Chapter 52. The First Circle

The circle asked for blood. I offered steam.

Veilgrove gathered like a weather system around the Hall of Scales. The square outside gleamed with recent scrubbing; Jun had bullied three gangs and a saint into cleaning the steps “so the Moon doesn’t slip on your mess.” Inside, the air remembered every verdict it had ever carried. It pressed on the body like wet cloth.

Orla met me at the archway and put a cool fingertip under my chin to make me lift it that last measure of stubborn. “Jaw,” she said. “You are not a wolf with a bad bit. You are a woman with a hinge.”

“I’ll try not to be furniture,” I murmured.

“Good. Furniture creaks opinions.”

Syra stood shoulder to shoulder with two gatewardens, every line of her armor reading no surprises, which is another way of saying I expect them. Neris drifted up from a column’s shadow, river-gray precise, and slipped a folded scrap into my palm.

“Three,” she said. “Acolytes with tidy shoes. They’