The guards at the entrance don't meet my eyes. One of them has been lying so long I can't tell where the truth ends anymore—layers of deception built up until even he doesn't know what's real. The other is clean, which means either exceptional integrity or exceptional stupidity.
"Ten gold says Faith starts with a prayer," Renan mutters as we walk through the doors.
"Sucker bet. They always start with a prayer."
"Fine. Twenty says the prayer mentions 'sacred bonds' at least three times."
"You're on."
The Concord chamber is a fishbowl of political theater, and every person inside is performing. Faith's delegation sits in their ivory robes, threads pulsing with righteous certainty that masks the rot underneath. War's people sprawl in their seats, loud and obvious. And Coin—
Coin's section gleams with gold thread woven into their clothing, their hair, their very fucking presence. Their lies are the prettiest. Polished until they shine.
Renan finds our seats. Discord's section is off to the side, half-hidden by a pillar. Not an accident. They want us here but not visible.
I sit down and immediately want to stand up again.
"I hate this room," I say.
"I hate this city." Renan settles beside me, somehow managing to look both bored and dangerous. "But specifically, yes. This room is worse."
Faith's high procurist stands to address the chamber. Ildarin Seth, with his voice of absolute certainty that makes my teeth hurt.
"We gather today to address matters of tribute, territory, and the sacred bonds—"
Renan holds up one finger.
"—that hold our great Houses in harmony. May the sacred bonds of the Concord—"
Two fingers.
"—guide us toward wisdom, as we honor the sacred bonds forged by our ancestors—"
Three fingers. He turns to me with a flat expression. "Pay up."
"After."
"You'll forget."
"I never forget." I lean back in the chair, forcing my shoulders down. "I just choose not to remember."
The proceedings drone on. Territorial disputes. Trade route arguments. A half-god inheritance case that Faith wants jurisdiction over because, why not. The static behind my eyes builds with every passing minute—too many people, too many masks, too much performance.
"I'm going to fall asleep," Renan says quietly.
"Do it. I'll tell them you died."
"Tragic. They'll have to pause for mourning."
"At least twenty minutes."
"Worth it."
A clerk rushes past with documents. His thread is so dark it's almost black—skimming tribute, the dumb bastard. He'll be dead within the month. Coin doesn't tolerate that kind of theft.
"—the matter of House Solyne's outstanding debt to the House of Coin—"
Renan shifts beside me. He's watching Coin's section now, his expression flat, paying close attention.
