Caelan's challenge, a soft-spoken declaration of war, hung in the cold, still air of the Council Chamber. The seven elders stared back at him, their ancient faces a collection of masks—Merin's outrage, Valerius's nervous ambition, Aris's cold calculation. Behind her veil, he could feel the radiating heat of Valestra's triumphant fury. She believed she had him. She believed she had them all.
He had just forced their hand, turning their own laws into a weapon against them. He had called into question not the girl's guilt, but their own integrity.
Lord Merin, his face a blotchy, furious red, was the first to recover. "A vote, then," he spat, his voice trembling with rage. "Let us see where true loyalty lies. All those in favor of the motion to bring the mortal, Isadora Wren, to Viregate for immediate and intensive questioning."
He raised his hand high, a clear, defiant gesture.
