“All those in favor of Prisoner Seventy-Three being drawn and quartered next aurora rise?” I ignore the frantic thump of my heart as over half the Nobles raise their hands, including half the crowd packed into the mezzanine. I lift my hand, too. Most would probably prefer the coliseum, but I’d much rather be sliced open while my heart’s still beating than be served to a thunder of fire-breathing dragons, thank you very much. “All in favor of feeding her to the Moltenmaws?” Another flock of hands rise, and the scribe counts them quietly. “It’s a draw,” he calls out, gaze cast on the mezzanine,
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