I ease into the throne. Aria stands beside me, cloak pooling elegantly against her powder-blue dress—her chosen color tonight: calm, courageous, chaste with undercurrents of steel.
A murmur runs through the room. The Inner Circle strains forward, their eyes on her as much as on me.
I draw a slow breath. “We stand here tonight not as mob boss and shadow, but as partners. The world knows me as Reaper, provider, enforcer.” My voice echoes. “But tonight, I crown someone who kept me human—Aria Dawson, my Second. My voice in all things when I am absent. Obey her as you obey me.”
.Murmurs ripple. I hold a raised palm and continue:
“Bruna, Haarvik, Ellex, you three were my trusted lieutenants when I ruled Supernova with iron and fire. You know what it takes to survive in this world.”
The tension coils. Bruna’s knuckles whiten. Haarvik’s shoulders tighten. Ellex’s eyes flicker from Aria to me, question burning.
I look at Aria. She lifts her chin, leveling me with fierce certainty. Not like a subordinate. Like my equal.
“Aria Dawson,” I say, deliberately. “Stood by my side in violence. Sustained wounds in battle. Held my truth in court and in flames. She didn’t just survive—it’s because of her that the Sect stands tonight.”
I pause. Let the words sink.
Bruna shifts, arms crossing. She’s not friendly—but she knows respect when it’s demanded.
I press on: “She speaks with my voice now, for this Sect, for this future. If you challenge her—or me—her judgment, you challenge everything we stand for. You challenge me. Do not.”
Silence thickens, but it’s not submission yet—merely recalibration.
I gesture to the high seat beside mine: “Aria?”
She steps forward, cloak rustling like a confession. Hearts pound in the hush.
I step aside.
She takes the seat with measured elegance—shoulders straight, fingers curling around the armrest. I see my blood pulse in her neck. She inhales. She owns it.
The chamber exhales. The shadows recalibrate.
Bruna exhales first—sharp whisper—but then bows her head. Haarvik’s lips part in reluctant acceptance. Ellex looks away, then forward, eyes fixed on Aria’s hand in his seat.
The old guard stand but softened—like stone thawing under a new sun.
I rise and circle the table to stand behind her thermal shadow. My presence looms like a promise. The room holds its breath.
A voice cracks: “Aebon… this sect… there’s convention here.”
The speaker is Loran, a senior captain with a fractured eye. His voice carries steady wariness.
I reach out and place a hand on his shoulder. His muscles jump. “Conventions built this world,” I say softly. “But we need evolution. Not just survival—but legacy. Aria gives us both.”
I release him. He nods—uneasy, but unbroken.
Silence ripples again. The men understand: this isn’t a promotion for her, or a concession. It’s a revolution. And I’m ushering it.
I tap the table. “Let’s move forward.”
The room shifts into rhythm: assignment, plan, power. Aria stands and addresses them. Her voice is clear, careful, unyielding:
“We will consolidate holdings in the outer district, initiate joint oversight with sectors willing to trade. The peace covenant depends on trust, and trust depends on transparency.”
She scans the rows. They listen.
I lean down and whisper in her ear: “Show them what you can do.”
