Anger and horror clawed their way up her throat like bile. Hal wouldn’t have fought them, so they must have hurt him only for sport. They’d even left her makeshift blindfold fastened. It wasn’t only a precaution to keep him from using his magic. The blindfold, its sequins glittering darkly, almost mockingly, was a humiliation tactic, forcing him to stumble blind into this den of wolves.

This wasn’t a trial. It was sick, cheap theater.

The queen did not move. The lacy sleeves of her gown sparkled like frost in the faint sunlight. From behind her veil, Isabel said, “Hal Cavendish. How long I’ve waited for this day.”

He remained silent.

“Show some respect,” the soldier snapped.

He delivered a blow to the back of Hal’s knees with his sheathed sword. Hal crumpled, and a strangled sob escaped Wren’s throat. Mercifully, it was drowned out by the laughter of the spectators. He looked so small and defeated. Not at all how she knew him to be.

“Today, you shall receive judgment for war crimes committed against the Queendom of Danu, as well as the attempted murder of Lord Alistair Lowry. Have you anything to say in your defense?”

Hal kept his head down.

The room fell into a tense, vibrating hush.

“Speak when you’re addressed!” The soldier cracked the hilt of his sword against Hal’s back, sending him sprawling across the floor.

This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t real. This was a nightmare she’d surely stir from. At any moment, she’d awake somewhere else—anywhere else. But she found herself out of her seat, her fingers digging into the balcony’s cold iron railing. Slowly, Hal heaved himself to his knees and spat a glob of blood onto the floor. It was shocking crimson against the white tile. The crowd jeered again. Although he remained impassive, Wren could see his dread in the tension of his shoulders, the firm set of his jaw.

“So be it.” Isabel’s voice dripped disdain. “I, Isabel of House Southerland, by the blood of the Goddess queen of Danu, sentence you to die. You will face execution by hanging tomorrow morning. May the Goddess have mercy on your soul.”

As the crowd broke into raucous cheers, Lowry eagerly leaned forward in his seat. Isabel held up a hand, and the room fell deathly silent.

“Lord Lowry, as you are now a friend to the crown, I would like to extend a gesture of goodwill. You deserve restitution for the attempt on your life. What will you have?”

Lowry did not hesitate. His eyes gleamed black in the sunlight.

“Before the platform drops, I want his eyes.”

The courtiers tittered with laughter. Wren wanted to scream. Did they think this some petty aestheticized justice? Nothing but his typical dramatics and macabre eccentricity?