The mayor swallows. “What do you suggest?”
I turn the chair to face them, gaze sweeping over tired faces with a calculated calm I don’t entirely feel.
“I suggest we refuse the stage.”
They look at me like I announced we should plunge our heads into fire.
“No,” I continue, “we go to the root.”
Their eyes widen — not in fear. In confusion.
Vrok proposingstrategyinstead of spectacle is almost unheard of.
“I’ll go to the Rovin’ Hooves compound,” I say. “Quietly. Without announcing anything. No public confrontation. No spectacle Marj can manipulate.”
“The compound is fortified,” an elder says slowly. “It’s surrounded by militia and traps and?—”
“I know,” I cut in. “But if I approach it from an angle theydon’t expect— bypassing the courtyards, bypassing the main gates, going underground — we reduce their ability to drag this into theatrics.”
Murmurs ripple around the table.
“You’re proposing a solo assault,” the mayor says, back steady but eyes wide.
“You heard me,” I say. “If I walk in guns blazing, that’s exactly what she wants. I become a puppet. A symbol. A rallying cry for her propaganda machine.”
He nods, slow and heavy. “And if you fail?”
“We don’t have a stage to failon,” I reply. “We just have a mission.”
Silence settles again. Not the quiet of peace — the thick hush of a decision being shaped, considered, and weighed in the balance.
At the edge of it all, I think of Roxy — out there somewhere, myth taking shape around her footsteps, a rumor becoming flesh.
I think of how quickly fear spreads.
And how quickly hope—even a small spark of it—can burn bright if fed right.
Maybe Marj wanted a confrontation.
Maybe she expected fireworks.
But what she doesn’t know is this:
I’m not coming for a show.
I’m coming to end the play.
I’m coming to take the stage out of her hands.
And I intend to write the script myself.
Without anyone else’s applause.
CHAPTER 22
ROXY
The wind here doesn’t just blow — it shouts through the skeletal frameworks of Kluzderfuvv’s hastily raised barricades like it’s pissed off at the world and trying to prove it. Dust and grit settle in every crease of my clothing, every exposed patch of skin, and it’s all I can smell when I step out of the meeting room into the raw air beyond.
