Then I sit down.
My cock is still hard. I don't adjust it. I don't hide it. Half the chamber is pretending not to look, and the other half hasgiven up pretending. Let them look. Let them wonder what the fuck is wrong with the Mad God of Discord.
I'm wondering that myself.
"So," Renan says, settling back into his chair. His tone is casual, almost conversational. "That's new."
I don't answer.
"The mortal. The one you just—"
"I know who you mean."
The session continues. More cases, more lies, more theater. I hear none of it.
Iowyn.
She took that hit and stayed standing. She bled and didn't bend. She looked at me with blood on her mouth and didn't flinch from what she saw.
Coin thinks they own her now.
They're wrong.
The session continues. I hear none of it.
Faith's procurist is talking again. The sacred fucking bonds of the Concord. His voice drones on and I want to reach across the chamber and make him stop. Permanently.
I don't care about any of it.
The thread-sight is screaming. Every lie in this chamber grinds against my skull. The static builds until I can taste it, metallic and wrong. No one knows I can see it. No one knows I'm drowning in the noise of their deceptions every second of every day.
And underneath all of it, this pressure in my chest. Constant. Pulling north.
"You're staring at the door again," Renan murmurs.
"I'm aware."
"Just checking. Wouldn't want you to accidentally look at something relevant."
My cock is still half-hard against my thigh, has been since she looked at me with blood on her mouth and didn't flinch. Every shift in my seat reminds me—the fabric dragging, the constant low-grade ache of wanting something I can't have yet. I should probably be embarrassed that half the Concord noticed, but I'm too busy remembering the exact shade of green her eyes were when she met mine.
Forest green. Darker at the edges.
I want to see them closer. Want to know if they change color when she's—
No. Focus.
"—the matter of northern trade routes requires deliberation—"
"He's lying," I say.
My voice cuts through the chamber. Daiven—still at Coin's podium, still talking about routes like he didn't just backhand a woman in front of everyone—stops mid-sentence.
"I'm sorry?"
"The northern routes." I don't stand. Don't need to. "You've been diverting shipments through War's territory for six months. Avoiding the tariffs. Faith knows. They've been taking a cut to stay quiet."
Silence.
