Chapter 8

• “Jorgen.”
• He looked at her.
• “What if the Council chooses me?”
• Jorgen went still.
• Silence filled the study like fog before dawn.
• He slowly set down his glass.
• “If the Council chooses you…”
• He considered his words carefully.
• “It will not be because they love you. Nor because they believe you are entitled to rule.”
• “It will be because you are the lesser evil.”
• He paused.
• “A known quantity. The blood of an old dynasty, standing against…”
• His expression darkened.
• “…the unknown.”
• Myriella said nothing.
• The Circle had existed for more than two centuries, long before she had been born and long before Jorgen had become its Grand Magister.
• Kylset III had founded it together with Arion Cassandor after a succession of magical disasters had nearly torn several provinces apart. The official histories called it a triumph of reason: a pact between the Empire and its mages.
• The truth was more complicated.
• The Circle had been created to control magic as much as to protect those who wielded it.
• Every mage born within the Empire was expected to register with the Circle. Those who possessed the spark could be taught. Those who refused could be watched. And those who practiced the most dangerous arts—blood magic, necromancy, mind control, or demonic summoning—could be hunted down.
• Even the wild magic of the northern clans had been formally declared forbidden.
• Yet the Circle had never been entirely an arm of the throne.
• That had always been its greatest strength.
• And perhaps, Myriella thought, its greatest weakness.
• “They will put you forward the way soldiers put a shield before a gate during a siege.”
• “To take the first blow.”
• He walked toward the fireplace.
• “To see whether you withstand it.”
• He tossed a pinch of something into the flames.
• For an instant, the fire burned green.
• “And if you do…”
• He looked back at her.
• “…perhaps they will stop seeing a shield and begin seeing a ruler.”
• Myriella's jaw tightened.
• “But to reach that ‘if,’ you must survive the ‘now.’”
• He gestured toward the castle beyond the window.
• “And now, there is an Emperor who still breathes.”
• “A witch who holds his hand.”
• “And a Council full of old foxes waiting for someone else to stumble first.”
• He turned fully toward her.
• “Are you prepared to be their shield, Myriella?”
• His voice was quiet.
• “To have spears thrust at you from every direction while you defend a throne that is not yet yours?”
• Myriella shook her head stubbornly.
• “Let them.”
• She met his gaze.
• “Let them think I am their puppet.”
• A pause.
• “Until they realize I am not.”
• Jorgen was silent for several long seconds.
• Then he gave a single, sharp nod.
• “Good.”
• He crossed to one of the bookshelves and ran a finger along the worn spines.
• “Go, then.”
• “Be their shield.”
• He pulled out a thin, unremarkable volume bound in faded leather.
• “But remember—every shield has a handle.”
• He held the book out to her.
• “And whoever holds it decides where the blow falls.”
• Myriella took the book.
• The leather was cold and rough beneath her fingers.
• “Old records on magical bonds,” Jorgen explained. “On the ways energy can flow between two people.”
• He shook his head slightly.
• “Not Circle magic.”
• “Something older.”
• His eyes met hers.
• “And harder to break.”
• Myriella frowned.
• “If it is older than the Circle, why was it never taught to me?”
• “Because there are things the Circle prefers its students not to know.”
• For the first time, something resembling amusement flickered in his eyes.
• “Control is easier when people believe the rules are older than they are.”
• Myriella looked down at the book.
• She understood the implication.
• The Circle had been built to regulate magic. But magic itself had existed long before the Circle, long before Kylset III, perhaps even before the Empire.
• And if Corvo had truly been enchanted, whatever had been done to him might have nothing to do with the magic she had been taught.
• “I'll be waiting for your reports,” Jorgen said. “And watching how the shadows move at court.”
• She did not say goodbye.
• She merely nodded once more and slipped out the same way she had entered.
• The night air outside the Guild was cold and damp, carrying the scent of wet stone and distant smoke.
• Myriella pressed the book against her chest.
• Its sharp corner dug through the fabric.
• She did not loosen her grip.
• The journey back to the castle seemed shorter.
• Her thoughts whirled like autumn leaves.
• The Council.
• The shield.
• The handle.
• The anchor.
• And now, something older than the Circle itself.
• She slipped back into her chambers through a secret passage and shed the coarse clothes of a commoner.
• The smell of cheap wool and street grime gave way to the familiar scents of lavender and beeswax.
• She crossed to the table and placed the book before her.
• Without opening it, she rested her hand on the worn leather cover.
• For the first time, Myriella understood that the truth might be far more dangerous than the betrayal she had feared.
• Tomorrow, the hunt would begin.