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The Volvath ahead takes my summons. He presses Zira’s broken seal into a shallow depression beside the doors. Arcane light races through the rings, one after another, until all seven burn crimson.

The doors open without a sound.

The guard points through them. “Enter.”

“Alone?”

His red eyes narrow. “Did the summons request an escort?”

I step past him.

The Council chamber could hold every building in the lower human market and still leave room for a public execution. Black pillars rise into darkness too high for the wall sigils to reach. The floor gleams beneath my boots, polished until it reflects the crimson light in broken pools.

Seven thrones occupy a curved platform at the opposite end.

The Matrons seated there make the immense chamber feel smaller.

Every one of them is larger than a human man, though their forms vary. One has charcoal carapace ridged like overlapping shields. Another possesses four narrow horns sweeping behind a crown of copper hair. The Matron at the far left taps one black talon against her throne while she watches me cross the floor.

I keep my pace even.

Running would change nothing. Kneeling would change less.

A circular mark has been cut into the floor before the platform. I stop inside it because every line of the chamber directs me there. The doors close behind me, sealing away the guards and the corridor.

I stand alone at the Council of Seven.

No chair has been provided. Humans brought here are not expected to remain long enough to need one.

The mark beneath my feet contains thin channels darkened by old residue. Blood, perhaps, or some ink used in Council rites. I keep my boots away from the grooves. Above the thrones, seven metal sigils catch the crimson light, each shaped for one of the demon gods. None promises mercy. Demon faith values war, destruction, chaos, and the strength to survive them. A human asking those gods for kindness would misunderstand both demons and gods.

The central Matron leans forward.

Zira.

Her ivory carapace is smooth and unblemished, each plate fitted so closely that the joints nearly disappear. Silver-white hair falls over her shoulders and down the back of her throne. Her horns rise in two polished arcs, their surfaces carved with rows of tiny symbols. Some resemble house marks. Others may be names, victories, or bloodlines extending farther into the past than any living human family can trace.

A staff of dark metal rests across her knees.

Her red eyes move from my worn boots to the leather strip binding my hair. The examination is open and exact. I feel like a plant laid beneath a knife for identification.

“Beatrix Ferryman,” she says.

Her voice reaches me easily despite the distance.

“Yes.”

The Matron with copper hair raises one brow.

I correct nothing. Zira knows I am present. Announcing a title humans are forbidden to possess would serve no purpose.

“You operate an apothecary in the western district,” Zira says. “You prepare remedies for the human breeding stock and trade with servants belonging to several houses.”

“I prepare remedies for anyone who can pay.”

“Including dark elf slaves.”

“Poison works regardless of caste.”