He's not talking about the darkness, though. His gaze moves to the sanctuary behind us, my eyes following as it lingers on the students who need teachers and the system that needs rebuilding and the world that's waiting for someone to show it what comes next.
"Yeah," I say as I let Jade pull me to my feet. "We do."
21
Ambrose
TheCouncilchamberhasbarely changed in three centuries. Same vaulted ceiling, same stone benches arranged in concentric semicircles, same podium carved from a single block of marble that I watched being installed when I was barely a century old.
The people filling those benches are different, though. Representatives from sanctuaries that didn't exist six months ago sit alongside Council members who've held their seats for decades, everyone packed into a room built for half this numberbecause apparently the fall of a three-hundred-year tyranny draws a crowd.
I've spent the last week drafting the framework for what comes next. Forty-seven pages of new governance contracts, each one written in my green light that now carries veins of black and purple through every thread.
The darkness doesn't affect the function of the contracts. I've tested them exhaustively. But it's there in every line I write, visible to anyone with the sensitivity to see it, a reminder that the person rebuilding the system is carrying pieces of the man who broke it.
Jade sits beside me in the gallery, close enough that our knees touch. He's been coming to every session, not because he cares about governance but because he can feel through the bond when the contract work drains me, and he's gotten into the habit of pressing refined energy into my shoulder when he thinks I'm not paying attention. I'm always paying attention. I just don't stop him because the warmth of it steadies my hands when the dark threads make my contracts shudder.
The chamber bell rings, calling the session back to order, and the delegates settle into their benches with the shuffling reluctance of people who know the next few hours will be contentious. Leadership is on the agenda today. The old Council operated under Dmitri's influence for so long that most of its existing members are either complicit, compromised, or too entrenched in the former system to be trusted with building the new one. Someone needs to oversee the transition, and every faction in the room has a different opinion about who that should be.
"The six should lead," a representative from the coastal sanctuaries says. She's young, fierce, one of the first to join our network. "They destroyed Dmitri. They freed the consumed. The world trusts them."
Someone else throws out: “Why not the Praestes? He has Mother Nature’s knowledge!”
Skye’s face scrunches up before he resets his expression. "The world doesn't need me or six new rulers replacing one old tyrant," Skye says from the floor. He's standing at the podium because someone had to, but I can feel through the bond how much he hates it. "The whole point of what we did was ending concentrated power. Putting us in charge defeats the purpose."
"Then who?" an older Council member asks. He's been quiet through most of the proceedings, watching the younger representatives with an expression caught between resignation and grudging respect.
"You choose," Skye says. "All of you. Representatives from every sanctuary, every community, every allied group. Elected leadership, rotating terms, no single person or group holding permanent authority. The network already has the infrastructure for collective decision-making. Ambrose built it."
Heads turn toward me. I resist the urge to sink lower in my seat. "The governance contracts are ready for review," I say. "Distributed authority, shared oversight, built-in accountability measures. Every community maintains autonomy over internal affairs. The Council becomes a coordination body, not a ruling one."
"And the old laws?" someone calls from the back benches.
"Gone." I don't elaborate. Three centuries of legislation built to enforce Dmitri's seven-element system, the suppression mandates, the assessment protocols, the reduction facility authorizations, all of it dissolved when I wrote the termination clauses last Tuesday. My contracts burned through forty pages of oppressive law in under an hour, the dark threads in my magic flaring with each deletion as though the piece of Dmitri inside me recognized what was being unmade.
The debate continues for hours. Factions argue over representation ratios. Communities that suffered most under the old system demand priority consideration. Former Council loyalists try to preserve what influence they can. I write amendment after amendment, my green-and-black contracts adjusting in real time to accommodate the compromises being hammered out on the floor.
Jade's hand finds my knee under the bench when the session breaks for the afternoon. "You haven't eaten since this morning," he says.
"I'll eat when the framework is finished."
"The framework won't finish if you collapse. Come outside."
I go, because arguing with my mates about keeping my strength is a battle I stopped winning a while ago. We find a bench in the courtyard outside the Council chamber where the air is cooler and the noise of political negotiation fades to a murmur. He produces bread and dried fruit from somewhere, probably Stellan's pack, and watches me eat with the focused attention of someone whose entire essence is built around making sure the people he loves don't starve themselves.
"How's the darkness?" he asks, keeping his voice low.
I hold up my hand, letting a contract thread unspool between my fingers. "Consistent. It doesn't interfere with the contract function, but I can feel it pulling at the terms. Every contract I write, the darkness wants to add conditions. Hidden costs, buried clauses, the kind of fine print that benefits the writer at the expense of everyone else."
"Dmitri's instinct."
"His hunger, filtered through my magic. I catch it every time, rewrite the clause, strip out the manipulation. But it's exhausting, Jade. Every single contract requires a second pass to make sure the darkness hasn't slipped something in."
He goes quiet for a moment, and then speaks. "Is it getting worse?"
"Not worse. Just persistent. Like an argument that never ends."
His tail curls around my ankle beneath the bench. "Then we keep arguing back."
