Isabelle put her wig back on. “Your relentless pursuit made Brunela desperate. Desperation caused her to make mistakes of which I was the beneficiary,” she said, by way of offering a balm for his pride. She certainly took no joy in her sister’s death. It had been entirely necessary, but killing was never something to be proud of, no matter how dire the need.

Pyros made the barest shrug, accepting this narrative without enthusiasm.

Isabelle said, “As a further proof of the deed and as a token to carry back to your people, I give you Primus Maximus’s sword, Ultor.” Isabelle gestured to Bitterlich, who stepped smartly forward and presented the blade in a newly made sheath across both his palms.

Pyros reached for the scabbard, hesitated, then lifted it anyway.

“If I may,” he said, for drawing weapons in la reine’s presence was generally a faux pas of fatal proportions.

“Gently,” said Sireen, her voice smooth and mellow.

Pyros stepped back and drew the weapon partway. Even the smallest sliver of the blade would have been enough to testify to its authenticity. The metal itself was emerald green and honed so fine that light shone through the edges of the blade as if through an icicle. When it moved, it threw sparks and left a green smear in its wake as if cutting a bloody rent in the air. Arcanite blades such as this had not been crafted since the soul forges died after the Annihilation of Rüul, the city the saints had founded after emerging from the Vault of Ages.

Pyros stared at the weapon for a long moment, then closed his eyes, blew out his breath, and pushed the sword back into its sheath.

“A perilous trophy indeed,” he said.

“You will trouble my subject no more, then,” Sireen said, a decree rather than a request.

Pyros made a show of settling his crest. “We are satisfied vengeance is done. The Maximi are dead and shall not rise again. Capitaine Isabelle and her descendants have nothing to fear on that score.”

“No one’s children should have to grow up with the fear of being assassinated,” Isabelle said pointedly. Not that she had children … yet. She certainly had the urge to motherhood, an ember of curiosity and fascination that glowed warm whenever she spent time with her women friends and their offspring. Yet it seemed a goal that should be pursued from a position of security and stability, which she’d never had and likely never would.

The tribunal broke up with all due ceremony. When the Fenice departed, Isabelle bowed to Sireen. There was no precedent for commissioning a woman as a naval capitaine, and so she had adopted the male protocols by default, much to the annoyance of her peers, who had been doing their best to pretend she didn’t exist.

“Thank you, Madame,” Isabelle said. Without Sireen’s permission, this parley would not have been possible.