The Book of Dorn.
The rhetoric hung loosely in the air. Eyes drifted. Whispers began to rise, low at first, then spreading in quiet currents across the chamber. Understanding did not draw closer. Not for lack of wisdom.
No—because the scriptures of old, those so-called divine gifts of the gods, were less revelation and more riddles. Cryptic omens of doom… or elaborate nonsense. No one cared enough to decipher them anymore. Not even Mirell. Though, despite herself, she could still vaguely remember: it spoke of a storm… or was it blood… or a storm of blood.
The whispers continued around her, and then faded.
From the shadow draped over House Castyr's throne, a heavy sigh broke the tension — deliberate, almost theatrical, echoing across the chamber with a jarring sense of boredom. Elder Maren leaned back, eyes half-lidded. A scion of a Moon bloodline pressed into the stiff reinforced robes of a Blade aristocrat, he moved with the predatory ease of a man who treated social maneuvering as wetwork — each word a blade, each pause a step in a choreography no one else had been handed the score for.
"I must thank Elder Elaris," he said, his voice low and laced with dry amusement, "for that rhetorical excursion which has so thoroughly delivered us nowhere."
Elaris did not respond. She did not even look at him.
"And I extend equal gratitude to the High Law, and to the Council as a whole, for indulging a debate so elegantly prolonged that it has yielded not a single actionable outcome. Some of us," he went on, "had more pressing concerns than the existential implications of a child's defiance. Such as ensuring the Thirty-Ninth does not collapse entirely during the coming Exodus Trial." His eyes moved to Riven. "Or am I mistaken, Elder Riven?"
"You are not."
"Not only House Castyr and Artyr," Maren continued smoothly, "but all ruling Houses under the Blade Division. We are already operating under brutal conditions, pressed harder still by the Patriarch's Decree to protect his cubs." His gaze shifted. "Are we not, Elder Nariel?"
"We are indeed."
"Then we are aligned." He leaned forward slightly, shadow stretching across the chamber floor. "Managing global logistics. Drawing countermeasures. Pressuring foreign powers to ensure our cubs aren't slaughtered in the field — this is not a task for the weak, nor was it meant to be completed within a thirty-day window. Yet here we are. We have minimised attrition. We will ensure our losses remain acceptable beneath the eyes of the First Fang of Night."
His eyes flicked toward Mirell's throne. "You understand this better than most, Elder Mirell." A thin smile. "Time is not a luxury we possess."
He watched with visible relish as she masked her rising rage behind a thin veneer of protocol. She never did enjoy losing control in her own den.
"So I propose we cease pretending this is a moral debate. Call the vote now — settle the matter, end this indulgent spiraling, and return to the work that actually sustains the Clan." His grin sharpened. "Or better yet, let the four Houses of Blade exit this house of theater. Surely the remaining nine beneath Moon and Wing are capable of reaching consensus without us."
He looked directly at Mirell. "Or have my words offended the Council?"
Mirell took a slow breath, choking down the fury that threatened to shatter her composure. "The Council takes no offense. All voices are viable and to be heard — if protocol is observed. And as it stands, Elder, your suggestion violates —"
"If." Maren's voice sliced through hers. "If the Council finds that suggestion distasteful — then let us at least be honest. Let us lay the matter bare and —"
"Elder Maren, you are out of turn."
He gave her a single, dismissive side-glance. "I have observed all protocol, and I believe the rest of the Council agrees. It is not an interruption if I was simply finalizing my stance before the High Law's diligent appraisal. Thus I ask her to politely hold her tongue and let me finish."
Mirell held his gaze for a long, burning moment, choking on her pride in silence. "Proceed."
"Thank you, High Law," Maren muttered, with a half-hearted tilt of his head.
"As I was saying — it is time we abandon this theatrical hand-wringing. Let us examine what truly matters. What is gained, and what is lost, by allowing this Blood Trial to proceed?"
The silence thickened. The scent of prophecy and law had evaporated from the chamber.
"Elder Myra of House Roa — you are, as ever, meticulous. I trust you have already quantified the probable outcomes." His gaze moved without hurry. "And Elder Sariel of House Morge — you will enlighten us on precedent. On what the Blood Trial has historically wrought upon those who invoked it, and upon the Council that permitted it."