It’s easy to forget that this Valryn is both knight and parent. Bastian’s features are cold. Shy says his father always looks like this, that it doesn’t mean he dislikes me. I want to disagree. Part of the reason I don’t know where I stand with Shy is the Order and their rules against me—a human—being with him—a Valryn—in any sort of romantic way. Lennon’s powers don’t exactly instill confidence that they can control abominations. And being the Eurydice or our past connection doesn’t seem to matter. Needless to say, Bastian has a reason to dislike me.

“Need I remind you what might have happened—”

“Had someone else found us?” Shy finishes quickly, the implication being no. “They didn’t.”

Bastian narrows his eyes, promising a conversation later. Just the thought of what it might include embarrasses me.

“The Order is ready for you, Eurydice.”

I think about correcting him, requesting that he call me Anora, but I don’t want the Order to be informal with me. The goal is respect, and they can start by using my title, and after that, they can start by obeying my rules. I’m done with letting others control my life. The Order needs me if they want to stop Influence, and I am not going to let them forget that.

Anxiety knots my stomach. No one—not Elite Cain, not Bastian, not even Shy—knows what I have planned for the Order. It will throw everyone off balance, and maybe, in the end, they will kneel.

Bastian turns, holding the door open as we pass through. We walk, escorted, down marble halls toward the Council chamber. It looks the same, except the large window is crowded with thick greenery, and all twelve seats in the chamber are full.

I have to say I prefer the elites when they are mostly holograms. Facing people who are whole and solid, people with unfriendly eyes and stone-carved faces, is way more intimidating, and somehow, I feel they’re even more disapproving of me. The projection at the middle of the table moving through images of Friday night isn’t helping. They include pictures of Thane’s lifeless body, two resurrection coins, Lennon’s winged body, pools of liquid occulate… It had been one hell of a night, that’s for sure.

I take the same seat I had before, at the head of the table.

“Eurydice,” Roth purrs when he sees me. “I speak for all of us when I say we are glad to see you recovering.”

I want to scoff at his formality, but I manage a civil “Thank you” as I sweep a glance up his frame, wondering where he might be keeping Poppa’s coin.

“It is our understanding you owe your life to Luminary Roth,” says Elite Ezekiel.