“Bar the crypt doors,” said Constance firmly. Nobody moved, the guests frozen in shock. “For gods’ sake!” she hissed. She stood up, grabbed the long wooden weight from the ceremonial banner behind Lord Veredith, and thrust it through the trapdoor handles.

Barely in time. Another slow knock and the door shuddered, as if pushed. The room fell eerily silent, all eyes fixed on the space. A woman started weeping; murmuring filled the air. A few of the Wise Men stood as if to leave, but faltered under Constance’s glare.

“Please be seated, everyone. I shall deal with this in due course,” she said, her voice loud and firm.

“The Ancestors are angry,” someone protested.

“Nonsense!” snapped Constance, returning to her place, kneeling at the front of the hall. Luckily, the noise from below the floor had ceased, as if the Ancestors too had been cowed by her display of authority. “Lord Veredith, proceed.”

The murmuring fell to muffled whispers as the old man fumbled to find his place in the text.

“‘Protect the people,’” she whispered to him. The crowd was restless, disturbed—barely quiet. In the corner of her eye, she saw a small child try to run for the door, quickly caught and scolded by a white-faced parent.

“Do you swear … to protect the people … from harm, to the extent of your power and authority, from threats … martial and magical alike?” Lord Veredith was struggling, his breath heaving in short gasps, his hands shaking.

“I do.” Her voice rang clear and true through the hall, determination bolstering her courage.

“Do you swear to honor and worship … the Ancestors, observe … their ancient rites and fulfill … your obligations to their ancient religion?”

I cannot, she thought, but bowed her head in assent nonetheless. “I do.”

Veredith picked up the crown and held it over Constance’s head, where it shuddered like the old man’s lungs. “With this crown, I proclaim—”

And that’s when the doors of the great hall burst open, and a deafening ring of drawn steel reverberated around the room. Veredith dropped the crown with a clatter.

What now? asked a small exasperated part of Constance’s mind as she turned to face the doors.

In his right hand, the Justice’s short sword was wet with blood—his left hand was covered by a large silver gauntlet. Behind him stood a dozen black-clad guards with naked blades—but no Dr. Thorn, Constance noticed. The storm cloud poured inside, flickering and swirling, until the doors swung shut with a bang. The Justice was quickly flanked by those members of his personal guard who had not been imprisoned, some of whom Constance realized had been scattered throughout the watching crowd, not wearing their usual black livery. And—unlike Xander’s men or the city guard—they were all armed.