When Lord Fulcruchen read the scroll, the Earth Skyll’s thickened foot thumped against the stool until he jumped off, his face red with fury. His interruptions (which Oren regarded as little more than tantrums) didn’t bother the Hunter in the least or the elder statesman, for Fulcruchen had given him a wink. 

         The crowd, both high and low, remained fascinated by the spectacle playing out on the dais. The Earth Skyll’s demands for more proof did nothing but cement Oren’s claims. His marked hand had been proof enough of his identity. It would have sufficed had Elymas spewed his venom out, for the King and Fulcruchen looked amused at his demand, but Mirella didn’t recognize his bluff and she’d rose in haste, scared but determined to verify his claim.

         If only she’d kept her seat. If only the King hadn’t call her forth.         

Oren sat up, and all thoughts of Mirella fled. Like the sea he dreamt of, pain swallowed his every part. Oren was used to pain, used to giving and receiving it, but he was also accustomed to fighting fair. He knew he’d been beaten while unconscious and that someone, probably Elymas, had stopped the Red Robes from killing him.