Chapter 112
Poppy hadn’t even reached the central table when a tall, thin Councilor in silver-edged robes shot to his feet, staff cracking against the stone.
“I object,” he declared. “Lysandra Sinclair is a destabilizing force. Her visions are unpredictable and potentially dangerous. She should be detained for examination until the Court can determine—”
Mingxi’s foxfire ignited instantly, but Poppy reached the center of the room first, stepping between Lysandra and the Councilor, forcing a calmness sharp enough to draw blood.
“You will not lay a hand on my sister,” she said.
The Councilor blinked, obviously offended. “This is not your place to decide—”
Poppy’s voice softened, but it carried like steel drawn in a quiet room. “It is absolutely my place.”
Lysandra, behind her, whispered, “Oh, Poppy…”
The Councilor lifted his chin. “You overstep your authority.”
Poppy ensured her smile was polite, exquisite, and lethal. “Detain her?” she echoed softly. “Sir, you may as well suggest I hand her to wolves.”
Mingxi murmured without missing a beat, “An insult to wolves, my heart.”
She didn’t take her eyes off the Councilor.
“Lysandra is not your prisoner. She is not your specimen. She is not your property. She is my family. And if you attempt to seize her…” Her eyes brightened with silver flame. “Then you will do so over my dead body.”
The chamber erupted in shocked murmurs.
Lysandra made a small, helpless sound behind Poppy—equal parts love, pride, and an oh-no-she-did-not attitude.
The Councilor sputtered, “You cannot make threats in these halls—”
“That was not a threat,” Poppy said, perfectly composed. “It was a promise.”
The First Sentinel stepped forward then, the scrape of his boots silencing half the room.
“Councilor Worthington,” he said calmly, “the next time you suggest imprisoning a woman who survived a celestial battle you’ve only read about in dusty scrolls, I will personally escort you outside and remind you of the difference between theory and combat.”
Worthington paled.
A second Councilor rose, flustered. “First Sentinel, you cannot take their side so openly—”
“I can,” the Sentinel replied, “because they are right.”
Mingxi stepped beside Poppy, foxfire steady but lethal at the edges.
“She speaks for our clan,” he said. “Anyone who touches Lysandra Sinclair touches my wife. And my family.”
“This is highly irregular—” another Councilor tried.
Poppy turned, slow and precise. “What is irregular,” she said, “is attempting to cage my sister because her gifts frighten you.”
Lysandra’s voice wavered behind her. “Poppy… you’re going to make me cry.”
“Not now,” Poppy murmured.
“You’re still making me cry,” Lysandra whispered.
The Sentinel crossed his arms and addressed the entire court, “Let it be recorded that the Ashen Court will not detain Lysandra Sinclair. Not today. Not in the future. Not ever.”
He leveled a look at the chamber that dared anyone to argue. No one did.
Poppy placed a steadying hand on Lysandra’s arm and guided her forward.
“We will give testimony,” she said. “Willingly. Freely. But no one in this room will threaten or coerce my sister again.”
Mingxi leaned down and murmured against her temple, voice strained with awe, “Beloved, you are devastating.”
Poppy flushed. Her heart was still racing, fear buzzing sharp and insistent beneath her ribs, but she kept her spine straight and her hand steady. She would not let them see her waver.
Lysandra groaned. “Please, not in front of the government.”
Councilors stared in scandalized silence.
The Sentinel gestured toward the inner chamber. “Shall we?” he said.
This time, the Court did not lead; they followed Poppy.