He was young. Thin. Dressed in dark clothes.

His hair was greasy. His smile was oily. He had the look of a man who sold secrets and enjoyed the work.

He looked up at Raven. His smile did not waver.

"What do you want?" he said. He leaned back. He put his feet on the desk. "Information is costly, you see. We do not give charity. We do not give credit. Gold first. Talk later. And if you waste my time, I will have you thrown out. Or worse."

Raven looked at him.

He did not smile.

"I am not here to purchase information," he said. "But rather give it."

The man’s smile faltered. His feet came off the desk. He leaned forward.

"Give it?" he said. "You want to give us information? And then we will value it? That is not how this works. We are not a charity. We are not a—"

"I ain’t saying this to a cheap rag," Raven said. His voice was flat. Cold. The voice of a man who has killed leeches and broken commanders. "Bring your boss here. Where is Latina?"

The man’s face went white.

Then red.

"What?" he sputtered. "Are you an idiot? I am— I am the—"

Raven snapped his fingers.

The sound was small. Sharp. Like a bone breaking.

The man’s mouth vanished.

Not covered. Not sealed. Vanished. From existence. One moment, he had lips, teeth, a tongue. The next, there was nothing. Just smooth skin. Flat. Featureless. A blank space where a mouth should be. He could not speak. He could not scream. He could not breathe through his mouth. He clawed at his face. His eyes were wide. His hands scrabbled at the smooth skin. Nothing. He stumbled from his chair. He fell. He writhed on the floor, clutching his face, his muffled cries escaping only through his nose.

Raven stood over him.

He waited.

A voice came from the shadows at the back of the room.

"Leave him be."

The voice was female. Low. Raspy. The voice of a woman who had screamed once and never fully recovered.

A wheelchair rolled from the darkness.

Latina.

She was not what the stories described. She had once been beautiful. That much was visible. Her bone structure was fine. Noble. Her cheekbones were high. Her jaw was sharp. Her remaining eye was violet. Brilliant. Hard. The other was covered by an eye patch. Black leather. Simple.

Her legs were gone.

Both of them. Cut off at the knee. The stumps were wrapped in clean bandages. They rested on the footrest of the wheelchair. Her body below the waist was a thing of absence. Of removal. Of violence survived.

She was dressed in dark robes. Fine. But old. Her hands were on the wheels. Her fingers were long. Scarred. She pushed herself forward. She stopped in front of Raven. She looked up at him.

"Who are you," she said, "and how do you know me?"

Raven looked down at her.

He smiled. Warm. Cruel. Knowing.

"Hey there, Latina," he said. "Your mother really did a good number on you."

The color drained from her face.

Her hand gripped the wheel. Her knuckles went white. Her violet eye widened. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came.

"How do you know that?" she whispered. "No one knows that. No one. I killed everyone who knew. I burned the records. I destroyed the house. I erased every trace. How do you—"

"House Veranthos," Raven said. He pulled a chair. He sat across from her. He crossed his legs. Casual. As if visiting a friend. "A noble family. Old money. Older blood. Your grandfather was the Duke of the Eastern Reach. Your grandmother was a mage of the Fifth Circle. Your mother was the third daughter. Beautiful. Ambitious. Ruthless."

Latina’s eye was fixed on him. Her body was rigid. Her breathing was shallow.

"Your mother married a baron," Raven continued. "A minor lord. A nobody. She married him for his name. For his connection to the court. She wanted to be close to the Crown. Close to the queen. She wanted influence."

"She had one child," he said. "You. Born in the Veranthos estate. Born with violet eyes. Born with power. Born with everything your mother wanted for herself."

"She was jealous," Raven said. "Of her own daughter. Of the attention you received. Of the magic that manifested in you at age three. Of the way your grandfather looked at you. The way the court whispered about the Veranthos prodigy."

Latina’s hands were trembling. Her eye was wet. She gripped the armrest. Her nails dug into the wood.

"When you were five," Raven said, "your mother took you to the old wing. The one with the marble stairs. She told the servants she was giving you a bath. She took a cleaver. The kind used for chopping bone. She laid you on the stone floor. And she cut off your legs. Both of them. At the knee. One stroke each."

"STOP!" Latina screamed. Her voice echoed in the small room. Her eye was wild. Her hands were shaking. "Stop! How do you know this?! HOW?!"

Raven did not stop.

"She told the household you had been attacked," he said. "By bandits. By a monster. By an enemy of the family. She wept. She performed grief. She held your stumps and screamed for the healers. And the healers came. They sealed the wounds. They saved your life. But they could not give back what was taken."

"Your grandfather died the next year," Raven said. "Some say of grief. Your grandmother followed. The House of Veranthos fell. The baron—your father—drank himself to death. Your mother inherited what was left. She sold the estate. She moved to the capital. She bought a townhouse near the palace. She lived well. On the money from the sale of her daughter’s legs."

Latina was crying.

Tears ran down her scarred cheek. Into the eye patch. Her hands were over her face. Her shoulders shook. The wheelchair trembled.

"What do you want?" she whispered. Her voice was broken. "What do you want from me? Who are you?"

Raven leaned forward.

He snapped his fingers again.

Behind him, the man on the floor gasped. His mouth reappeared. Lips. Teeth. Tongue. All restored. He screamed. A wet, ragged scream. He scrambled to his feet. He covered his mouth with both hands. He stared at Raven. His eyes were wide with absolute terror.

"I need the details about the First Queen’s massage man," Raven said. His voice was calm. Conversational. As if he had not just erased and restored a man’s mouth. "Wasn’t he kind of an old man?"

Latina looked up.

Her tears were still falling. But her expression changed. Confusion replaced the horror.

"What?" she said. "Who? A massage man?"

She was shocked. She had expected him to ask about the First Queen. About the Crown Prince. About the political landscape of the court. Instead, he asked about a masseur. A servant. A nobody.

"What... what massage man?" she repeated.

"The one who serves the First Queen," Raven said.

"An old man. He massages her. Cuts her hair. Attends to her body. You know the one. Every noble woman has one. It is a natural thing. A servant. A nobody. Tell me about him."