Moonlark Turned Evil

42: The Soft Feeling of Home

"Thank you for coming, Miss Foster."

Councillor Emery was tall, with black hair, dark skin, and sapphire blue eyes. He was dressed in simple grey, a silver Councillor cloak cascading from his shoulders.

A circlet the same colour as his eyes rested on his forehead, the standard piece of jewelry worn by all Councillor members.

Sophie smiled in answer to his words, crossing her legs. "It's an honour to be here, Councillor Emery."

Forty-seven, she counted in her head. Forty-eight.

The lack of a clock and window made it difficult to measure the distance of time, so she'd started counting from the moment she entered the entirely white room.

"So, if may I ask," Sophie started. "Why did you call me here?" Fifty-five.

"I see you are very blunt, Miss Foster."

"I've been told so many times."

"Perhaps it is because of her upbringing . . ." The way he paused confirmed her theory of why he'd called her to his tower. "Oh, but how could I have forgotten that the entire story is fabricated."

If he was looking for some kind of shock, he would be disappointed.

Sophie tilted her head slightly, lifting a hand to her mouth. "Councillor Emery, are you alright? Is your health declining? I can't believe you would forget something so important! You're a prominent leader in elvin society. I'm sure many people would be concerned if they learned that you weren't able to think clearly." One minute thirty-nine seconds.

Emery was as expressionless as her.

"You are more uncivilized than I expected," he said. "When I saw you at Alden Vacker's healing, you were quieter. Docile might be a better word."

"Are you talking about the Moonlark?" Sophie laughed. "Please, don't compare me with her. We're very different people."

She heard Sandor shift from just outside the door, and felt a slight sense of relief. She could protect herself, but who wouldn't be reassured if they knew there was a six foot tall goblin standing guard only a few meters away, ready to charge?

Emery's mind was probably reeling with questions at her careful wording. She'd over-dramatized the truth, phrasing it in a way that made it easy to overthink.

And it was only her first trap.

"Allow me to change the subject." Emery snapped his fingers, and the round white table opened up in the middle.

A chessboard rose from the hollow inside, the pieces already set.

"Would you prefer white, or black?" he asked.

"Black," she answered. One minute fifty-seven seconds.

The board spun around, and Emery reached for a pawn.

"Why did you call me here?" Sophie asked.

Her tone was childish, almost like a small girl throwing a tantrum, and she hated it—hated that it was Squall who was hearing her speak that way.

"I'm sure you already know," Squall said. Her emotions were behind the layers of ice in her disguise, hidden away alongside her identity.

"If it's to change my mind about the Black Swan, then give up." Sophie's gaze was blank and dark. Unlike Squall's mediocre poker face, her expression was devoid of any life. "I will hate you guys until I die, Juline." She added the last word in a low whisper.