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"James Harrington's death has left a significant vacancy," Julian Voss adds, his smooth political voice filling the chamber. "The Bastards are the wealthiest faction, the most influential in terms of generational power. They cannot be left leaderless for long."

"Traditionally, leadership passes to the most senior member," Evander continues, his grey robes rustling as he shifts in his seat. "But in this case, the most senior Sovereign Bastard is Marcus Hale, who has expressed reluctance to assume the role permanently."

"Which brings us to you," Nathaniel says, and there it is. The trap I should have seen coming.

"Me?" I keep my voice carefully confused, like I can't imagine why they'd be bringing this to my attention. "I'm not a Sovereign Bastard. I'm Ashen Serpent. I have no claim to their leadership."

"You have no official claim," Nathaniel agrees. "But you have something more valuable—respect across all factions. A reputation, despite recent... complications, as someone who understands the law, who can navigate complex situations, who has proven his loyalty to the Order time and again."

The last part nearly makes me laugh. Loyalty. As if extending my service to save my wife's life counts as loyalty rather than desperation.

"The Council has voted," Dominic Kane speaks for the first time, his voice rough from decades of cigarettes and whiskey. "Three to one in favor of appointing you as interim leader of the Sovereign Bastards."

Interim. The word should be a relief—temporary, not permanent, just until they find someone better suited.

But I know better. I've been part of this organization long enough to understand how "interim" appointments work. They last years. Decades. They become permanent through sheer momentum because replacing someone who's already doing the job becomes more complicated than just leaving them in place.

"For how long?" I ask, though I already know the answer will be unsatisfying.

"Until a suitable replacement can be identified and properly vetted," Nathaniel says smoothly. "Given the sensitive nature of the Bastards' operations, we cannot afford to rush this decision. It could take six months. A year. Perhaps longer."

Perhaps indefinitely. That's what he's really saying.

"I'm currently on administrative leave," I point out, grasping for any argument that might work. "Under investigation for inappropriate conduct with a student. How can I lead a faction when my professional reputation is compromised?"

"The investigation has been concluded," Julian Voss says, pulling a folder from beneath the table. "We've determined that while your relationship with Miss Cross—excuse me, Mrs. Draven—was ill-advised, it did not violate any explicit university policies. You'll be reinstated effective immediately."

Of course. Of course they've already handled that. Already cleared away any obstacles that might prevent them from trapping me more firmly in their web.

"And if I refuse?" The question comes out harder than I intended, fourteen years of captivity bleeding through my carefully maintained composure.

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees.

Nathaniel's expression doesn't change, but there's something dangerous in his eyes now. "You extended your service to the Order indefinitely, Alexander. You made a blood oath in our sacred texts. You bound yourself to us in exchange for your wife's life. Surely you understood what that meant?"

"I understood I was agreeing to serve. Not to lead."

"Service takes many forms." Evander's voice is soft, almost sympathetic. "Sometimes it means standing behind a desk teaching law. Sometimes it means standing at the head of a faction, guiding the next generation of Veritas members. The specific form is ours to determine. Not yours."

The cage snaps shut. I can feel it—the walls closing in, the escape routes disappearing, the future I've been planning for eight years evaporating like morning fog.

"This is punishment," I say quietly, looking directly at Nathaniel. "For James's death. You can't prove what happened, but you suspect. And this is how you punish us."

"This is necessity," Nathaniel corrects, but there's something in his tone that suggests I'm not entirely wrong. "James's death created a vacuum. You're uniquely positioned to fill it. Whether that feels like punishment or opportunity is entirely a matter of perspective."

"How long do I have to decide?"

"You don't." Dominic Kane's bluntness cuts through the diplomatic double-speak. "The vote has been cast. The decision is made. You assume leadership of the Sovereign Bastards effective immediately. Your first obligation will be overseeing the remainder of the initiation trials."

The trials that just killed their former leader. The perfect irony.

I look around the table at these men who control my life, who've controlled it since I was seventeen years old, who will continue controlling it until I'm too old or too broken to be useful anymore.

"I want something in return," I hear myself say.

Nathaniel's eyebrows rise slightly. "You're hardly in a position to negotiate."

"Maybe not. But you're asking me to take on additional responsibility. To lead a faction that just lost its leader under suspicious circumstances. To stabilize a power structure that's currently vulnerable." I straighten my shoulders, channeling every bit of authority I've learned to project over years of teaching. "That's worth something."