Darkness coiled about the elder Akadra and slammed him against the door. Viktor closed the distance before he could cry out and pressed a hand across his mouth.

“Hush, Father,” he whispered. “We don’t want to alarm anyone, do we? Malachi has a nervous soul.”

His father’s eyes bulged above pallid cheeks. Viktor kept his own face expressionless, determined not to betray the uncertainty and elation coursing through his veins. Thirty years he’d lived with the secret. Thirty years he’d been terrified of the consequences of discovery. No longer. He was free in a way he’d never imagined possible. That alone made it worthwhile.

Better yet, the shadow returned as soon as he called, sated by its brief measure of freedom. Little by little, the cold abated, until only exhilaration remained. Viktor held his father in place for another five count, then let his hand fall.

“What . . . What are you?” his father spluttered.

“You know what I am,” Viktor hissed. “Or do you want another demonstration?”

Defiance fought terror in his father’s eyes and came away the poorer. “. . . no.”

“All those years, and you’ve never wondered why I survived where mother did not?” Viktor leaned closer. “Well, now you know. And so will everyone else, if you don’t support our plan for the Southshires.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Of course I am. I’m my father’s son.”

“I won’t be able to protect you,” he hissed. “They’ll drag you to the pyre.”

It sounded like genuine concern. Viktor had no way to judge, for he’d heard so little of it over the years.

“And if they do, that will be the end of the Akadra family. I can already hear the archimandrite’s speech as he drags you from office. After all, who’ll believe that you didn’t know your own son was a witch?”

“I didn’t know,” snapped his father. “How could I know?”

“That won’t save you. And you’ll get no help from Lady Kiradin. She threw one husband to the mob. How do you reckon your chances?” He took a deep breath. There was no pleasure to be had in the coming words, but they could not be left unsaid. “And it won’t just be you. A pity about my cousins. How old is Messela now? Sixteen? Seventeen? She deserves better. But Makrov will take no chances.”

His father’s lips formed a snarl, but it collapsed without a sound. “What do you want?”

“Authority to treat with Josiri Trelan. To settle the mess you made me complicit in fifteen years ago.”

A little familiar steel crept back into his father’s eyes. But he was trapped, and he knew it. “On one condition.”

Viktor stepped away and folded his arms. “What is it?”