Shouts and angry yells echoed from the benches around Riv. She looked about, saw White-Wings and many others shouting curses and shaking their fists. Amongst the crowd a few stood still and emotionless: Bleda the ward, alongside those from his Clan who had arrived recently. He was staring at Israfil and the half-breed, his darker skin and almond-shaped eyes drawing Riv’s eyes to him. His companion, Jin, saw Riv’s gaze and nudged Bleda. Riv looked away.

Israfil stood, a ripple passing through his wings, and he strode closer to the half-breed.

‘Whose seed are you spawned from?’ Israfil asked. ‘Who is your sire?’

The half-breed looked up at Israfil, eyes cold with hatred.

‘You are a filthy abomination, a tainted stain upon the land,’ Israfil said. ‘Your very existence is justification for the war we wage against the Kadoshim. They have broken the greatest law, mixing the blood of eternal with mortal, and you are the result.’ Israfil’s face twisted in disgust.

A movement drew Riv’s eyes away from Israfil to the Ben-Elim seated behind him, to Kol. A flash of anger flickered across his face, making his scar twitch, then it was gone.

‘Who is your sire?’ Israfil repeated.

‘Why would I tell you?’ the half-breed said. He spat at Israfil’s feet.

A cascade of blows fell upon the half-breed, head, shoulders, back. He fell forwards, onto his hands.

‘Hold,’ Israfil snapped.

‘Who is your sire?’

‘We know of you, Israfil, petty pawn of the Tyrant,’ the half-breed said. He smiled through bloodied lips. ‘Your days are numbered.’

‘No, half-breed scum,’ Israfil said. ‘It is you who will soon be taking your last breath. But not before you are put to the question. It will not be quick – there are Ben-Elim who have mastered the art of keeping a body alive indefinitely, on the knife-edge of death. By the end we will know everything that you know. It is surprising how long even a piece of corrupted filth like you can live.’ A look of contempt and loathing. ‘It is not a task I take pleasure in, but my holy charge is to protect Elyon’s creation, and you and your ilk are a corruption that must be eradicated.’ Israfil raised a hand, signalling for the beating to continue.

‘Drekar is my father,’ the half-breed blurted. ‘And I am Salk.’

‘You have no name, should not exist. You are a pestilence,’ Israfil said. ‘Where is Drekar, now?’