One.
Then two.
Then nine.
A cascade of damning truths spills across the display. Confidential records, incriminating comm logs, surveillance captures with time stamps, voices, retinal IDs. Every member of the Nine represented in full.
Vikar’s file opens first—an embezzlement scheme that siphoned from his own war widows’ fund. Mirene’s follows—an entire village liquefied to conceal a personal vendetta. Even the shrouded one flinches as their own image flickers into view, mid-execution, bare-faced, name tagged beneath in bold, blood-red script.
“I spent five years working the judiciary branch of Glimner’s under-court system,” I say. “I saw everything. Heard more. And when I didn’t have access—I made it.”
Mirene’s voice is a whisper now. “You kept dossiers on us?”
“Kept?” I laugh once, without humor. “I curated.”
The air changes.
It always does when power shifts.
Not from fear.
From recognition.
From the simple, cold acceptance of a new truth.
“I’m not offering you mercy,” I say. “Or begging you for peace. I’m offering clarity. Order. You can kill each other tomorrow and risk it all—watch these files surface, go viral, tear your syndicates apart from the inside.”
I lean forward, eyeing each of them.
“Or you can sign the accord. Secure your empires. And let this remain a secret shared only among sovereigns.”
Silence.
No laughter now.
Mirene leans back slowly. Her smile’s gone. In its place—something quieter. Older.
Respect.
Vikar’s fingers drum the table once. Then again.
Then he speaks.
“I want a vote on every council decision. Weighted by territory, not reputation.”
“Agreed,” I say instantly.
Mirene nods. “And immunity clauses. We each get three.”
“Done.”
The hooded one simply stands.
And bows.
The treaty begins to write itself.
By the time the last line is inscribed and every biometric imprint is logged, the war that almost was has become an empire none of them saw coming. Built not on loyalty, or fear, or tradition?—
