Page 39 of Silvercloak

She felt Levan’s stare pressing into her, but she did not meet it.

Lyrian studied Saffron with onyx coldness. “Very well. I’ve always wanted a pet Silvercloak. Perhaps we can use you to turn every last member of your cohort one by one.” He tapped his wand on his palm. “Vogolan, fetch the prisoner from the cell next door.”

Vogolan left the room, and as Saffron’s gaze followed him out, she finally returned Levan’s glare. His blue eyes were still blank and unfeeling, but there was the slightest flicker of his pupils, the sense that he was making calculations, analyzing her every word, her every move. As though he was intrigued by her, despite all his best efforts to appear otherwise.

She had to be careful not to let that intrigue ossify into suspicion.

When Vogolan returned, Saffron gasped at the sight of the prisoner—face beaten bloody, clutching something small in his palm.

Neatras.

The croupier who’d urged her to flee. He coughed roughly, spitting out a bloodied tooth, his hair slick with sweat.

I seeeverything,Filthcloak.

Lyrian’s cold eyes gleamed. “The loyalty brand requires a living sacrifice in order to work. It seems fitting that Neatras be yours.”

Levan handed back her wand. Neatras’s head lolled dangerously, clinging onto consciousness for dear life.

Saffron stood frozen with horror, as though she’d been struck byeffigias.

“I can’t,” she said, to nobody in particular, and sure enough, nobody answered.

Instead, Lyrian gave a contented sigh, and Saffron realizedthiswas where the kingpin got his pleasure from: inflicting horror. It was written in the flare of his pupils, the soft timbre of his moan. She could practically feel it pouring into him, dark and potent. No need for velvines or concubines.

Dread slithered through her like a hailsnake, and she gripped her wand, contemplating what she would need to do.

She had never killed before. At least not intentionally.

There had been an incident in her fourth year on the streetwatch, when she’d cast a disarming spell with too much raw force—heightened power welling inside her from the pain of a leg wound. The impact had sent the Whitewing thief sailing off a roof, his spine crumpling on the pavement below, his neck snapping like a bird’s.

It had taken Saffron months of Academy-mandated counseling to process the shame, the guilt. It was agoodthing that she still reacted this way to manslaughter, the therapist had insisted. It was agoodthing that she still had her humanity, no matter how much she believed she was immune to grief.

But killing Neatras would be so much worse. Because it was a choice.

“Just do it,” came a grunt from Neatras. “I’m dead anyway. Save yourself.”

Helplessness pressed in on Saff from all angles.

If the relic wand’s prophecy was anything to go by … she survived this encounter.

Which must mean she took this life.

She killed Neatras. Killed? Kills? Will kill? The tenses smeared together in her head. Did the nature of the prophecy mean this had technically already happened? She felt herself unspooling at the prospect.

She had always known, intellectually, that going undercover would lead her down some ugly paths. She had known that to properly bedherself into the order of things, she would have to kill at their command. But there was understanding with your head and there was understanding with your belly, with your heart.

“Last chance, Killoran.” Levan’s voice was indifferent, almost listless, yet she caught the impatient twitch in his stance. As though he wanted this to happen more than he was willing to admit. As though he too longed for a Silvercloak pet. “I’ll go after Auria Marriosan with or without you.”

Saff didn’t move.Couldn’tmove.

At her inaction, Levan sighed, shaking his head with disappointment. “Fine. But you’d have saved us a lot of time and energy if you’d just let Segal kill you in the alley.”

“They’re all like this, son,” Lyrian sighed. “The Filthcloak beetles always refuse to die. But they are often so terribly useful that sometimes it’s worth taking them alive.”

Anger seared up Saffron’s throat like blazing bile, but she swallowed her hatred. She would not be like her grandfather, killed by a scarlet cloak for an ill-judged burst of outrage. She would keep cool, play the game, make measured moves toward her goal.

An abyss opened in her chest as she turned her attention to the man slumped at her feet.

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