Page 213 of Maksym

“Not. Guilty.”

The Ironwood wolves barely withheld their disdain.

“King Griffin Calloway,” said the Magistrate.

The young eastern wolf king sat straighter than before, dark red hair catching the chamber light, green eyes grave.

“Not guilty,” he said.

Ironwood’s anger changed flavor. Not outrage now. Alarm.

Votes had begun to form a pattern. Patterns frightened losing men more than single blows did. A single blow could be called insult. A pattern became fate.

“Verdant Hollow Wyrdmother.”

The witch sovereign of Verdant Hollow sat on a throne grown rather than carved, pale living branches curling around her like arthritic fingers.

“Guilty,” she said.

Not loudly. Not apologetically. She hated Iron Valor for past sins. Her verdict did not surprise me.

“King Rafe Mayfield.”

Rafe leaned forward slightly, black hair touched with gray, full beard framing a mouth set in sober consideration. His onyx eyes moved once from Maddie to Nikolay, then to Ironwood.

“Not guilty.”

Maddie closed her eyes. Only for a moment.

Nikolay’s shoulders did not drop. He would not allow himself that until the last vote had fallen, and perhaps not even then.

Behind him, Bronc Baucaum stood in the gallery like a mountain deciding whether to remain landscape or become an avalanche.

The Magistrate continued.

“King Slade Stewart.”

The western wolf king shifted on his throne.

Slade Stewart looked carved from a harsher country than this chamber. Huge, blond, bearded, with grief not hidden so much as worn openly because he had no interest in tailoring it for court. I knew the recent loss of his mate sat in him like an unhealed wound. Men in such states could become kinder or less capable of mercy. Sometimes both, depending upon the hour.

His blue eyes rested on Nikolay. Then Maddie. Then the Ironwood wolves.

“Guilty,” he said.

The word came out rougher than the others. I did not blame Slade for grief. I did not trust it with a vote.

“Star Weaver Fallon from the Astral Spire Coven,” the Magistrate said.

The witch seated beneath the silver-threaded banner of Astral Spire had watched everything with a coolness nearly vampiric in its resolve. Her robes held midnight tones, and small points of light shimmered in the fabric when she moved.

Her answer was crisp.

“Not guilty.”

That made seven.

I felt the count settle through the chamber before anyone spoke it. Supernatural courts had no need for clerks reciting numbers aloud. Every creature present counted survival by instinct.