Chapter 39. Mercy Is a Door

The Mercy Stair isn’t high, but it’s steep—the kind of place where people decide how to balance looking up and looking away.

Veilgrove gathered in the amphitheater as the moon tilted toward the rim of evening. The stone steps cupped the square, each shelf crowded: fishmongers who still smelled like river, silk-sellers who smelled like the people who bought their silk, children who smelled like whatever the day had held and the promise of falling asleep on someone’s shoulder. Above them, the Conclave stood in a crescent; below them, the floor of judgment waited: a circle of pale rock scored with old grooves, like someone had once practiced writing a softer law there and given up.

The First Luna did not sit. She took her place at the lip of the floor, hands quiet at her sides.

“Mercy,” she said, “does not mean we like you.” The line spread across the square and settled like dew. “It means we are stronger than what you did.”

“Defendant,” Mara called.

They