The last chain clattered free. Quick as a whip, Anastacia plucked Solas off his feet and slammed him against a wall.

“Solas!” Brask started forward, useless sword already half-drawn.

The proctor scrabbled at Anastacia’s fingers. “Please . . .”

[[So many diligent hours hoping to cause me pain. My turn now.]]

Solas fainted dead away. Anastacia uttered a sharp sigh and let him drop.

[[Boring.]] Her smoky gaze settled on Brask. [[What about you?]]

Brask shuddered to a halt.

Enough, Kurkas decided, was enough. “That’ll do.”

Anastacia bore down on him. Kurkas held his ground, though not without effort. The veneer of a glib-tongued society lady was as tattered as her dress, giving full view to the timeless spirit beneath. She wasn’t his to tame, but she could perhaps be reasoned with.

“There’s something at the gate claiming to be Malatriant.” Even now, speaking the name sent a shiver along Kurkas’ spine. “She’s got the townsfolk twitching like a puppet theatre, and she wants you. Don’t make me regret not agreeing the trade.”

Anastacia faltered mid-stride. [[Then it’s true . . . I felt the Dark pressing in. I thought it sorrow, clouding my mind.]]

“Why does Malatriant want you?”

[[Why else? She’s of darkness, as I am of light.]]

“That’s not as useful an answer as you think.” But it explained why the sun still shone over Branghall.

[[Don’t presume to know my thoughts.]] Shoulders slumped. The fight went out of Anastacia’s voice. She gave a dry, bitter laugh. [[She hates me for what I am. It seems my prison is now my refuge.]]

“And if we hand you over? She’ll leave us be?” asked Brask.

[[Am I to be expected to know the whims of every ephemeral? She’s your Tyrant Queen. You tell me.]]

“Tell you what,” said Kurkas. “Let’s ask her.”

Like much of Branghall, the makeshift cell had seen better days. Sunlight streamed through a crack in the western wall, casting umber shards through dusty air. Revekah Halvor – or at least whatever wore the form of Revekah Halvor – sat hunched in the corner, as far from the light as her chains allowed. Bony fingers traced eye-maddening whorls in decades-old dust.

“Vladama. Come to visit your dear friend?”

Kurkas curled his lip. Strange to hear the voice that was and wasn’t Halvor’s. Oh, it still held her sardonic tones, but underneath? Hollow and distant, like whatever emotion lay beyond despair. Stranger still to hear it speak his given name. It felt unearned – a violation. “You’re not my friend.”

She looked up. Dark eyes glittered. Jagged lines crawled outward across cheek and brow, mimicking the veins beneath, or perhaps the roots of something growing strong in its nest of flesh and bone. “Such hatred!”

“Am I misremembering the part where you tried to stick me in the guts?”

“And impertinent. Don’t you know who I am?”

“I know what you want me to believe.”