An absurd number of people were gathered, the crowd swelling with every unsteady breath Silas took. He half-believed the entire city—no, all of Brassanthium—had come to see him. He'd never felt the weight of so many eyes before, pressing against the glass like the screeching wind.
The Archarbiter stood smugly behind his podium, framed by Ravelin and Drascourt. The Arbiter of the Commons's hair and lips were a vivid cobalt. Silas suspected the man wore a wig rather than dye his hair so often.
Ravelin and Drascourt stood at attention, chins lifted, hands locked behind their backs. Lucan and Maris wrangled the crowd beside a severe woman Silas didn't recognize. When she barked an order, Lucan bowed. She must be Lucan's Senior, Silas reasoned.
Vera's fingers dug into his shoulder. "Everything's going to be all right, little mouse," she murmured, her voice almost lost in the roar. "Just breathe."
Silas peered up. Vera's face was drawn tight, her lips trembling as if she were choking back tears. She caught him watching and tried to smile, but the effort cracked her expression. Silas's eyes dropped to the floor. His pulse thundered; his breath fought the rhythm she'd taught him. Her fear was contagious—almost enough to send him panicking.
The Archarbiter inclined his head toward Ravelin. She bowed low, arms crossed in Imperial salute, then turned for the doors. The crowd erupted as she moved, their voices crashing against the school's fa?ade. Silas searched her face for some sign—some hint of what awaited him—but her face, hidden behind that impassive mask, yielded nothing.
The stentorian flood poured through the open doorway after her. Sound hit like a wall, hammering Silas's ears until he clapped his hands over them. Ravelin glanced at Vera, offered a curt nod, then fixed her eyes upon Silas.
"It's time," she said, halting before him.
Vera knelt to Silas’s level and turned him to face her. She cleared her throat softly. "I shall be right beside you," she said, her trembling fingers fussing with the collar of his new coat. "Pay no mind to the people—keep your eyes on me." Then she rose, one steadying hand between his shoulder blades.
Ravelin observed their exchange with thinly veiled disdain. When Vera and Silas stepped forward, she held the door wide. The din struck Silas full in the face—an invisible blow that made him flinch and stumble into the open air.
Ravelin resumed her place at the Archarbiter's side. Vera halted a few paces to her right—Silas caught between them. He edged closer to Vera, using her back as his shield. The onlookers craned their necks, rising on their toes for a glimpse of the boy hiding behind the Arbiter. Flyers snapped in the wind, buffeting in the tempest.
Malrick Sorne watched from the corner of his eye, amusement twitching his lips. He lingered in the chaos, letting it marinate to suit his taste. Then he raised his hands—palms down. At once, the clamor died. Silence dropped like a shroud. Silas's ears rang from the abrupt stillness; he swayed, half-convinced he'd slipped into a dream from which there was no waking. Behind Vera's back, her hand found his and gave a secret squeeze.
The Archarbiter began to speak—his voice a low, resonant drone borne upon the tailwind that whipped through Silas's hair. The boy lifted his gaze. Lightning clawed across the dusty clouds, white fire lancing the ochre sky. When he blinked, afterimages burned against his lids. If only one would strike Sorne where he stands, he thought.
"Ladies and gentlemen—citizens of Brassanthium," the Archarbiter intoned, each syllable precise and measured, "we are gathered this day to bear witness to our triumph over deceit."
The crowd erupted in thunderous applause. Sorne paused, basking in it, then inclined his chin; the noise ebbed at once to a reverent murmur. Silas lowered his gaze, lips curling. Triumph over deceit? he thought bitterly. You are the deceit. His glare burned holes in the dust at Sorne's feet.
"Not long past," Sorne continued, his voice softening to a lament, "our Empire was visited by tragedy." He stopped, letting the crowd's murmur of outrage swell. "Unspoken invaders defiled our own Foundry School for Education and Asylum. They stole our sons and daughters, sundered our households, and seeded fear in every loyal heart.
"To render justice, we sought the hand behind the crime," Sorne said. "And in that search, we found… this boy." He turned, and as if pulled by an unseen thread, the throng turned with him—all eyes fastening upon Silas.
Silas lifted his head. He told himself it was defiance—a show of strength. In truth, it was the only place to look without meeting a thousand accusing eyes.
"So, it’s true!" a voice cried from the throng, sharp as a whipcrack. "The boy is a traitor—an Unspoken sympathizer! Hang him for bringing those heathens into our city!"
A dozen voices answered at once—some in protest, but far more in cruel agreement. The air thickened with their cries. Silas bit the inside of his cheek to keep from sobbing.
"Make no mistake," Sorne declared, cutting through the uproar. "The boy is not at fault." His grin spread, thin and sharp. "He is not even entirely boy."
Sorne stepped from behind the podium, moving so slowly toward Silas it was as if time itself resisted him. Silas locked his knees, forcing himself to stillness—to ignore his legs that pleaded for flight. Sorne faced the crowd, his palm pressing firm atop Silas's head.
"He is the byproduct of treachery," Sorne said, his fingers tightening. "The spawn of a cabal that sought to twist human pathos toward Unspoken ends. The Covenant of Fallen Stars named themselves saviors—but they were liars. They bound flesh that never should have met; they forged a mind never meant to think as one.
"Look upon this child and see the folly of their craft—a union of two worlds better left divided. He was wrought to stir pity for our enemies. Yet the Empire, my friends, sees power where traitors saw only sympathy."
The Archarbiter withdrew his hand, letting it fall to the hilt of his ceremonial sword. "This boy—this Silas Harrow—shall not be our downfall," he declared. "He shall be our juggernaut."
Silas blinked at the name Sorne used. Pa's true name was Elias Harrow, he thought, but I have always been Silas Carrow. He rejected both the surname and the title of weapon. I am not an object, he swore inwardly, lifting his head to glare at the Archarbiter.
Sorne ignored him. "War brews in the Western Quadrant—the last bastion of the Unspoken still defying the Empire's might," he proclaimed. "They hoard relics of a dead age and cling to soil that is ours by right. They dream of mankind's end. The Empire, my friends, does not dream. The Empire acts. And the creature made for their salvation” —his gaze cut down to Silas— "shall become the instrument of their demise."
Sorne crossed his arms in salute, voice rising above the wind: "For the Empire. For humanity!"
For the Empire! For humanity!
The crowd roared, their chant swelling until it became one vast, living sound—cheers, stomps, whistles, and claps melding into thunder. Silas clenched his jaw against the cacophony; he feared the next shout might burst his eardrums.
Silas stole a glance at Vera. Her face was ashen, slick with sweat despite the cold. A deep frown wrinkled her chin. She didn’t look at Silas. She did not even blink—her eyes wide, hollow, and far away.
Remember to breathe! he wanted to tell her.
A stir in the crowd drew Silas's eyes. A man forced his way forward, the throng parting before him. Silas's breath snagged; his heart stuttered once, painfully.
Baron Dannel! Panic seized him. Why did he have to come? Silas's knees trembled, threatening collapse.
The nobleman halted before the Archarbiter, breath heaving. "You mean to let this… this aberration walk free?" he roared, his face reddening to the shade of blood. He glared at Silas with unmasked hatred. "He endangers everyone around him! The Unspoken swarm to him like wolves to carrion. His mind leaks with unnatural power. He should be contained—permanently."
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The crowd quieted, shushing each other to heed the nobleman's words. Attention shifted to the Archarbiter, eager for his response. Satisfaction struck Sorne for a moment—washing away just as quickly. Blankly, he addressed Baron Dannel, stepping forward until he faced him.
"Not to worry, Baron," he said coolly. "The boy will be at my side at all times. I have the means to… suppress his pernicious attributes. So long as he is with me, he is not a threat."
Silas took an involuntary step back. He was to stay at the Archarbiter's side indefinitely? His vision swam with tears. He sniffed and wiped at his face, determined not to cry, not to show weakness. Sorne was watching him over his shoulder, hunting for a reaction. With great effort, Silas forced himself to stand tall. He curled his hands into fists, his arms rigid against his sides to stop them from shaking.
A flicker of motion drew Silas's eyes. Vera's hands moved near her left hip. He blinked. She was signing, but her torso obscured her right hand. Silas shifted left, straining to see her fully.
"Run," she signed, glancing upward to confirm the Archarbiter didn't notice.
Silas blinked. Run? Had she lost her senses? Run where? He swiveled his head. No clear escape lay before him. People spilled from the boiler park, mingled on the sidewalks, and flooded the streets. Where did Vera intend for him to flee—into the angry mob?
This can't be the grand scheme she spent all those days concocting, can it? Silas thought, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Run!" Vera signed again, sharper this time. She glanced back at him, then tilted her head to the right.
Silas shook his head, a silent no. He raised his eyebrows, pleading against her plan. You're mad! he wished to say, fingers itching for his notepad.
So intent on Vera, Silas did not notice the stir in the crowd. Baron Dannel's outburst had ignited an infectious hatred. A vengeful cluster pressed around him, shouting at the Archarbiter for Silas's detention—or, better, his execution. Lucan, Maris, and the unknown Senior Arbiter advanced, weapons raised and gleaming.
A few timid onlookers melted back into the press. Baron Dannel and his staunchest followers surged forward, unbowed by the Arbiters. Silas fidgeted, nerves taut. Flight suddenly seemed the only sensible choice.
Vera lunged at Silas. Startled, he flinched, stumbling backward. She seized his outstretched hand and yanked him close.
"Run, Silas!" she shouted. "Now!" She surged forward, and Silas scrambled to keep pace, dragging his feet after her.
Screams tore the air. Yells and curses rang out. Footfalls thudded in relentless pursuit.
Silas struggled to break free, but Vera's grip was iron, fingers pressing until pins and needles stung his hand. He dared a backward glance.
The Archarbiter's face gleamed with triumphant malice. Silas hunched his shoulders to his ears, dread twisting his stomach. Vera has walked straight into his hand!
"Stop them!" Sorne thundered, voice reverberating across the square. "The Arbiter has turned traitor!"
No! No! No! No!
Silas planted his feet, silently begging Vera to halt. There was still a chance. If she turned, if she explained herself—everything could be undone. She need not suffer for him. He tugged, fingers slipping through hers. She whirled—eyes wide, lips parted.
Within moments, they were surrounded. A writhing swarm of bodies advanced from all sides. Hands seized Silas, pulling him from Vera. She drew her flarepistol, firing at the ground. The crowd yelped, scattering from scorch marks seared into the dust. Silas was freed, stumbling forward. Vera seized his forearm and plowed ahead, blasting a path through the mob.
"Apprehend her!" the Archarbiter boomed from behind. "Bring the boy back to me!"
The Junior Arbiters hesitated, unwilling to oppose a Senior. They stared at one another, frozen with indecision. Lucan's Senior showed no such hesitation. She sprang into the mob, cudgel swinging, felling anyone in her path. Silas watched her charge while Vera tugged him onward. He squealed, fear lending him speed. Vera glanced back, swearing. Silas's ears burned at her vulgar words.
Silas fixed his gaze to the ground, mind locked on placing one foot before the other. Don’t trip! he urged, praying his clumsiness remained hidden. Breath came in ragged gasps; he was already winded. Vera noticed him faltering, tightening her grip on his arm.
A stir rose ahead. Silas lifted his gaze. Baron Dannel towered at the forefront of his mob, swinging a phlogiston rifle over his shoulder and leveling it square at Silas's chest. Silas froze, stumbling into Vera. Her momentum pitched her forward; she sprawled at his feet.
"Wha—" She began, then stopped, eyes widening at the rifle aimed at them.
Silas glanced left, then right. Where could he flee? Where could he hide? Baron Dannel squinted down the rifle, finger tense on the trigger. Silas blinked—and the rifle's report pierced the air.
Silas froze, eyes locked on the ampule hurtling toward him at impossible speed. Move! he screamed inwardly, yet his limbs betrayed him. Vera was faster.
She bolted upright, arms flung wide, shielding Silas. The ampule struck her abdomen with a shattering crack, followed by a harsh sizzle. Vera gasped, sagging, hands clutching the wound. She nearly fell but steadied herself, spinning to face Silas. He stared. He could do nothing more.
"I-it's alright, Silas," Vera stammered, staggering forward. "We… we can still escape." A burnt hole blossomed in her abdomen; the ampule's corrosive contents ate through flesh and cloth. Viscous black ichor oozed, glowing like molten glass. She laughed, eyes wild and unhinged, the mirth twisting into a choking fit. Her eyes rolled, and she collapsed.
She toppled onto Silas. He caught her—they sank together to the ground. His ears rang, assaulted by a piercing, high-pitched wail. Only then did he realize: the sound was his own screams.
Warmth spread along Silas's legs. He peered down. A crimson pool widened beneath Vera, spreading with each of her shallow, ragged breaths.
Her eyes fluttered open. "Leave me," she wheezed. Silas hesitated. She reached for him, fingers clasping his. "You must… go," she gasped. "Get… out of here, Silas. Please—" Her eyelids drooped, hand slackening in his trembling grip.
Silas's mind went blank.
Then it ignited.
He stood, swiveling to face the crowd. His senses crackled like static—vision crawling, hearing hissing. A storm whirled in his mind, growing, coiling, thrashing. He did not resist it.
He let it rage.
Silas lurched forward, clutching his head. Blood leaked from his nostrils, streaking his face and dripping off his chin.
Baron Dannel stared, stunned, eyes fixed on Vera's inert form, oblivious to Silas advancing on him. The rifle swung limply from his shoulder strap.
Ravelin broke from the throng. Her gaze fell on Vera, and she stopped, hand clutching her mouth. Composing herself, she lunged forward—but never cleared Silas's path.
His power struck the crowd like lightning. Ravelin convulsed, crumpling, her head slamming into the ground. A ripple waved through the mob; people toppled like dominoes. Silas dropped to hands and knees, crawling back to Vera, sobbing. The warmth on his cheeks—was it blood or tears? He couldn’t tell.
Baron Dannel wobbled upright, shaking his head to clear it, then fixed his gaze on Silas. He stalked forward as the boy wept over Vera, scarlet tears soaking what remained of her coat.
With a low growl, the nobleman seized Silas, dragging him off. Silas thrashed and bucked, howling, reaching desperately for Vera as he was torn into the fray.
Silas seethed, fury crystallizing. He summoned the electric storm within, unleashing it at Baron Dannel.
The nobleman dropped Silas, his knees giving way. The boy scrambled away, returning to Vera's side. He gently tapped her cheek, trying to rouse her. She didn't stir.
Behind him, the crowd slowly rose, heads in hands. Some lurched forward, spewing their lunch. Children wailed; parents cradled them, whispering words of comfort. All withdrew from Silas. Slowly, inexorably, they parted, leaving a path for the lone figure who dared approach.
Malrick Sorne's black cape whipped in the squall. His eyes fell on Ravelin, sprawled unconscious upon a pillow of blood. Without hesitation, he stepped over her, striding toward Silas.
Baron Dannel knelt, hunched over a puddle of vomit, heaving. Sorne's gaze flicked between him and Vera. His eyes widened in measured calculation.
"Baron Dannel!" the Archarbiter bellowed, sword drawn. The nobleman's face went from green to white at the blade hovering beneath his chin. "You are under arrest for assault and” —Sorne's smile flicked at Silas— "attempted theft of Imperial property."
Silas's remaining resolve shattered. He lifted his head. Sorne's back hid him from the crowd; only Silas glimpsed his manic sneer. Silas’s tears ceased. He remained still as the Archarbiter fastened shackles on Baron Dannel and handed him to Lucan's Senior. The nobleman staggered like a drunkard through the muttering throng after her.
Vitalists arrived, hoisting Ravelin onto a stretcher and wheeling her away. A tug at Silas's hand drew his attention. A vitalist struggled to free Vera's grasp from his fingers. Her lips moved, but no sound reached him.
Frustrated by his inattention, the vitalist called for a colleague. Together, they pried Silas's fingers from Vera's hand. They lifted her onto a stretcher, wheeling her into the back of a massive boiler, its side painted with the red-and-white Sanctorium sigil.
The Archarbiter crouched beside Silas. As his hand rested on the boy's shoulder, the world's voice returned in a resounding whoosh.
"Go with her, Silas," Sorne said, nodding toward the boiler. "You have done enough for now."
Silas was lifted to his feet and urged forward.
"He will be traveling with her," Sorne instructed the vitalists, who eyed Silas hesitantly.
"Then move," the vitalist woman snapped, gesturing him forward. "The longer you linger, the graver her prognosis." She fastened a respirator to Vera's face.
Silas blinked, roused from his stupor by the vitalist's words. He hurried inside, settling on a small wall-mounted seat. The boiler lurched forward. He watched as the vitalists connected Vera to tubes and wires. When they began cutting away her garments to examine her wound, he averted his gaze.
Through the boiler's rearview mirror, Silas watched the Foundry School recede into the distance. The din of the crowd had dulled to a distant memory; the boiler was unnaturally silent. He shifted, listening to the rasp of Vera's ventilator. Each wheel turn carried them closer to the Sanctorium—each rotation sapping Vera’s strength. The boiler screeched to a halt before the white spire. Vitalists, physicks, and orderlies poured outside, carting Vera away. Silas stood at the entrance, eyes straining, hoping the scene before him was an illusion. He couldn’t recall the last time he had seen Vera draw breath.