The heat in the council chamber hadn't faded—it had evolved. From shock to awe, from discomfort to fixation. No one spoke. No one interrupted. Not even the elders, whose authority now hung in the air like stale incense—once potent, now powerless.
Allen didn't need to raise his voice. He merely stood.
The soft squelch of flesh and movement echoed as the turtle elder and Kari remained kneeling, their oiled bodies glistening in the flickering torchlight. The other maids—Calla, Mira, Brin, Niva, and Tessa—formed a crescent behind him, heads bowed, bodies open, breathing shallow.
Allen walked forward slowly, letting his fingers drag along the elder's bare shoulder. She didn't flinch. She tilted her head to the side, exposing more of her neck, the gesture ancient—an offering from prey to predator. But there was no fear in her eyes. Only reverence.
"I am no priest," Allen said, his voice low but sharp, "but I understand rituals. And I don't believe in hollow ones."
