Page 212 of Maksym

A few Ironwood wolves exhaled as if the room had given them back air. One of their elders bowed his head by a fraction. Not gratitude, I thought. Confirmation. They had wanted the first stone thrown in their direction.

I did not move.

Adramal’s vote did not surprise me. Demons distrusted disorder when it was not theirs.

The Magistrate turned.

“King Bridger Hardin.”

Menace did not look toward Ironwood before answering.

He sat with the dangerous polish of a soldier who had learned to wear court clothing without letting it tame him. He had built a kingdom from force and restraint both, and his wolf rested beneath his skin with no interest in pretending civility was weakness.

“Not. Guilty.”

He said it with the clean finality of a command given in the field.

The Ironwood gallery stiffened.

Shoulders rose. Jaws locked. One wolf in the second row turned his head just slightly, as if the vote had struck him across the mouth and he had refused to show blood.

“Archon Seraphael,” the Magistrate said.

The Angel King did not resemble the others because he had not been fashioned to resemble anything of earth. I had fought beside him. I had watched him unmake demons and lower his voice for the frightened. I trusted him, which remained a rare and inconvenient thing.

Archon inclined his head.

“Not guilty.”

No flourish. No sermon. Yet the words carried with them the weight of a bell rung in clean air.

Something in the chamber loosened. Something else tightened.

Lucian sat in the gallery with his hands arranged carefully, despite the once-broken wrists Grace had given him. His face remained smooth, but his gaze sharpened at Archon’s vote.

The Magistrate’s eyes moved.

“Mistress of Shadows.”

The Gloamreach sovereign reclined as if every throne were a chaise and every judicial proceeding a game played partly in smoke. Kohl lined her eyes; her curls fell around a pale face that watched too much and revealed too little.

Her Cajun-lilted voice slid through the chamber.

“Guilty.”

Grace did not look at the Mistress. She watched the Magistrate, expression unchanged.

“King Kazimir Kozlov.”

My father did not move. His face gave the room nothing.

“Not guilty,” Kazimir said.

The words were quiet. The chamber heard them anyway. Ironwood heard them most. My father’s gaze moved over them once. Only once.

“King Maksym Kozlov.” He spoke my first name as though the distinction were necessary.

I sat for a moment then spoke clearly.