I want to see the rest of them take this challenge,” Lord Mire said, as if Picot hadn’t spoken at all. “Bishop Larssen, I want the rest of them to face that flame!”

“Absolutely not.” Pettau said. Before anyone could stop him, he pulled out his own pistol, taking a couple of steps to gain a clear aim and firing at Lord Mire, twice. The prince screamed. So did Morgulon, turning visible right between Lord Mire and Pettau. There was a hole in her chest and blood on Lord Mire’s vest.

“Idiot,” Morgulon snarled. Her body flowed apart into her wolf shape, and then back into her human body. The bullets fell to the ground with a clink.

“Learn. Something,” she growled. “Stupid coward.”

The hole in her chest was gone.

Silence fell at that. Lane thought Picot’s blade at her throat was suddenly a lot less steady. Pettau had wasted his shots, and outside, she heard guards running.

“Drop the blade, Picot,” Mire ordered. “You’re done.”

“Anyone moves, and I kill her,” Picot said. “That includes you, bitch!” he growled.

Morgulon had turned invisible again.

“If you kill me, she’ll just rip you to pieces,” Lane said.

“Show yourself!” Picot howled.

Morgulon did: Just a fraction of a second before her teeth closed around Picot’s arm, she became visible again. She ripped him off Lane, riding him down to the ground, smashing his head against the tiles.

Snarling, teeth bared, she turned around, body shielding Lane and blocking her view at the same time.

When Lane stepped out of Morgulon’s shadow, the remaining traitors were frozen between Lord Mire’s pistol and Morgulon’s teeth.

Very slowly, Lord Carter raised his hands, looking from face to face.“I swear, I had nothing to do with this. I did not poison anyone. I did not help anyone do so.”

“Then surely, you won’t mind taking Lady deLande’s challenge?” Lord Mire asked.

As all eyes turned back to her, Lane felt at her throat, at the thin cut there. At least it didn’t feel like Picot’s knife had been poisoned. He groaned behind her.

She rolled her shoulders and stepped back towards the brazier. “I am ready, Count Carter, Count deVries?”

Behind them, the palace guard was storming in. Carter glanced at them, then took a step forwards, towards the fire bowl.

“I confess, I backed Picot on the issue of surrender,” Carter said, sweating hard. His gaze darted back and forth between her and Bishop Larssen. “But I swear to Mithras I did not know he was in cahoots with the enemy. And I was not involved in planning the poisoning. I can—my conscience is pure in that regard.”

When Lane nodded to him, Bishop Larssen took up his sermon again.

Lane didn’t hesitate this time, reaching down for the coals without breaking eye-contact with Carter. “You were at the casino the same night a Mr. Vavre, accountant here at the palace, talked to Picot,” she said. “You must have seen him. A slightly heavy set man, wearing a dark robe, entering the casino to talk to Picot briefly, before leaving again.”

When Carter just stared at the coal in her hands, looking dazed, she added: “A few minutes later, Lord Gregory Feleke joined you for a game of hazards. Do you recall the night I’m talking about?”

“I—I do,” Carter finally said. He swallowed hard, reaching out towards the fire. He flinched, briefly, at the heat, but persisted. “I know the man you mean. I did not know his name though. He reported to Picot often at the casino. I believe it was him who first started the rumour that your husband cheated in the lynx hunt—but it was all just gossip. I saw no harm in it.”

“And a duel to the finish didn’t change your mind?” Lane asked.

“I didn’t think it would go that far!” Carter claimed. His face was contorted in pain, but he didn’t pull his hands out of the brazier, either. “Picot—he helped me facilitate contact with another hunter, I thought that would settle the matter! I didn’t think…”

His fingers closed around a small piece of coal, which broke apart in his hands. “I didn’t think, did I?” he asked. “I never would have believed someone would resort to poison.”

He pulled up his hand, the broken piece of coal clutched in his fingers, which caused a soft cheer from the onlookers. DeVries sneered as palace guards shackled his hands on his back, following after Pettau and Picot.

And then it was over.

“Thank you, Lord Mithras, for your judgement,” Bishop Larssen finished.

Lane bowed her head, rubbing her hands together. She couldn’t quite believe that she had really done it, that Mithras hadn’t struck her down for even daring to call on him.

She almost wished her father could see her right now.

He’d probably accuse her of cheating the Lord Mithras Himself.