Jasker’s eyes flick around—looking for allies. He finds none willing to move first.
His jaw works. Then, slowly, he places his palm flat on the table.
“I swear,” he spits, like the word burns.
“Good,” I say. “Next.”
One by one, they do it. Some with grace. Some with resentment. Some with eyes that look like they’re already plotting. But they do it.
Because they can smell the alternative.
Because the Nine is a shadow, and I’m sitting right here.
When the last oath is spoken, the chamber door opens again.
A guard steps in, breathless. “Godfather?—”
I tilt my head. “Don’t call me that unless you mean it.”
He swallows. “Lonari. Your brother is awake.”
The room shifts—like a wave went through it. Whispers. Glances.
Fyr.
I push back from the chair. “Council’s not over,” I say, and my voice carries warning. “But I’ll be right back.”
Jasker scoffs. “We’re just going to sit here while you?—”
I look at him. He shuts his mouth.
I walk out.
The corridor to the infirmary smells like antiseptic and expensive regret.
The Nun’s medical wing is too clean. Too white. Like it thinks purity can erase what happens in this building.
I hear Fyr before I see him.
“Get your hands off me,” he growls, voice rough, like stones grinding.
A nurse replies, nervous. “Sir, your stitches?—”
“My stitches can go to hell.”
I step into the room, and there he is: propped half-upright on the bed, chest bandaged, one arm in a brace. His scales look duller than usual, like someone drained some of his color out. But his eyes—those are still Fyr. Sharp. Furious. Alive.
He locks onto me immediately.
“So it’s true,” he says. “You’re playing Godfather.”
I step closer, smell the blood under the antiseptic. “I’m playing ‘keeping us breathing.’”
He laughs once, harsh. “By dragging an IHC girl into our bed like a stray animal?”
I stop at the foot of the bed. “Careful.”
“Careful?” he snaps. “She’s a liability. She’s a beacon. She’s the kind of soft target people use to put a knife in your spine.”
