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“Sir Tiergan. I must say this is unexpected.”
Councillor Emery looms over him in all his cloaked glory, the blue of his circlet gleaming against the dark rock of the cell surrounding him.
Tiergan only scoffs. This is the fourth time they’re sending another Councillor in their full regalia, as if somehow the jewels can intimidate Tiergan into spilling his secrets. “How many times are you going to try this, Emery?”
“How many times are you going to resist us?” Emery snaps in return. “Your fate is decided, Tiergan. You’ll be Exiled whether you cooperate or not.”
“Then I’ll go silently.”
“Fine.” Emery turns away with a dramatic swish of his cloak, and Tiergan rolls his eyes. “But silence won’t help Mr. Endal.”
“He doesn’t need to be helped,” Tiergan says, but his throat is dry. “He’s innocent.”
“So you keep saying,” Emery says, stepping back. “But the truth always comes to light, be it sooner or later—and trust me, I intend for it to be the former.”
“The only person who should fear the truth is you ,” Tiergan spits. “We’ve made peace with our mistakes. Have you?”
Emery raises an eyebrow. “We?”
Ah. Perhaps he shouldn’t have revealed that. “Yes, we. Although I’m flattered that you think I could have pulled this off all on my own.”
“You are a talented Telepath, Sir Tiergan. It’s a pity you couldn’t use that talent for good.”
Tiergan barely has time to respond before Emery is walking away, his insufferably grand cloak trailing behind him. Then, the doors close, and he’s doused in darkness once again.
Four hours later, the doors open once again, and Councillor Bronte appears outside his cell, glaring daggers at him through the bars.
Tiergan stares back at him, silent.
“If you insist on saying nothing, Tiergan, you only make the rest of this that much harder.”
Tiergan is reluctantly shocked that Bronte, of all people, is the one to respect his title. He’s spent nearly a week being called variants of Sir and Lord and various other titles he’s expressed clear distaste for, so he’s become almost used to the annoyance. It’s nice that their last attempt—and he assumes it’s their last, given how soon the Tribunal is—is at least respectful of some things.
But Tiergan’s under no impression that Bronte will be kind to him. “Alright,” is all he replies, meeting Bronte’s hard glare with a defiant, confident grin. It feels nice, somehow, to finally be able to express the true depths of his annoyance with these crystal-clad Councillors, knowing that the outcome will be Exile regardless.
Strangely, though, Bronte’s hard expression only softens at his confidence. Tiergan isn’t sure what to say, as Bronte looks off into the distance, his age obvious in the sadness of his eyes. Finally, he says, “You are not the first elf to mistakenly believe they can change the world.”
Tiergan stares at him, frowning. “This is no mistake.”
“So they all say,” Bronte replies, strangely quiet. “Youth can be a blinding force, if you allow it.”
Tiergan rolls his eyes. “An Ancient, offering wisdom about youth. Forgive me if I’m a bit skeptical.”
“I am no older than the problems you fight to fix, Tiergan. Believe me when I say that you are only one in a long line of elves who have tried and failed to be heroes.” Bronte sighs. “Sadly, it is the most talented of us who find themselves on the wrong paths.”
Tiergan gets the strange feeling that this conversation has shifted to something beyond himself. “What?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.
But Bronte only shakes his head and steps away from the bars, all traces of emotion wiped from his face. “If you speak now, your punishment tomorrow may be lessened.”
“Lessened?” Tiergan scoffs. “What, would you have me rot in a slightly nicer cell in Exile?” He shakes his head. “I know what you want. You want names, which I won’t give you.”
“Then I suppose this conversation is over.” Bronte turns, and walks the same path Emery had, as well as the five other Councillors they’ve sent to try and get information out of him. Before he leaves, he turns and says, “Your Tribunal will be public. We intend on showing the public that treason will not be taken lightly.” Do not expect a kind sentence , goes unsaid.
Tiergan kicks a pebble from his chained seat on the floor. He knows how to handle these interrogations; he’s been training for this ever since he joined the Black Swan. He’s spent the last five days in his cell preparing for the inevitable mind break, tucking away any classified information in the deepest recesses of his mind.
He won’t give Alden and Quinlin the satisfaction of learning anything from him. Not while he can help it.
But even with all of his training, his tragic fate still looms over him, drawing out long-hidden fears and worries. He hasn’t been able to sleep lately, not in the complete silence of the cell. He craves the chaos of his childhood home, or Prentice’s soft humming in bed; Cyrah’s late-night crafting sessions or even Wylie’s secret midnight snack adventures. Usually, he can hear it all, a calm reminder that he is not alone, not forgotten.
Except now he is. Alone, that is—perhaps not forgotten, but once he forgets his own life, what good will anyone’s memories of him be? The world will remember him as a traitor, save for the few who loved him, shaky and angry as that love was. And even they will remember him as a passionate sacrifice, an unfortunate casualty of the emerging, inevitable war.
Though he can’t say that he regrets his sacrifice. He knows he should—he’s been in Prentice’s position before, watching as his lover becomes reckless in the face of any danger to Tiergan. He knows the anger that Prentice must be feeling well, because he has tasted it himself.
Now, Tiergan can leave his lover one final gift: the gift of time, hope, sanity . If the Moonlark can achieve the impossible, then Tiergan’s sacrifice will have been worth it; if she cannot, he will at least have given Wylie the family he deserves, a family free from the constant watchful eye of the Council.
Allowing himself one singular tear of despair, Tiergan rests his head against the cool stone floor of his cell, staring up into nothingness.
The night, now, is the only barrier between him and his fate.