The Witching Hour (Rise of the Valkyries)

Chapter Eighteen

Devlon's argument caught Mera off guard, the words seeping into her skin like a cold, unwanted touch.

Her gaze snapped to the dais, and she saw it—an unmistakable flicker of conflict etched in the depths of Rhysand's eyes. He was considering it, she realized with a cold, sinking dread. He might actually ignore her, ignore thousands of women, to uphold an archaic and deadly tradition.

The Gold Siphon, hidden in the folds of her pocket, began to thrum. A low, steady pulse that echoed the rising anger in her chest. She clenched her fists, the fabric of her dress bunching in her hands as she fought to suppress the tide of emotion threatening to surge forward. She'd been trained to hide her feelings, to smother them beneath a veneer of calm, but the Siphon wasn't so easily silenced.

Feyre, her expression mostly neutral but for a slight frown at the camp lords, seemed resolute. Mera understood why. It was a matter of their son's future—Nyx would eventually face the Siphon Rite, and Feyre's decision here could delay that fate. It could spare him from becoming just another name on a list of the dead.

Mera bit down on the inside of her cheek, hard enough to draw blood, to keep from screaming across the aisle. Her anger had no place here, not in politics. But that thought did little to quell the fury simmering beneath her skin, the Gold Siphon's rhythm syncing with the rapid beat of her heart.

And then Dontay stepped forward, clearing his throat in that self-righteous way that made Mera want to rip his wings off. "In addition to the Hearing, I have come to lay an accusation against Mera, Ward of Rhiannon Nymerrian, my lord."

Feyre's brows knit together, confusion dancing across her features. "Accusation? What is it that you're accusing Mera of?"

"The Head Custodestar, Ean, was murdered by his wife, Zepha," Dontay spat, his voice thick with contempt. "And this woman," he pointed a damning finger at Mera, "aided her in carrying out the deed."

Devlon, ever the stoic bastard, crossed his arms over his chest. "Zepha has vanished. We have no choice but to seek justice from the only remaining perpetrator."

The air in the room grew colder, the weight of Rhysand's gaze pressing down on Mera like a stone. "Mera," he said, his voice dangerously low, "did you do it? Did you kill him?"

"I did not kill Ean." Mera's voice was steady, but inside, a tempest raged. She could feel the Siphon pulsing in her pocket, its power rising with her fury, begging to be unleashed. Zepha wouldn't have told them.

"A lie," Dontay sneered. "The petition book Mera brought before you belongs to the Head Custodestar. His family name is engraved in the inner binding."

Before Mera could respond, the book vanished from her satchel and reappeared in front of Rhysand. He plucked it from the air with practiced ease, flipping through its pages.

It burned her that he'd reached for the book without hesitation at Dontay's accusation, yet when she'd spoken of the fact that it contained the pleas of thousands of Illyrian women, he hadn't even glanced at it.

"Tell me the truth, Mera," Rhysand said, his tone deceptively soft. But beneath it, she could feel the sharp talons of his power, ready to tear through the deepest corners of her mind.

The pain came swiftly, a vicious, slicing agony that tore through her skull. Mera gasped, slamming her hands to either side of her head, desperate to block it out. But the pain only grew, lancing through her thoughts, threatening to rip her mind apart as it searched, penetrating every darkened corner it could find.

"I DID NOT KILL EAN!" The words burst from her, raw and unfiltered. The truth, yes, but beneath it, buried deep, was the desire she'd fought to suppress. She hadn't killed him—but she had wanted to. And that dark, vengeful thought was enough to damn her if Rhysand chose to see it.