Page 215 of Maksym

“This chamber,” he said, “will not be profaned by disorder.”

No one answered.

A single Ironwood wolf breathed too loudly and then corrected himself.

“Any creature who advances without leave will be held in contempt of Council law and restrained accordingly.”

His gaze moved over the Ironwood gallery.

“Any creature who shifts in this chamber will be treated as an immediate threat to assembled sovereigns.”

That settled them. Nikolay was free to go. But no one had moved toward the doors.

Grace’s fingers closed around the edge of her portfolio.

The Magistrate drew breath to close the proceeding.

Grace rose first.

She did not ask permission of the room that had only just learned what her permission was worth. She rose before the Magistrate could close his hand around the proceeding, and the movement was so precise, so quiet, that it seemed less like interruption than fate correcting the order of its own docket.

Every eye turned to her. Not because she demanded attention. Because she no longer needed to.

When she stood, there was no chair scrape, no shuffle of feet, no visible gathering of courage. One moment she sat behind the defense table. The next she stood with her spine straight and her chin level, formal black falling in severe lines around a body Lucian Devereaux had once starved and used and expected to break.

He had been wrong.

Doc rose first beside her.

Not dramatically. He simply stood, stocky, steady, his healer’s hands hanging loose at his sides and his blue eyes fixed forward with a calm that had seen blood enough not to be impressed by courts. Lucia followed a breath later, dark and immaculate, all military precision and barely leashed violence. Nikolay rose from the defendant’s place he had only just been released from, Maddie’s hand still in his. He did not look confused. That told me Grace had planned this, and my brother had known the timing.

Bohdan stood next, charm stripped away, amber eyes cold with businesslike malice. Then Devon rose near my father’s line of sight, white-blonde hair catching the chamber light, her pale face grave in a way that made the air around her seem thinner. The fallen angel did not understand all our laws yet. She understood captivity. She understood evil pretending structure made it clean. And Taras, always Taras completed Grace’s line of defense. He was her shadowed blade, always near, always ready.

Together, they formed a line. Not an army. Not quite. A witness wall.

The chamber recognized it a moment too late.

The Magistrate’s staff remained planted against the stone. His gaze moved to Grace with the displeasure of a man interrupted and the caution of one wise enough to distinguish interruption from emergency.

“Counsel,” he said.

Grace did not bow. She did not curtsy to power or soften her mouth into apology.

“Honored Magistrate,” she said, her soft Tennessee accent carrying cleanly across the marble hall, “there is one more matter to be brought before this Council.”

A ripple moved through the sovereign thrones.

Not sound. Attention changing direction. The verdict had pulled the room toward wolves and pack sovereignty. Grace turned it by the throat.

Ironwood, still hot with outrage, faltered. Some of them looked offended that another matter could exist before their grief had finished taking up space. Others looked almost relieved, grateful for anything that might draw attention away from their failed demand for Nikolay’s blood.

Fools.

Relief was a dangerous instinct in rooms where Grace stood holding a sealed file.

The Magistrate’s expression did not change, but his fingers tightened once around the staff. “This proceeding concerned the charge against Prince Nikolay Kozlov.”

“And that charge has been adjudicated,” Grace said. “The Council’s time will not be wasted by returning to it.”