It wasn’t the first time Viktor had seen the inside of such a cell. It was his first as a prisoner, stripped to shirt-sleeves and left barefoot in the dank. For more than a hundred years, the vaults had been a site of inquiry and investigation – a testing ground for those accused of demon-hood and witchery. Few examinations ended well.

He shifted position on the narrow stone bench. Beyond the barred window, waves crashed on distant rocks, howling salt-tinged cries on the western wind. Silver shackles about wrists and ankles glinted in scant moonlight. Ropes, he might have ripped free, but not chain. Most certainly not chain bolted to the rock wall. And even if such a thing were possible, there was still the locked door and the provosts roaming beyond.

Never mind that even an attempt at escape was as good as a confession of guilt. Sun-staves would sear his flesh from bone before he reached the Hayadra Grove high above. And if death didn’t find him thus, simarka would be loosed to the hunt.

He could take the risk if it came to it. Better to trust Malachi to see him freed. Or maybe even his father might stir himself to the task? Probably not. He’d sever one branch of the family tree and hope no one sought rot among those that remained. No one could accuse Hadon Akadra of lacking pragmatism, least of all his son. Still, he would be free. He had to know what had become of Calenne. To see her again, if she still lived.

A key rattled in the lock. The door creaked open. Viktor tilted his head against the sudden brightness. A robed man entered the cell. He set a firestone lantern on a hook beside the door. He placed two bundles on the table, one of rough cloth and the other in leather binding. Two provosts came in close behind. They took up positions to either side of the door, dulled sun-staves held at guard.

The lead provost drew across a chair from the opposite wall and sat at the table. Stick-thin, he did not so much occupy space as the emptiness between. An unremarkable man, with greying brown hair and an aquiline nose.

The door slammed.

“Greetings.” The man’s voice was as nondescript as his appearance. It held neither interest nor anticipation, only boredom. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. I am Hargo. And you, I believe, are Viktor.”

Viktor strove to silence his shadow long enough to form coherent words. “Lord Akadra.”

Hargo tutted. “Not here. Here, we are all equal in Lumestra’s sight. There are no ranks. No titles. There are only her servants of light and those who have strayed.” He leaned low across the table, his nose almost touching Viktor’s. “We are bound together, you and I. You, the mystery. I, the seeker of revelation.”