When she finishes, figures atop thrones exchange worried looks. The plan requires trust between factions historically knotted with grudges. Sethis senses hesitation; he pounces.
“Even if feasible,” he states, projecting voice into rafters, “execution mis-timed by minutes and realm shreds worse than before. Second Sundering, conversely, we control—pre-calculated vector, predictable casualty zones evacuated beforehand.”
“Predictable?” I snarl. “Tell that to families relocated from first sunder scar still breathing ash twenty generations later.”
Sethis’s veneer cracks. “I tire of sentimental bleating. Wolves know territory, not macro-geomancy.”
There. Political gauntlet arrives gift-wrapped.
I lift chin. “Perhaps wolves speak from ground while Arbiters float above consequences. Let’s trade vantage: you come to my valleys, measure plague, hear children cough night dust; I study your calculations for Sundering.” I shrug once. “We compare which reeks worse.”
Laughter breaks in spots. Sethis’s lips thin.
Serivon intervenes. “Enough posturing.” He breathes, shoulders sagging beneath ornate mantle. “Given new testimony, council moves to recess for private deliberations. Truce stands until next horn.”
He slams rod thrice. Session adjourns.
Sethis whirls, robe snapping, exits side passage with two robed aides. Red aura leaves sulphur tang in air. I note direction—stairs toward Arbiter archives. Mental note: guard that hallway.
Gallery bursts into noise. Delegates cluster around Carmilla and Remi, peppering with questions. I retreat toward rear balustrade, lungs hot. I loathe these word duels—preferring claws to parchment—but pack survival forces tongue to sharpen.
Isabelle intercepts me, passing canteen. “You rattled beehive.”
“They stung first.” I drink, throat grateful for mint water. “Now they simmer private, hatching sabotage.”
“Which means watch your back.” She nods toward Carmilla. “And hers.” Her gaze softens. “She glows when you challenge them.”
My chest warms then chills—the glow she sees exact cost riding under seer’s skin. “She bleeds inside. I must play this game fast.” I hand canteen, clasp Isabelle’s wrist in warrior grip. “Tell Everest—stone guardians posted outside archive stair. Sethis may poison documents.”
She squeezes back. “Already marched.”
Remi approaches, lightning still sparking subtle along shoulders. “You roared well, Alpha.”
“Roar is easy,” I mutter. “I need language they respect tomorrow.”
He smirks. “Let crack coil speak.” He hefts fragment; static pops. “Sethis hates evidence.”
“Keep it guarded,” I advise. “He’d erase proof rather than lose argument.”
Remi nods solemnly. Zale joins, offering silver token—sigil for Umbramere quarter. “Our wards at duskfall anchor illusions around doors. Rest there. Plan later.”
I accept. “Gratitude.”
Across rotunda, Carmilla extricates from circle of mages, moving toward me. She looks pale beneath scarf, but eyes shine proud. When she reaches, she breathes, “You shook them awake.”
“Only rattled bones,” I answer. “Need blow that breaks fever.” I study her face. “You steady?”
“For now.” She slides scroll tube into my belt: “Keep until dawn meeting. Sethis hunts me; let him chase wrong wolf.”
Trust hits like sunrise. I tuck tube inside coat, near heart. Our bond hums.
A new horn echoes—signal for second recess bell. Delegates begin stream toward quarters. We follow Umbramere envoythrough corridor carved in living yew, lanterns bobbing overhead like fireflies.
As we climb ramp, twilight haze outside window shows Convergence ring now haloed by faint crimson rim. Time wastes.
My thoughts churn: craft speech balancing threat and inspiration, rally wavering seats, guard evidence, keep Carmilla breathing. Politics—a battlefield where victory measured in quill strokes, not carcasses—yet consequences bloodier.
I flex claws inside gloves. Wolves adapt. Tomorrow, I run inside marble cage, and I will not slip.
