Her senses roamed further. She felt the spell cast over the bars of her cell, gleaming red, hot, and rough—like sunlight on dry sandstone. A crude spell, cast by a man who did not know magic but stole it anyway. The Justice. Beyond, her own purple spell—an intricate, strong-woven silk—kept Thorn imprisoned. She roamed further. The storm spell hung like a great net over the mountain. She brushed its strings like wire, at once damp and electric. A masterpiece of a spell. She clenched her fists so tightly a spark of magic flew from hand to hand unbidden.

Be calm. She took a deep, shuddering breath.

Xander was out cold in the cell next to hers, his face oddly pale, his breathing shallow. Beneath his dirtied silks, his body was a mess of red bruises, Constance knew. A wound on his head dribbled blood into the darkness of his hair. The Justice had exacted the full extent of his revenge on the Swordmaster and his men. Those who remained languished in the cells around a sharp corner, out of sight. Constance occasionally heard a cough or the groan of a man in pain.

Tension pressed behind her eyes, but she did not cry. Her mind drifted to the early years in the masked temple, how they’d taught her the price of tears. The cold faces in the mask room had watched as the High Priestess brought down her whip. The old scars stung on her back.

Your face is hidden. CRACK.

You are unreadable. CRACK.

You are without emotion. CRACK.

She shook her head, tried to forget. Right now she ought to harness the kernel of determination she’d always held close to her heart and focus on how to fix this mess. But her mind was bubbling, unfocused, clouded by bitter disappointment.

After all this time, was this really it? She pressed her fingers to her temples, unwilling to admit that everything was lost.

Across from her, Dr. Thorn had lain silently in his cell ever since she’d been brought here, hours before, curled up and facing the wall, his chest rising and falling fitfully. As she watched, he stirred, pushing himself up to a seated position—and a glint of silver caught the faint light. He settled, leaning back against the wall, face taut with pain—and she watched carefully as the glint resolved itself into a second gauntlet.

The twin of the Justice’s.

Chatham’s work, she thought grimly. That sick, twisted son of Chaos.

“Can you take it off?” Constance whispered, her voice cutting sharply through the gloom.