Asta ran down the stone hall with her skirts gathered in both fists. Below, guards were already dragging a magic user toward the courtyard. She had heard the order herself. Arrest first, then the pyre by morning. Her father's law, swift as ever. She slowed at the top of the stairs and pressed a hand to the cold wall. One breath. Two. If she stepped into that courtyard, she stepped into a fight she had been preparing for her whole life — the fight to make her father see magic as something other than the thing that killed her mother. She did not know yet what she would say. She only knew she could not let another name join her list. She cut through the side door and climbed onto the low roof of the old stable, where the thatch met the castle wall. From there she could see everything. The guards. The prisoner on his knees. The wood already stacked for morning. Asta drew a slow breath and lifted her hand. A small wind rose from nowhere and snuffed every torch in the courtyard. Shouts broke out. In the dark, she dropped down behind the guards, cut the prisoner's ropes, and pushed him toward the stable. "Run," she whispered. He ran. When the torches came back, a guard was already pointing up at the roof where her pale sleeve had caught the light.