He sat in the interrogation room, running through scenarios in his head while waiting for them to bring in Laurec. The duty officer who finally appeared with the prisoner looked thoroughly unhappy about a Sunday night interrogation. Tough luck, Raen thought. Some of us don't get days off.

  Sevrin Laurec settled into the chair across from him with deliberate ease—a man trying very hard to look unconcerned.

  "Interesting time for a conversation, Arcanis Thorne," Laurec said, studying him. "No personal life to speak of?"

  The comment landed like a blade. The fury Raen had managed to tamp down all day surged back without warning.

  Sevrin noticed immediately. Of course he did.

  "Ah. A quarrel. Or did she leave you?" He watched the changes in Raen's expression with quiet satisfaction.

  "You're perceptive," Raen said quietly. "So was she. Perceptive enough to see exactly what you were — and walk away."

  Laurec went completely still. The ease dropped from his face like a mask.

  Raen reached into his pocket and placed the arcanegraph on the table between them. Sevrin picked it up slowly, studied it, then made a sharp attempt to tear it in half. The protective charms held. He flung it away instead.

  "There's no point denying anything anymore, Master Laurec." Raen kept his voice level, clinical. "Your gift is documented. Your alibi has been retracted. We have a witness who places you at Lizzie's apartment at the time of her death. And motive is self-evident." He paused. "You're not walking out of here. If you want any chance of prison over execution, I'd advise you to talk."

  Sevrin leaned back. Something shifted in his eyes—not fear exactly. More like exhaustion.

  "I'm not afraid of death, Arcanis." A faint, bitter smile. "It might be the better option at this point."

  Silence stretched between them.

  Then Laurec poured himself a glass of water, drank it slowly, and set the glass down with a quiet click.

  "Fine," he said. "Have it your way. I'll tell you everything." He looked at Raen steadily. "I don't particularly care what happens to me anymore. Maybe saying it aloud will help somehow."

  Raen waited.

  Sevrin told him everything. The ball in Grolas. Eliza — her copper hair, her wedding ring, the gazebo thick with ivy. The accident that wasn't quite an accident. Waking up in a cell. His family's connections securing his release. The blocking artifact. The flight to Vraveil and the desperate attempt to build a new life.

  "But Lizbeth Vemund got in the way of that new life?" Raen said when he paused.

  "She was almost identical to Eliza." Sevrin's smile turned hollow. "Even their names. For a moment I thought I was losing my mind—seeing a ghost. But she was real. A different woman. And I told myself..." He stopped. Exhaled slowly. "I told myself fate was giving me a second chance."

  "So you befriended her."

  "I wanted to become the most important person in her world. The one man who always understood her, always listened, always supported her." Something flickered across his face — pride, maybe, or the ghost of it. "And I succeeded. She trusted me completely. More than her own sister, I think. I didn't push for anything romantic. I endured watching her go on dates with other men, come home disappointed, and conclude that no one understood her like I did." He paused. "She used to joke that if I weren't her best friend, she'd have fallen in love with me. I laughed along and waited."

  Raen said nothing. Just listened.

  "And then one evening she came to me in tears. Her canary had died." A short, humorless sound. "Of all things. I comforted her. Kissed her. We spent two days together — everything I'd imagined for years. I proposed. She said it was too soon." He shrugged. "I wasn't worried. I was certain we'd be together forever. We kept things quiet at Goldspire — the owner disapproves of relationships between employees. For months we were careful, only ourselves in private. Then I received word that my mother was gravely ill. I had to return to the kingdom immediately."

  "Lizzie didn't go with you."

  "She had plans to visit her sister. I didn't push." Laurec's jaw tightened. "While I was gone, she met Olaf Gaspar."

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Raen waited.

  "When I returned, Liz told me everything. Honestly, to her credit." Something ugly moved through Sevrin's expression. "She called what we'd had a 'moment of weakness.' Said I was her friend first and foremost, and that she no longer felt... that way about me. As a man." He was quiet for a moment. "I accepted it. I decided to wait for their relationship to fall apart and take her back then."

  "And it did fall apart."

  "Eventually. After their fight, she contacted me, told me everything. I thought my moment had finally come." He rubbed his face with both hands. "It was unfortunate that Liz was pregnant with Gaspar's child. But I'd decided I could raise another man's child as the price of happiness. And if necessary..." He trailed off. "But that's not relevant now."

  He paused, composing himself.

  "I went to her late that Sunday evening. Told her I still wanted to marry her. Raise the child. That I'd never stopped loving her." His voice flattened. "Liz cried. Then she told me I'd always just be her friend. That Olaf would come back to her and they'd build a family together. And I — as her closest friend — would always be welcome in their home."

  The room was very quiet.

  "And you couldn't accept that," Raen said.

  "No." Simple. Flat. "I removed the blocking artifact and used my gift."

  He reached up and touched something invisible at his collar. An object materialized in his palm — a small crystal droplet, delicate as a tear.

  Raen's hand moved instinctively toward his own weapon. "I wouldn't recommend using that right now."

  "Don't worry, Arcanis." Sevrin set the artifact on the table between them. "I won't harm anyone else." He looked at it for a moment, then looked away. "Despite everything... it was good to feel my gift again. It's part of me. Perhaps I should have stayed in the kingdom and finished my training." A pause. "But what does it matter now."

  "Walk me through what happened in her apartment."

  "She'd been drinking tea in the kitchen before I arrived. I found a half-empty cup there. We talked in the living room — she was sitting on the sofa." Sevrin's voice was clinical now, detached. Describing something at a distance. "When it was done, I arranged her in a natural position. Put a book beside her, as if it had fallen from her hands. Brought the tea from the kitchen and left it on the table."

  Raen nodded slowly. It matched the scene precisely.

  "Didn't you feel anything?" he asked. "For Lizzie herself. For the child she was carrying."

  Sevrin's expression twisted. "You know, Arcanis, your forensic investigators also have latent vitalist gifts. You could assist in healing. Save lives. Instead, you spend your days with corpses."

  "That's also a form of service. To society."

  "Then I suppose I'm simply the wrong kind of vitalist." The bitter smile again. A pause. Then, with what seemed like genuine curiosity: "Tell me — how did you know it was murder? The method I used should have presented as cardiac failure. I was quite surprised to learn there was a murder investigation."

  "I'm afraid I can't share that. It's a new development in arcane forensics. Still classified." Raen studied him. "Why didn't you run when you learned there was an investigation? Were you really that certain we'd get nothing useful from the Grolas authorities?"

  "Honestly?" Sevrin almost smiled. "I was curious. I wanted to know how you identified it as murder. Whoever developed that methodology is genuinely remarkable. I'd have liked to meet them."

  "That's not possible."

  "No. I suppose not." He looked at his hands. "My curiosity worked against me in the end."

  "One more question. The blood-freezing technique — causing cardiac arrest without physical trace. That's not in any standard vitalist curriculum. Where did you learn it?"

  Sevrin was quiet for a moment. Raen could see him weighing how much to reveal.

  "You received a response from the Grolas authorities," Laurec finally said. "Were there really no details about my family?"

  "Surprisingly sparse. Age, birthplace, nature of your gift. No criminal record. No family information, which I found unusual."

  Sevrin nodded slowly, unsurprised. "My family worked hard to erase that file. They don't tolerate shadows on their name." He drank the last of his water. "Some overly conscientious junior clerk must have responded to your inquiry. He won't last long in that position."

  He set the glass down.

  "My mother is Countess Melania Ebony. I'm her son from her first marriage. My half-brother is Stuart Ebony — current Director of the Royal School of Healing."

  Raen went very still.

  Melania Ebony. Court healer to the late Queen Emilia for decades. After the queen's death, she'd retreated entirely into academic work — but her treatises on healing magic were taught in universities across the world. Thousands of lives saved daily through her methods.

  And her son sat across from him, calm and hollow-eyed, describing how he'd used that inherited gift to stop a young woman's heart.

  Disappointment to his family was far too gentle a phrase for what Sevrin Laurec was.

  "I didn't see that coming," Raen said finally.

  "I assumed you wouldn't." No pride in it. Just fact. "My mother trained my brother and me from the moment our gifts activated. Techniques unknown outside the family. Later we assisted her research — she developed several remarkable blood-based arcane techniques with our help. None of it left the family. A matter of lineage secrets."

  "I see." Raen stood. "Thank you for your honesty."

  "Thank you for listening, Arcanis." Sevrin looked up at him. "It's been a long time since I spoke to anyone completely truthfully." A pause. "I hope they choose execution. Given the nature of the crimes."

  Raen called for the guard without responding.

  So do I, he thought. But some things didn't need to be said.

  Walking out into the corridor, he felt the weight of the confession settling over him. Two women. Two obsessions that had consumed everything. A gift meant for healing turned into a murder weapon twice over.

  He thought of Alice then — her fierce determination, her recklessness, the way she'd looked at him in the firelight at Amina's house.

  She was nothing like Lizzie. Nothing like Eliza.

  But Sevrin had told himself the same kind of stories. Destiny. A second chance. She belongs to me.

  The thought was cold water.

  Raen walked faster toward the exit, pushing it away. He wasn't Sevrin Laurec. He knew the difference between love and obsession.

  Didn't he?