IV

  Double doors opened with a hiss. In rolled carts of decadence, golden pears, bleeding steaks still twitching on silver trays, eels coiled in crystal bowls, bread dripping with marrow butter. Sizzling meats, fat-grilled fruits, bowls of sugared insects. The scent of it all was sin incarnate.

  The waitresses moved without sound. Pale. Empty-eyed. Their hands placed, adjusted, withdrew with inhuman precision, dolls animated by a will that was not their own. Vitto caught one by the hem as she passed.

  —Hey, bella,— he murmured, tucking a napkin into his collar. —Mind blessing my meal? A little divine touch never hurts.—He winked, knowingly, smelling the demonic sulphur beneath her skin. Then he let go and laughed, loud and round. Jaspyr joined in, slapping the table.

  Vitto ate as if starving were a sacrament. He did not chew. He claimed. Steak torn by fist, potatoes shoved with open palm. Gravy painted his chin. Blood ran from his wrists and soaked into his sleeves. He groaned with pleasure, a priest drowning in his own altar.

  Beside him, Jaspyr attacked his plate with manic reverence, flinging scraps, wiping his mouth with gold-thread napkins already ruined, crown listing like a drunk saint's halo. His glass never stayed full.

  Makhalu did not eat. He sat with arms folded, staring into the steam rising from his plate as though reading prophecy in bone and grease.

  Noise followed, drunken chatter, half-formed negotiations, mockery mistaken for diplomacy. Jaspyr climbed onto his throne and performed a grotesque parody of Vitto's accent, milking laughter, drunk on approval. For a heartbeat, it almost looked like unity.

  Then the last fork scraped.

  Silence returned, heavy, predatory. Lucianel leaned back, nudged his empty plate forward with elegant finality. His gaze passed over them one by one, cold and patient, like winter choosing which branch to break first. Only Jaspyr's snore defied him, wet, obscene.

  —Well then,— Lucianel said at last, his voice smooth as a blade drawn slow. —It has been decades since we last disgraced ourselves in the same room.— His eyes settled on Makhalu. —New faces. Old poison. I imagine each of you would rather be elsewhere.—

  A cherry seed flicked from his fingers and struck Jaspyr square between the brows. The jester jerked awake with a grunt, blinking wildly.

  —Truth be told,— Lucianel continued, unbothered, —none of you are welcome in Vel'Nothar. Yet here you sit. Athera festers, events unfold that cannot be ignored. We are enemies, but war between Ironholds is a luxury reserved for fools. Not while she watches.—

  —Restrain our claws?— Makhalu rumbled, finally shifting. —Funny words from the house whose friends spill Karnakan blood.—

  —I named no one,— Lucianel replied calmly. —Patience, beast. Your turn will come.—

  Jaspyr yawned theatrically. —I, King Jaspyr, Crown of Joy, demand this gathering conclude. My stomach rebels and my dreams await.—

  Vitto chuckled, toothpick dancing between his lips. —King? More like the clown who ran. Surprised you still breathe. If it were my Lord's will, your soul would already be seasoning the pits. So hush, and let men speak.—

  Jaspyr's eyes narrowed. He dug between his teeth with a nail, plucked out something dark and sticky. With a flick of his thumb, it zipped across the table and smacked Vito on the cheek.

  —Oops! Clumsy me,— Jaspyr giggled, voice high and mocking.

  —Little snack for your fat cheek, porky. Or are you full already?

  Vitto flushed crimson and began to rise.

  —Vitto,— Lucianel said softly. The word alone pinned him. —Do grown men lose themselves so easily?—

  Vitto hesitated, then smiled again, thinner now. —Do 'grown men' also fail to leash their slaves? Tell them, friend. Tell them about your little problem.—

  Lucianel straightened. —Traitors,— he corrected. —Vermin that gnaw the hand that feeds them.—

  —Ooooh,— Jaspyr chimed. —Lucy's not so spotless! Did your whip snap?—

  —I have everything under control.—

  —The Outer Ward walls would beg to differ,— Vitto said mildly.

  —Oh! I saw that hole!— Jaspyr shrieked. —I assumed it was tailor made for your entrance, fatty!— He cackled. —How'd the slaves manage that anyways, Lucy?—

  Lucianel placed a stack of documents upon the table, fresh parchment, corners sharp, ink barely settled.

  —It wasn't the slaves. A Gorrul breached the wall.—

  —A Gorrul? Here?— Makhalu frowned. —Not a troll? A giant?—

  —A blind man knows the difference,— Lucianel replied evenly. —And this was not an isolated wound. In recent weeks, Vel'Nothar has recorded incidents across the whole of Athera. Breaches, anomalies, movements where none should be. Strange things stir across the world. This was merely one.—

  —Or a warning,— Makhalu said. —Release your prey.—

  Lucianel laughed softly.—Let them go? I feed them. House them. Without me, they rot.—

  —Then why do they flee?— Aeon-Suul's voice slid into the room like falling snow.

  Lucianel answered without turning. —A chicken dreams of escape until the fox opens its belly. Only then does it understand the mercy of the pen.—He looked at them all. —These traitors are no different.—

  Outside, the moon clawed free of its clouded shroud, spilling cold silver across the chamber. Night-things found their courage and sang, thin, shrill, endless. Wind threaded through cracked windows, worrying the shadows, while the hearth burned low, its embers birthing warped silhouettes that crawled along stone walls like old sins refusing burial.

  —So,— Don Vitto said at last, clicking his signet ring against the table. His voice was smooth, edged like a blade hidden in velvet. —What became of those chickens who fluttered out of the pen?—

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Lucianel did not look at him. His gaze had hardened into something older than stone.—Like the Gorrul,— he replied, measured, unhurried, —every one of those traitors was silenced.—

  Vitto inhaled, slow. The faintest smile touched his mouth, followed by a chuckle.—Every one?—

  Lucianel turned then. The look alone closed the matter.

  —Every single one.—

  The monk stirred. Aeon-Suul rose with the quiet inevitability of dawn, folding his hands into his sleeves. When he spoke, it was as though the room leaned closer to hear. —The mountains whisper,— he said softly. —From ash and ruin, a flicker yet remains. Hold fast, lest the wind carry it away.—He sat again, eyes half-lidded, a faint smile tugging at his whiskered face.

  Confusion rippled through the council like a restless draft.

  —Ooooh, spooky!— Jaspyr clapped his hands, fingers splayed theatrically. —Careful, monk, that much tea will rot your brains. You're leaking riddles.—

  Makhalu's chair groaned as he leaned forward. —Fool,— he rumbled. —You insult what you are too dull to grasp. His words carry weight, even if your skull does not.—

  —Rawrrr,— Jaspyr mimed claws, wobbling in his seat. —The kitten bares his teeth. Come then, furball. Enlighten my smooth little mind. What did grandpa mean?—

  Makhalu did not answer. Jaspyr laughed, high and shrill, pleased with himself.

  Lucianel folded his fingers. —Since we speak of ash and ruin,— he said calmly, —there is another matter we need to discuss. One you wished raised, Makhalu.—

  Makhalu's gaze pinned Don Vito like a spear.

  —Me?— Vitto spread his hands, laughter soft and false. —Heavens, Lion's Tongue. What accusation claws at your chest so fiercely?—

  Makhalu rose. The stone beneath his boots cracked. —Test me,— he said, voice grinding, —and I will crush your skull to powder. You know why I am here. The only reason.—

  Vitto's smile died. What replaced it was cold, assessing, ancient. Lucianel straightened. The air tightened.

  —Unlike these silk-fed puppets,— Makhalu continued, voice carrying like thunder through jungle canopy, —my lands bow to no gold, no machines, no blood-money miracles. You hold no power over Karnaka. None.—

  Vitto chuckled low as he stood. —Such fire, young one— he murmured. —Your pride is admirable. Misplaced, but admirable. These lands breathe because of me. Every village, every road, every loaf broken at dawn. Threaten me, and you threaten Athera itself. Sit, boy. Let men speak.—

  Makhalu's pupils flared molten gold. Muscle bunched beneath dark skin. His spine arched. A sound escaped him, not quite a growl, not quite a breath.

  —Don't you dare.—Lucianel's voice struck like a drawn blade. —Vitto speaks truth. Some truth.—

  Makhalu stilled, trembling with restrained violence. Lucianel turned to Vitto, eyes cold. —Whatever festers between Vermellia and Karnaka ends here.—

  Vitto blinked. For once, caught unguarded.

  —I will be plain,— Lucianel continued. —You move openly against Karnaka, you will find Vel'Nothar absent from your ledgers and your wars.— He turned to Makhalu. —And you. You are new to this circle, but not unseen. Your power is real. It shall be acknowledged, by all—he looked around the room. Makhalu's jaw tightened, but he listened.

  —This summit is no tavern brawl,— Lucianel said. —Such gatherings are rarer than blood spilled in peace. He gestured faintly toward Jaspyr, now gnawing on a bone. —Even that fool knows better than to bite Vermellia too deeply. Hatred is indulgent. Trade is... effective.—

  —Progress,— Vitto supplied gently.

  —I care nothing for your progress,— Makhalu spat. —Your sins will be judged by the spirits of the same lands you poison.— He leaned forward, shadow spilling across the table. —You are like a sick tree, Vitto. Your rotten roots poison the forest. Your soldiers burn soil, your engines choke rivers. Your roots have crept into Karnaka.—

  His body shuddered. Bones shifted beneath skin. Muscles convulsed. A mane rippled half-formed along his spine. Claws pressed against fingers, then withdrew, shaking. Neither man nor beast, something in the middle. —Leave my lands,— Makhalu snarled. —Or Karnaka's true beasts will tear you apart.—He forced himself still.

  —That is my warning.—

  Makhalu inclined his head once toward Aeon-Suul. —Master.—

  Then he turned and strode for the doors, each step heavy, deliberate, final. Lucianel did not stop him.

  —Kitty!— Jaspyr shrieked, scrambling up. —Don't leave me, sweetheart!— He staggered after him, laughter echoing down the corridor, filth trailing like a banner.

  The remaining men sat in heavy quiet, the weight of failure pressing hard.

  —What of these disturbances?— Vitto asked at last, breaking it carefully. —These... events.—

  Lucianel exhaled. —I fear that is something we have no control over— His gaze drifted to the moon. —She grows restless. We have angered her again.—

  —Prayer will not save us,— Vitto said mildly. —Our scientists have been following these events also. Even god won't be able to send his aid for what's to come.—

  Aeon-Suul rose, fastening the bamboo frame to his back.—The world weeps,— he said gently. —Each tear fills the basin. When it overflows, even mountains will drown.— He bowed.—I will send word. Let the lands prepare.— The monk departed with a small bow, thankful for the meal.

  Vitto smiled slow and dangerous, finishing the last drop of wine.

  He rose, pulling on his robe.—Business calls.—

  —What will you do?— Lucianel asked quietly.

  Vitto smiled, thin and knowing. —What I always do.— He tipped his mitre. —A dog fears no cat. Remember that.—He vanished into the shadow. The fire cracked. Crickets sang.

  Darius hovered at the door. —M-my lord?—

  —Leave me.—

  Lucianel moved to the window and sat upon the stone sill, watching the stars burn cold above Athera. After a time, his lips curved.

  —The game has only begun.—