Silas did not speak in the courtyard.
That was the first thing he asked, and the first thing Sera almost refused.
The western gate had become too public for a confession, too full of guards, Draven riders, red banners, Vex wolves, and Nyra Vael watching from the road like a prophet waiting to be proven necessary. Valerius had been helped upright by Cassian and one deeply terrified guard. He did not protest the help this time, which told Sera more about the pain than any sound could have. The thorn mark across his palm had stopped bleeding after Delara wrapped it in ash-soaked linen, but the skin around it remained blackened, branching faintly beneath the surface.
The locket had been placed in an iron bowl and carried to the lower archive.
Sera carried the blue cloth herself.
She did n
