Page 78 of Her Orc Protector

"Lord Duskryn," Thenholt addressed him formally. "Please take your place. The petitioner has presented her initial statement."

Gavriel inclined his head and moved to the second table, which was positioned opposite mine. His aides remained standing just behind him.

"Now," Thenholt continued, "you are called to respond to the charges of magical coercion through use of a restricted artifact. How do you plead?"

Gavriel's smile was slight but confident. "With all respect to the Council and to my wife, these allegations are entirely false. Magical coercion?" He shook his head, the gesture one of sad disbelief. "I understand that the dissolution of a marriage can be painful, and that it may be easier to assign blame than to accept natural drift. But this?" He spread his hands. "This is beyond reasonable."

His voice was perfect. Just enough wounded dignity to suggest generosity. I saw it work—Council members shifting, softening. I used to fall for that, too. That tone that wrapped the lie in silk and made you feel foolish for ever asking the question.

"Lord Duskryn," Councilor Thorne spoke, her tone sharper than Thenholt's. "The petitioner has presented documentation regarding the artifact in question. Are you familiar with the Seal of Veritas?"

A flicker—brief enough that I might have missed it had I not been watching so closely. Gavriel's composure wavered for just a moment before he recovered.

"I am aware of various artifacts recovered during the war," he replied smoothly. "As a supporter of the reconstruction efforts, I naturally took an interest in such matters. But I have never possessed such an item, nor would I employ dark magic against anyone," he said, turning his gaze to me, warm as frost. "Least of all my own wife."

I gripped the edge of the table. Not because the words hurt—but because they still knew the shape of me. Knew where to land.

Thorne's gaze remained steady. "And yet we have records indicating that this specific artifact was released into your custody by Councilor Evrit. Do you deny this occurred?"

"Councilor Evrit was a colleague, yes," Gavriel acknowledged, "and we worked together on various initiatives. But I received no such artifact. If such records exist, they are either mistaken or have been… creatively interpreted."

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water. Not loud, not harsh—just precise. Cold. Calculated. And suddenly, everything in me twisted.

What if he was right?What if I had misread the records? If grief had clouded my judgment, made me see intent where there was none?

My throat tightened. I looked down at my hands and for a moment, I couldn’t feel them.

And then—I looked up. Across the table. Uldrek didn’t speak—he couldn’t—but he was watching me with steady eyes. There was nothing soft in them, nothing fragile. Just that quiet, unwavering truth between us.

The mark on my neck pulsed faintly, not with magic, but with memory.

No. Iknewwhat Gavriel had done. I had lived inside it. Escaped it. Found language for it when all I’d had were scars.

I straightened and drew in a breath that scraped a little on the way down. "Councilor Thenholt, may I speak?"

He inclined his head. "You may."

"The archive copy includes Councilor Evrit’s signature and seal," I said, this time steadier. My voice still shook at the edges, but I let it. "It specifically names Lord Duskryn as the recipient. The language is unambiguous."

Thenholt examined the document more closely and passed it on to Thorne. She read it, her expression hardening.

"This appears to be in order," she said. "The signature matches other documents we have from Evrit's tenure."

Gavriel's expression remained pleasant, but I saw tension forming at the corners of his mouth. "If I may," he said, "even if such a transfer occurred—which I do not concede—possessing an artifact is not the same as using it. My wife's accusations are based entirely on her subjective experience, with no tangible evidence of magical influence."

"The burned charms—" I began.

"Could be caused by any number of things," he interrupted smoothly. "Poor craftsmanship, natural magical fluctuations, even deliberate tampering to support this narrative."

Narrative. Like this was a story I’d spun.

I felt it—not doubt, not anymore, but the old helplessness. The one that came from watching a room bend toward him. The way he could thread charm through a lie so delicately you didn’t see the needle until it was already in your skin. The way they shifted in their seats now—councilors who had just minutes ago been listening with care. Now, they looked uncertain. Glancing at the papers as if they might have missed something.

And suddenly, I was back in a drawing room, years ago, watching him explain away my bruised wrist to a neighbor with a soft laugh and a story that made me feel foolish for flinching.

That was the feeling. Not self-doubt. Not disbelief. Rage with nowhere to land.

Until it found something.

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