The dawn of the second day of trial arrived without sunlight.
Before the court had even convened, Ren had been subjected to three separate strip-searches in the damp intake cells.
The Void-court wardens were scared of what other contraband might be hidden in his clothing. They had ripped the lining from his patched wool coat, pried the heels from his cobbler’s boots, and run silver test probes along his collarbones to verify that he had no hidden mana reservoirs. Through his glamour-blind eyes, the wardens’ grand void-court robes were merely dirty black wool stained with lard and spilled ale. Their silver test rods were cheap brass plated with five hair-fractions of silver leaf that was already wearing through at the grip.
“Clean,” the head warden had spat, shoving Ren back into his boots. “The boy is as dry as a brick. Zero internal mana. Not enough spiritual deep ring to light an animal fat taper.”
“Which makes him twice as dangerous,” a cold voice had answered from the hall.
Court guard-Captain Corvus Thorne had stood in the doorway. His lacquered iron breastplate reflected the dim lantern-light. The veteran officer had not looked at Ren with contempt. He had looked at him with the grim, cautious respect a sapper gives an unexploded artillery shell.
