The Judgment Ward is cloaked in an ominous red tint, the magicked light here made to put off threatening airs. It works: Most vampires would not be caught dead traveling through the Judgment Ward. The only good thing that comes of this circular district is to be placed in one of his many prison towers, such as Sutlis Spire where we rescued Sephania from. This is the home of courts, tall buildings, jailhouses, and little to do in the way of entertainment.
There are no taverns in the Judgment Ward. Aramastun has forbidden them. Brothels are hidden. Aramastun the Night Judge, head barrister and executioner of Olhav, believes frivolities like drinking and whoring destroys the iron-fist reputation of the Five Ministries.
Many of the workers guarding the prisons, working the bazaars, and protecting the traders, hail from outside the Judgment Ward, only to return to their respective homes when their shifts end. Like Liolen Sesk’s glittering, rainbow-hued Commerce Ward, Aramastun’s soldiery is largely made up of mercenaries, skilled militia, and soldiers of fortune.
Master Barnabac leads our group to the center of the ward, to a place called Seramesk’s Eye. It is an oval-shaped, squat coliseum where meetings between the Five Ministries leadership typically are held.
Dozens of vampires attend the mandatory meeting, shuffling into the auditorium. Each overlord or overlady brings their own escort of soldiers for protection. The soldiers are made to stand back when the conference is in session and keep a watchful eye on the other Ministers.
What it boils down to is mistrust. The Five Ministries may claim each other as unequivocal allies, but at the end of the night, each ward is led by ambitious, bloodthirsty, power-hungry vampire lords. Noblebloods one and all. It’s only natural for such powerful creatures to not trust each other.
The meeting is held on the center stage of the auditorium—a raised, octagonal platform thirty feet across, with a ring of stairs leading up to it. Rimming the circular meeting ground are inward-facing chairs for the Ministers.
When Master Barnabac takes his chair, I stand behind him with my arms folded in front of me. So do three others, while the rest of our group waits on the lower wings below us on the stairs.
The other Ministers make their grand entrances.
Overliege Liolen Sesk is a thin, hawk-faced halfkeeper. They have a fae-like appearance, seeming to glide on the floor, and they’re dressed in elegant gold robes to match their status as Commerce Minister. Rings line their fingers, also gold. Peach-colored rouge softens their gaunt cheeks, and the makeup around their eyes is a mismatching blue and red. Liolen Sesk is typically bald, though the nobleblood wears wigs to suit the occasion. This time, they wear an elaborate hairpiece of vying silver and black bands that run down their back.
Because of the Gilded Liege’s glamorous appearance and stature, no one knows if they were born man or woman. At this point, they are somehow both and neither.
Overlady Valenthia Yurlyth is a tall woman with straggly black hair that makes her look like a monster out of nightmares. Her pale face is stamped with the symbol of her Damned faith, and the placid expression on her fine features is eerie enough to match my own. She opts for a simple forest green robe, unflattering and dusty. In all ways, the Damned Sister is the polar opposite of the materialistic Liolen.
She walks with a limp, hands hidden in the wide cuffs of her robe, and surveys the other chairs once seated. While Liolen’s mercenaries look as unique and colorful as they do, Valenthia’silk are muted and homogeneous—green robes, bowed heads, tattooed faces.
The next chair belongs to Overlord Aramastun Wyvox, the host of this event. Often called the most cunning and powerful of the Ministers, the Night Judge is a handsome man with gray-black hair down to his shoulders. Turned some time in his fiftieth winter, he wears no robe, instead arriving in a well-cut black tunic and pants that hug his slender frame. He wears no ornamentation. His marble-white face is otherworldly handsome, with a noticeable scar running deep down his left cheek, to his chin. No one knows how he received such an incurable wound.
The man has a serious expression and sharp eyes tinged with a silver glow, which he uses to scrutinize the other chairs.
It is only once the four Ministers are seated that the vacancy of the final chair becomes painfully obvious.
Alacine Mortis is not here.
“The Spymistress is dead,” Aramastun greets. His voice is like smoothest silk, warming to the senses.
I swear there’s a slight curve to his lip, a tiny smile. I could be too far to be seeing correctly. Despite being the master of law and order in Olhav, there is a definitechaoticquality in everything about Overlord Aramastun.
There are no gasps of shock at his announcement. I wonder how this could be: She attacked the Firehold less than a week ago. I was there. She stole Sephania’s mother.
“How can this be?” Barnabac asks, though there is no surprise or sadness in his tone. He’s asking because it’s expected.
We are creatures of tradition, and Alacine was the overlady of the Intelligence Ward for half a century. This news threatens the makeup of the Five Ministries, which I’m sure is why Aramastun called this emergency meeting.
Aramastun’s silver-ringed eyes fall on Master Barnabac across the stage. “Seems her ceaseless ambitions got the better of her, Craxon. Our Spymistress was always adding more insects to her webs.”
“One of those insects decided to bite the black widow back,” Valenthia says in a raspy, grating tone.
Anytime I’ve heard her speak, it is like this: ominous, stilted, and saturated with heaviness in a way that makes it sound like she’s reading from an unholy scripture.
Liolen Sesk slouches in their chair, chin on their fist, and speaks in a velvety, neutral tone. “How do you know this, dear?”
Aramastun glances at them, lips firming. “The dust of her ashes arrived to me in a box, complete with her hollowed-out skeleton.”
“Could it be a ploy?” Liolen asks, circling their wrist. “Another one of Madame Mortis’ many schemes?”
“To what end, Sesk?”
They shrug, ruffling the shoulders of their elegant gold robe. “Subterfuge, of course.”
