The council chamber smells like expensive smoke and old violence.
Not the fresh kind—no. This is the baked-in kind, seeped into velvet drapes and lacquered wood, soaked into the seams of a thousand deals made with a smile and a blade hidden behind the back.
The Defrocked Nun always pretends it’s civilized. Chandeliers like frozen fire. Floors polished to a mirror sheen. Music so soft you could mistake it for your own pulse if you weren’t paying attention.
But I can taste the fear in the air anyway.
It sits metallic on the tongue, the way blood does right before it cools.
They file in by rank, by nerve, by how much they think the room belongs to them. Captains in tailored coats, their entourage shadows in the corners. A few of the old-guard lieutenants keep their eyes low like they’re at a funeral. The younger ones keep their chins high, trying to look like they’re not doing the math.
The impostor’s chair—Malrec’s chair, the one that was never his—still sits at the head of the table like a bad joke nobody dares laugh at.
I don’t sit in it.
Not yet.
I stand behind it, hands resting on the carved back, letting the room fill, letting the silence stretch long enough to make even the cockiest captain swallow.
“Alright,” I say, voice low, casual. “Everybody comfy? Anybody need a cushion? A hug?”
A few snorts. Mostly tension.
Captain Jasker—broad-shouldered, jeweled rings on every claw—leans back like he owns the air. “You called us, Kaijen. So speak.”
He doesn’t sayGodfather.Not yet.
I let my gaze settle on him. I don’t blink. I don’t bare teeth. I just look until he feels the weight of it.
“Iamspeaking,” I say. “That’s the thing. I don’t need a drumline.”
A couple lieutenants shift, trying not to smile.
Jasker’s nostrils flare. “We’ve had… instability.”
“Instability,” I repeat, savoring the word like it’s bitter. “That’s one way to say ‘someone let a leash get clipped to our throats.’”
Murmurs, low and sharp, like knives drawn halfway.
Across the table, Captain Nera—skin pale, eyes too bright, always thinking three moves ahead—tilts her head. “Are you going to keep wasting time being poetic, or are you going to tell us what you want?”
I pull the chair out and finally sit. The wood is cold through my scales. The room quiets like it’s holding its breath.
“What I want,” I say, “is for you to understand the new math.”
I tap the tabletop once, and one of my aides slides a small case forward. Inside: a slim data-slate and a black coin, stamped with a symbol that makes half the room stiffen.
The Nine’s mark.
“Recognize that?” I ask.
Nobody answers. They don’t have to.
“Good,” I say. “Then we can stop pretending this is just internal politics.”
Captain Jasker’s jaw works. “The tribute?—”
“Is suspended,” I cut in.
