Pallas waved two Witnesses forward, and they went to Ephyra, uncuffing her as Pallas spoke to the crowd.

“The Pale Hand seeks out the wicked,” he continued. “Rooting out the corruption of our society. Her justice is dispensed on behalf of our Creator. She is the instrument of his judgment, the Hand of God. And she will dispense the fates of these liars and apostates.”

Pallas let his gaze fall on Ephyra.

“Pale Hand, take the first of your victims.”

He indicated Illya, his expression placid. But Beru knew this was a test. He must know something of their past together—that Ephyra had once trusted Illya. That perhaps she did again.

Ephyra prowled toward Illya, her face carefully blank.

Beru’s chest tightened. Ephyra was going to do it. She was going to kill him—for Beru. She felt Pallas’s eyes on her and knew why he had summoned her. It wasn’t just for the spectacle in front of the priests and Sentry. It was for Beru to see what he could do. To show her that even now, after all this time, she was still turning her sister into a killer.

Pallas had both Beru and Ephyra clutched in the palm of his hand, and there was nothing either of them could do.

“Don’t,” Beru gasped, her voice swallowed by the wind. She took a step toward Ephyra. Then another. Lazaros gripped her arm in warning. “Ephyra.”

Standing over Illya’s kneeling form, Ephyra met Beru’s eyes across the platform. She shook her head minutely, and then wrapped her hand around Illya’s throat, her eyes falling shut.

Beru trembled. She had never seen Ephyra kill before, not really. The only times she’d been there for it, she’d been too weak to track what was happening. But here on this platform above the bleak sea, she saw everything. She saw the breath that rose and fell in Ephyra’s chest as she pulled Illya’s esha from his body. She saw how her hand tightened over his throat. She saw Illya’s eyes fall shut, his body relaxing, his chest going still.

A scream tore from Beru’s throat, and only Lazaros’s iron grip kept her from flinging herself across the platform as Illya collapsed, a pale handprint almost glowing against his skin.

“No,” Beru croaked, straining against Lazaros’s hold. “No.”

He was dead.

Tears stung Beru’s eyes as Ephyra stepped back from Illya’s body. She felt numb, horror pitting her stomach.

This murderous, cold-blooded killer—How could that be her sister? How had Beru let her become this?

Another group of Witnesses appeared on the platform, with a wheelbarrow at the ready to transport Illya’s body. Beru watched, her heart thumping hollowly, as they carried him away.

“And now,” Pallas said, when they were finished. “It is time for our second sinner to meet his fate.”