Emmaline stared at the heavy oak door of Syrus’s study, steeling herself as she stared at the intricate carvings that adorned its surface.

  There were the wards, of course, etched in all around the frame in delicate silver. Those were there to strengthen it against attack, to ensure privacy against scrying and to deaden the noise of heated arguments. Those weren’t the ones that caught her eyes, however. She was more interested in the artistry. The symbolism.

  The door bore the crest of the House of Sorrow, as one would expect, but the artisan had taken great care to interlace their teardrop motif with the octagon of the empire. Their strokes were intertwined, as if to say one cannot exist without the other.

  Emmaline was certain her adopted father had a hand in that carving. Not literally, he was much too busy for such a task, but he’d have handpicked the artist or chosen the design from an array of possibilities. Syrus Feln was a man of precision, of micromanagement. A man for whom everything must be just so or it must be done again properly.

  She took a deep breath to steady herself and reached for the knob. Much as she wished to, there was no sense in delaying any further.

  The room lay in complete disarray. Ledgers were scattered across the floor like fallen, some so ripped and torn that they barely resembled their original shape. Much of the treasured art that hung about the office, some of it centuries old, had been shredded by hand. Broken glass was everywhere, crackling under foot as Emmaline slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

  Syrus sat on the edge of his desk, back to her, his shoulders hunched and hands gripping the edge as if it could provide some solace. His usually immaculate attire was rumpled; his tie hung loose around his neck, one sleeve slashed up to the elbow with a corresponding wound bleeding just beneath.

  “Damnit.” Syrus whispered. His whole body was vibrating, as if mere moments from another bout of violence.

  Between them, laid out across the desk, lay the body of her sister. Sierra.

  “Damnit, damnit, damnit!” Syrus shouted as he yanked a desk drawer free and flung it at the wall, mere feet from Emmaline’s head. His blue eyes were wide and deranged, but they sharpened the moment he realized he wasn’t alone. He turned away from her, drawing in a deep breath as he paced the room.

  Emmaline didn’t dare to move.

  She wasn’t afraid of him physically. Syrus was a slim man, barely taller than she was and of an equal rank despite being nearly four decades her senior. He was a man who relied on body guards and a fortune in enchantments and items for his personal protection.

  He was also the strongest man in the Empire, at least by her reckoning.

  Syrus continued to pace for half a minute. His long breaths grew shorter as the moments passed, his steps more steady and measured. Then he stopped, his back still to her. Both hands reached up to slick back the mess of black and grey hair, and he tore away a portion of his sleeve to wrap around his bleeding arm before he finally turned to face her.

  “Father,” she said. Her mouth was dry and the word came out a strangled whisper. When he didn’t respond, she looked to Sierra’s body. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  The story was everywhere. The provisional governor of Ashad dead in a rebel attack was front page news throughout the empire. The House Curia had been called to quorum outside of the legislative session, with drastic punishment doubtless to follow. There were even rumors of impeachment brewing, though Emmaline placed little stock in those.

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  That had all been part of the plan. Sierra’s death had not.

  “Your orphan is to blame.” Syrus said at last, is tone empty, matter of fact. It was the answer to the one questions she’d had left, and hearing it drove an icy spear of terror into her guts. “Ruin disobeyed his orders. He sent the boy for induction rather than retrieving him. I want him dead. Today, if possible.”

  Emmaline frowned. Her father didn’t know.

  “That will not be possi-”

  “Tomorrow, then! Get it done.”

  Emmaline straightened her posture as she said, “Ruin declared himself the boy’s patron.”

  Syrus looked as though she’d struck him. His mouth opened, then closed as his mind whirled through the implications. When he spoke again, there was steel in his voice. “Publicly? Or privately?”

  “Public,” Emmaline answered. “He did not tell you himself?”

  “I was in no mood to ask questions.”

  “Ah.”

  Syrus paced once more, moving from one end of the desk to the other, then back again. Emmaline noticed that he always turned away from the desk itself. He hadn’t looked at Sierra’s body since Emmaline had arrived.

  “I want a detail on the child as soon as possible.”

  Emmaline blinked. “Father, if Ruin-”

  “To protect him.” Disappointment was evident in Syrus’ tone as he scowled. “The last thing we need is someone killing the child and trying to blame it on us. Even if they don’t know about… they might try to frame us just to force Ruin to act against us.”

  “Or Ruin himself might make the attempt.”

  “The thought crossed my mind, but no. If he wanted a fight with us there are easier ways to provoke it. This is just petty revenge.” Syrus allowed himself a sigh. “Besides, that sort of cleverness is beyond him. Frankly, it is a wonder he stumbled into even this mediocre scheme.”

  Emmaline did her best to focus on Syrus’ words, but it was impossible to ignore Sierra’s body at his back. Emmaline had seen bodies before, but none so recently. The girl looked as though she were sleeping. Peaceful. They were almost the same age.

  “Are we sure the orphan is responsible?” Emmaline asked as she shook away the dark thoughts.

  “Ruin is many things, but not a liar. If he says the boy is responsible, then he is.”

  Emmaline frowned. “Her reports said he was unruly, but this…”

  “I am not going to blame you, if that is your concern,” Syrus said. “I approved of your plan.”

  “No, that was not my worry. It is just…”, the girl trailed off, struggling to voice her concern properly. “… I did not expect this. We knew he could be violent. But to kill Sierra? I thought I understood him. The failure is mine.”

  “There is enough for both of us, daughter.” Syrus said. When she didn’t reply he took a few steps forward and cupped her cheek, turning her eyes away from Sierra. “Sometimes you are correct and you still lose. Besides, I can ill afford to punish my heir.”

  The words caught Emmaline off guard. She was Emma to him, not daughter. And certainly not heir. “Father-”

  “Enough. We will speak no more of it for the time being.” Syrus said, cutting off her concerns. “What time is it?”

  “Just past ten.”

  “The Curia will gather soon. I need to get prepare.” The older man looked down at his arm and winced as he took his first good look at the wound. Emmaline lifted a hand, about to chant a healing spell, when he waved her off. “Leave it. I will need to address my appearance, but a visible sign of grief will strengthen our hand in a renewed call for war.”

  Emmaline nodded. “I will have the staff attend to-”

  “No,” he said. “We will take the body to the Ordinates for preparation, but I will clean myself. The time to reflect will be helpful and I do not trust the staff not to gossip.”

  Syrus looked almost like himself again as he turned back to the desk. Then he saw Sierra and his shoulders dipped. It was a little thing, far less than the ruination of his office, but it was enough to make Emmaline reach for him, her slender fingers curling around the back of his arm.

  “I am sorry, father. If I had known, I…” She wouldn’t have changed it. Emmaline knew that. She was an adopted child, but she was more like her father than the dead girl lying on his desk. “I will monitor the orphan myself. If he flees, if he dies in his duties, or there are any changes worth mentioning, you will know within hours.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In the meantime…“ Emmaline said, choosing her words with expert precision. “I think we can still use him.”