Darcy shoved Gray down, and Gray resumed his awkward kneel. His eyes were locked onto the marble in front of him.

‘An Othoan mage,’ said the king. ‘This is most unusual.’

‘Majesty,’ said Darcy, ‘in celebration of the summer festival, in display of your strength as ruler, and as a hail to the might of Lismere, I present to you, your prisoners Phineas Longwark and Conor Griffin.’

There was a long and stunned silence.

The hem of the king’s robes were close enough for Gray to reach out and touch.

He didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe.

‘And you brought them here?’ said the king.

‘Yes, sire,’ said Darcy. ‘There have been too many delays. I give them to you.’

‘You do, Darcy,’ said the king.

His voice was colder than ice. It was winter storms, it was frozen gales so frigid they could kill.

There was a long moment. Gray fought back chills running up and down his body.

‘Longwark I know,’ said the king. ‘Though it has been many years.’

‘You know of Conor Griffin, too,’ said Darcy. His voice was too loud.

There was a furious rise in whispering and shifting from the crowd.

‘Clochaint,’ someone hissed, close by. ‘They’ve brought sorcerers here.’

‘So you claim,’ said the king. ‘Where are his papers?’

‘Killian?’ said Darcy.

‘I wrote to you,’ said Killian, ‘explaining. But I think we’ve beaten the crow here. I can give you a proper report in private-’

'You do not have them?' said the king lightly.

'No,' said Killian.

‘You must be getting fatigued,’ said the king, ‘from holding up such a weight, Killian.’

Killian cleared his throat. ‘I’ll put him down wherever you tell me, sire.’

‘Son of Ryan Griffin?’ The king tipped Gray’s chin up with surprising force. ‘Son of Faye D’Oncray?’

‘Yes,’ Gray said, his voice so soft and mumbled that the king frowned and the grand high master stepped closer.

Gray couldn’t keep looking at them, couldn’t keep looking at the crowd. He wished he could be the sort of person to stare into the face of Baldwin Auguste and say no. He felt the childish hope rising within him, that someone, anyone, would come in and save him. But, no one was coming. It was just Gray, and he needed to get himself out of this.

He trained his gaze on the popcorn on the marble ground. It blurred in and out of focus.

The king tipped Gray’s face further, angling it up into the sunlight.

‘I’m so glad,’ he said, ‘that he’s not bruised and swollen so that I might actually see his face.’

‘Killian?’ said Darcy.

‘It happened,’ said Kilian softly, ‘at the poachers. There’s not been enough time to bring down the -’

‘Your magic is spilling, little boy,’ said the king, and for a brief second Gray could hear Sorena in his voice, in his tone. ‘Did you smash that glass vase? Wandlessly? While wearing a dragon scale vest?’

Bow. No eye contact. Don’t talk - unless spoken to. Be very, very polite.

‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Gray, keeping his forehead practically pressed against the marble.

The king swiftly turned on his heel. ‘Come.’

They were moving.

Moving fast.

Through the staring crowd, through mages hurrying to make way, through hissing whispers and pointing fingers. Darcy dragged Gray along in the king’s wake.

They entered a side door and Dracy dragged Gray into the cool quiet of the guild.

Gray could barely take in his surroundings.

His mind was working. Working, working on how the damn he could get out of this.

There was nothing he could use here.

There would be no explosive alchemic escape.

His only weapon was his mouth, but he had no idea what he could even say, and he had barely any filter at the moment.

Their footsteps echoed in the grand space, against glittering floors and walls, reverating off giant artwork on the walls and ornately carved golden doors.

‘Darcy,’ said the king. ‘The orders I gave you did not include making an embarrassing spectacle at the most important event of the year. The grand high master of the Foix mage guild is appalled. The Mage Champion of Unnor - a new, delicate friendship - was visibly outraged.’

‘I was displaying your strength, sire,’ said Darcy. But his voice had lost its confidence. He was almost jogging to keep up with the king’s speed, and because he was, so was Gray.

‘My strength?’ said the king. ‘How so?’

‘You - we - I tracked down a formidable and infamous sorcerer. He was kneeling and shaking at your feet.’

‘Dressed as an Othoan. How pleasing for all those here who have suffered at the hands of Othoa.’

‘Uh,’ said Darcy. ‘Yes.’

‘The Mage Champion of Unnor lost some of his family in the fight against Faye D’Oncray,’ said the king.

‘All the more that this is a cause for celebration, sire,’ said Darcy.

‘The kingdom of Unnor,’ said the king, ‘has successfully eradicated sorcerers from their kingdom for several decades. Throwing Conor Griffin in front of Unnor’s champion, while he’s damn well lighting up and performing wandless magic, was not wise. You have made me look weak. Foolish. Unable to control my own population. You’ve reminded them of our failings as a country at a time when we need them to look past it. You have forced my hand, and that makes me distinctly unhappy.’

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‘Forced your hand, sire?’ Darcy faltered. ‘That was not my intention.’

‘I know you wish to please me,’ said the king. ‘Which is why I’m allowing you one more chance. You too, Killian. I gave you specific instructions on how I wanted Longwark and Griffin handled when they came to Dierne.’

‘Yes,’ said Killian.

‘I did not intend to rush into this,’ said the king. ‘But, for the sake of Unnor and our new, budding friendship, this uncontrolled Conor Griffin will have to be executed immediately.’

‘Baldwin,’ said Killian.

‘Darcy,’ said the king, ‘you can present the head to Unnor’s Mage Champion.’

‘The head-?’ said Killian softly.

‘Unnor deals with sorcerers in the same manner we do,’ said the king.

‘Yes, sire,’ said Darcy.

‘You don’t answer to Unnor, Baldwin,’ said Killian. ‘We’re not desperate for their alliance.’

‘I’m bending over backwards,’ said the king, ‘to keep war, sorcerers, and rebels from our land. In the past two years, Unnor has overtaken us in mage population. They are on the verge of drawing up a ten year mage soldier contract with us. We need them, and you will bend over backwards with me, Killian.’

They crashed through a door and entered a deserted inner courtyard with walls covered in vines. A water fountain bubbled in the centre and off to the side was a garden of colourful flowers.

The sounds of the revelry from the summer festival reached Gray as though from a different planet.

‘Kneel,’ said the king, hanging his gaze on Gray.

Gray knelt as though someone else was going through the motions.

The king’s own sword was out, at the nape of Gray’s neck. Gray started trembling. He wanted it to be over. He didn’t want to go through this part.

Killian’s face was expressionless. He dumped Longwark onto the ground. ‘He’s marked,’ he said. ‘By Wilde. The kid.’

‘I have eyes, Killian,’ said the king.

‘If Wilde wants him dead,’ said Killian, ‘then perhaps we should keep him alive.’

‘You want a sorcerer kept alive?’ said the king, peering at Killian.

‘No,’ said Killian. ‘You know my feelings on this. This goes against everything within me. I’m thinking of the throne. I’m trying to be strategic -’

‘You know what’s better for the throne than I?’ said the king.

‘Shut your mouth, Killian,’ said Darcy.

‘I think,’ said Killian stiffly, ‘we should be playing to Wilde’s weaknesses. I also think you’re resourceful enough to find another way to appease Unnor’s Champion, if you must.’

‘Oh, my sweet Killian,’ said the king. ‘My boy. If you don’t have the stomach for this, then tell me.’

Killian stood rigidly still, boldly holding the king’s eye, his chin tilted up. ‘Baldwin, think about this for a second, who cares about offending Unnor, we need to do what’s best for Lismere, and if Wilde’s marked this kid -’

‘Watch yourself, Killian,’ said the king mildly. He turned his cold gaze onto Gray. ‘Last words?’

Killian let out a small breath, turned on his heel, and slammed out through the courtyard door.

The silence after his departure whistled.

Darcy rubbed his neck. ‘My apologies, sire. He’s - difficult - to handle, at times.’

‘I find him quite easy to handle,’ said the king. ‘Killian, come back.’

The silence of the courtyard stretched.

The king made a small movement with his hand, and then, moments later, Killian stormed back into the courtyard.

‘I’m not swinging the sword for you,’ said Killian, his cheeks colourless.

‘I wouldn’t ask you to,’ said the king. ‘I need your verbal report on Krydon and Sirentown when I’m done here.’

Killian leant his shoulders against the courtyard wall, his dark hair hanging in his eyes.

Once again, the king’s gaze settled back onto Gray. ‘Last words?’

Gray hadn’t been expecting any kind of hint of humanity from the king. Last words? This man had ripped the throat out of a famous northern rebel, in the grand stadium. With his bare hands.

There had been no last words then.

This was it.

Say something, Gray told himself. Anything. Get yourself out of this.

But there was nothing he could say to get out of this, nothing he could think of, and maybe he shouldn't be thinking of talking to save his head, maybe he should be genuinely thinking of what his last words should be.

‘My horse,’ Gray said numbly. ’She’s in The Five Sisters pub in Ravestead. Her name’s Fudgie, she’s - she’s got a brown coat and one white sock and she likes potato crisps …’

An image of Alistair brushing Fudgie, only weeks ago, burst into Gray’s mind.

The numbness within him cracked. Suddenly, his cheeks were hot and wet. He was falling apart. Panic was rising, pushing through the layers of suppressed calm from Lunn’s potions.

’Someone has to take care of her,’ said Gray hoarsely, bowing his head to hide his face. His hands trembled. His skin was getting hot. Brightness threatened.

‘That’s it?’ said the king.

Gray wanted to ask the king to look into Alistair’s death - to keep going with what Gray had started.

And perhaps the king would oblige. Or perhaps it would make everything worse, because the king had known Elona intimately, and he would’ve known Alistair, Alistair had lived at the consort palace with his mother when he was very young.

All before Elona had married Ryan and they’d moved into the Griffin home in Hobbtown.

Gray couldn’t speak. Tears splashed onto the pavings.

The king adjusted his grip on the sword.

‘Krydon,’ said Gray, panicking and forcing himself to speak. ‘I think it’s under a death curse. Someone has to check Branbright didn’t-’

‘What?’ said Darcy, striding forward.

The king swiftly fixed his gaze above Gray’s head. He must’ve been staring at Darcy. ‘Death curse?’

‘There’s no death curse,’ said Darcy. ‘Why would you say such a thing? He’s raving, sire.’

‘Did you remove Branbright’s tongue, Darcy?’ said Killian, his head tilted. ‘I’ve asked you before, but you’ve never said-’

‘General swung the axe,’ said Darcy. ‘You’ll have to ask him when he returns from Othoa. There’s no evidence …’

He trailed off as the king fixed him with his too-intense gaze.

‘You were there, Darcy,’ said Killian, an edge creeping into his tone. ‘You don’t know if Branbright’s tongue was removed?’

‘And you weren’t there,’ said Darcy. ‘You were pouting in the office, so I think you should be silent on the matter.’

‘Lower your voices, both of you,’ said the king. ‘I don’t want rumours of a death curse ripping through my kingdom.’ The king looked down at Gray. ‘Why do you say there’s a death curse?’

The king said this as though inquiring into the state of Gray’s health, as though this was some sort of boring but necessary small talk.

Thought took an age to form in Gray’s frayed mind. Finally, he said, ‘There were scorch marks around - around where he was beheaded-’

‘There wasn’t,’ said Darcy angrily. ‘This boy wasn’t present at the execution, sire, you can’t be entertaining this.’

‘Can’t I?’ said the king.

Darcy stammered into silence.

‘I think it’s best you stay quiet for the moment,’ said the king.

Silence echoed in that courtyard. It was louder than the gentle bubbling of the fountain, and the overspilling voices and music from the summer festival.

‘You were saying?’ said the king to Gray.

Gray swallowed. ‘He - Branbright was doing accidental wandless magic, right before. And intentional. He - healed me. No wand. There was unseasonable rain after he - the weather was odd, but the scorch marks was the main thing …’

The king said nothing. His intense stare bored into Gray. Then his gaze slowly swivelled back up to Darcy. ‘I’ll alert Linus and have Sallow and Fernby go and check Krydon. If they’re incapable of a second fahrenning, I’ll give them my formal orders for two of the high master mages to go with them. They are not to linger. They investigate the area where Branbright was executed and then they return immediately.’

Outside the courtyard, the noise was rising.

There were shouts.

Trumpets sounded.

Bells started tolling.

The king looked up. They all did.

And then, as though decided this was unworthy of his attention, the king eyed Gray again.

Took precise aim.

Swung back his sword.

A mage burst through the courtyard door, dressed in simple black fighting leathers and a black hood flying out behind him. He was armed with several daggers that had clearly seen recent action, judging by their condition.

He wore a leather holster for his wand exactly the same as the one the king wore.

Gray had never seen a mage dressed like this, without the elaborate and layered robes, without the ornate and expensive jewellery, without the complicated twisting, braiding, and styling of the hair.

This mage was sweating.

Out of breath.

Marked with fresh bruising and dirt.

‘General found Conor Griffin, Your Majesty,’ said the mage.

The king’s sword halted, cold steel biting into Gray’s neck.

‘Excuse me, soldier?’ said the king.

The mage rushed on, his face alight, and clutching a stitch in his side. ‘General extracted Conor Griffin from Wilde in Othoa, Your Majesty.’

The king was silent.

The mage waved a curled piece of parchment. ‘I have the announcement here, sire. Written in General’s own hand. General has him. Conor Griffin.’

The king yanked the parchment out of the guard’s hand. His intensely bright eyes moved as he read it.

‘Conor Griffin?’ said Darcy, frozen in place. ‘Conor Griffin is here.’

The mage hesitated, glancing at Gray. ‘That’s not Conor Griffin.’

‘It is,’ said Darcy.

‘I saw him,’ said the mage excitedly. ‘Spitting image of Ryan. He wiped out General’s men with one wave of his hand. He created a fire tornado in an attempt to escape. Wandlessly. Didn’t even break a sweat. Conor Griffin.’

‘Baldwin,’ muttered Killian breathlessly. ‘Baldwin-’

‘Wilde?’ said the king, dropping the parchment.

‘He - he escaped. We have agents tracking him, Your Majesty.’

‘Conor,’ said the king delicately, ‘Griffin.’ He leant on his sword, ever so slightly, so that Gray held back a wince. ‘Then, who the hell is this?’