Safi half expects to find eyes winking out from them.

Despite the nooses—despite knowing what they mean—there is something soothing about this room. Something unnaturally peaceful, and she wonders if there is a spell. Some Aether-bound magic that erases fear and numbs the soul. Without her full Truthwitchery, though, she senses nothing false.

“This is where chosen Hell-Bards swear fealty,” Henrick says. As usual, he wears brown. As usual, he looks squat and graceless and his snaggletooth wiggles. He and Safi are the only people in the room.

“The noble Hell-Bards,” he elaborates. “Or officers in the army who have proven themselves worthy. I bring them here, and they enter my service.” He speaks with no arrogance, no performance. Though he is proud of this room—of the power it gives him—he is also respectful of it. He wants Safi to see it, to understand it, because she will be his wife soon.

She hates that she appreciates this gesture. And she hates that she appreciates this room. It is betrayal of the four Hell-Bards who matter most to her: Caden, Zander, Lev, and Eron. She will help them, though. Soon, when the plan is complete, she will help all Hell-Bards.

“How?” she asks. “How do you … enter them into your service?”

Henrick licks his lips. Several seconds trickle past. Then without preamble, he waddles to a stone table at the heart of the room. It is also marble, but with no adornments save for the four iron straps at each corner. Safi swallows at the sight of it. The straps are clearly intended for wrists and ankles, clearly intended to restrain.

“It is simply a matter of placing one of these chains around the person’s neck. But there is great pain, hence the iron straps.” Again, no pleasure in his voice. Only matter-of-fact honesty that Safi’s magic knows is true.

“I will show you one day,” Henrick adds. He taps his fingers against the table. “But not today.”

Safi’s fingers flex against her thigh. She doesn’t want to see a noosing ever, but she can hardly say that.

Henrick abandons the table and approaches her, arm extended. He has been a doting betrothed these past five days, and to his credit, he has treated Iseult with the same consideration. Safi almost feels bad about what she and Iseult have planned.

Almost.

“Did my uncle become a Hell-Bard here?” Safi asks before Henrick can reach her.

He pauses and she quickly turns away. Four long steps bring her to a wall of nooses. They flash and wink, and yes, she swears that eyes ought to be there.

Behind her, Henrick says, “Yes. He was. By his choice and by my hand.”

“Oh.” She sucks in a long breath and runs her fingers over the chains. They chime like tiny bells. “And why did you discharge him?”