"You are a trophy," Sebastian said, the blade's edge catching torchlight and cutting the great chamber into stripes of cold fire and shadow. They dragged her through the hall like a spoil. Her hair was singed at the temple. Her gown—what remained of it—hung in wet strips. Blood slicked the hem where others had fallen. The salt of the sea mingled with iron, and the crowd smelled of fear braided with hunger. Riley Farley kept her face still. The mariners' banners fluttered uselessly above them. Soldiers in Dorian blue made a corridor with spears. Lord Calder's voice filled the space like a bell. "Citizens," he announced, and the court leaned in. "By decree of Emperor Sebastian Dorian, the line of Farley ends tonight. Yet law allows mercy. He claims the right of favor. He names—" "A concubine," Sebastian finished from the dais. He did not lower his blade. He walked the platform like a man choosing chess pieces. "Riley Farley." The name landed. A dozen mouths moved at once. A ripple, then a silence so taut it could be severed. Riley's knees hit the flagstones. The world narrowed to the smoothing of polished stone under her thighs and the press of thousands of eyes. She bowed. Her lips moved before her brain could protest. "I serve," she said. The voice was small. Perfect. Applause didn't break. It couldn't. The court had been waiting for the moment where a ruined noble would either die