Elder Mirell drew a slow breath. The old man's words had always had a way of crawling beneath her skin.
Not today. Today, he had given her two things. Perspective. And a whip with which to bring her cohort back into line. "The Council," Mirell said, her voice a measured, rhythmic toll, "hears and respects the wisdom offered by Valor." Her gaze swept the ring of thrones, pausing just long enough on each Elder to remind them of her station. "And it would do well to reflect upon that wisdom before a final verdict is rendered. We are the Law. Or we are nothing."
She turned her eyes toward Zerus.
With a flick of her fingers, light returned to his throne in a slow, reluctant pulse. "House Peryn," Mirell intoned. The crimson mask of Zerus tilted forward. Even through the frozen snarl of the carved visage, his disdain was palpable. "I take heed," he muttered at last. The words dragged out like a grudge being swallowed. The bloodlight of his throne flared in sullen acknowledgment.
Mirell turned. "House Draco." Zhaeryn's jaw tightened until the muscle leapt in his cheek. "I take heed," he spat. The words tasted like ash, but the sigils at his feet reignited nonetheless.
"House Nox." Nariel's shadow writhed along the floor, a dark mimicry of her frustration, as she exhaled a sharp, jagged breath. "I take heed," she said. Every syllable resisted the admission, but she inclined her head.
Only one throne remained dark. Mirell's gaze shifted to House Artyr. Elder Riven did not look at her. His eyes remained fixed on Talan. Sharp. Venomous. Fractured. His hand, white-knuckled against the obsidian armrest, trembled until a fine spiderweb of cracks spread through the stone. He had been insulted in the language of the Law… and there was no blood he could spill to mend it.
"House Artyr," Mirell repeated. Her tone sharpened, cold enough to draw blood. A long, strained breath rattled in Riven's chest. "I… take heed," he finally forced out, his voice thinned by suppressed rage. Light returned to his throne. Pale. Flickering.
For a fleeting instant, a ghost of a smile threatened the corner of Mirell's mouth. The dark satisfaction of a tamer who had forced a lion back into its cage. But she strangled it before it could surface. "Good," she said simply. "Then deliberation shall continue with the clarity we previously lacked."
She turned her attention to the quietest presence in the chamber. A figure untouched by outburst or accusation. Elder Elaris of House Solen sat wreathed in the faint, cloying scent of crushed lilies and rain. Her robes shimmered like moonlight on disturbed water. Unlike the others, she did not look at the Council. She looked through them.
"Elder Elaris," Mirell said, her voice cool as cut crystal, "you, as Elder Talan so aptly noted, possess the gift of prophetic sight. You are the eye that sees the threads before they are woven." A subtle, electric tension rippled through the chamber. Mirell leaned forward. "And yet, you have remained the most silent throughout this entire ordeal. When your words may carry the greatest weight of all."
A pause.
"Is your silence a shield… or a hiding place?" She leaned in further, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Tell us… has your vision revealed nothing of the boy's fate?"
A breath.
"Or does it show you something you would rather the rest of us not see?"
Every eye in the chamber turned. Predatory. Expectant. The Council waited for the Prophet to speak.
Elder Elaris did not move. Her fingers tapped slowly against her blindfold. A quiet, rhythmic patience that belonged to someone who had already decided how this conversation would end. The scent of lilies thickened around her, curling through the chamber in slow, deliberate waves. A slight tilt of her head. Then she spoke.
"I have nothing to hide," she began. "Nor shall I ever."
A pause.
"My silence is not a shield."
Another.
"It is an observance of the Law."
The Council leaned in. Scrutiny sharpening like drawn blades. "Justice is forged through tangible truths," she continued. "Facts. Not visions." A faint shift in the air. "The Law forbids such indulgence." Her blindfolded gaze did not waver. And somehow, that was worse than if it had. "The gods are dead. Prophecy is a lie told to the desperate. And worshipped by fools."
Silence fell. Clean and absolute.
"What I see, or do not, remains at my discretion," she went on, voice unbroken. "And at the discretion of those who still walk umbrelith temples." A slight tilt of her head. "Which, to my knowledge… includes no one in this chamber."
Silence deepened. Mirell inhaled to speak. No words came. She stilled. Something moved behind her eyes. A recoil so brief it was almost nothing. Almost. She pressed forward. "The Law," Mirell said, her voice tightening at its edges, "still demands that an Elder act as a Councilman. And provide, at the very least, some form of contribution toward resolving the present crisis."
A beat—shorter than she intended.
"Anything helpful would be appreciated."
That earned a smile. Brief. Faint. Gone. So eager to tear into her moments ago, now clothing herself in civility. How predictable. "Read, Elders." Elaris's voice was soft. Unhurried. Neither question nor concession. "Read the Scriptures." She let the silence stretch until it strained beneath its own weight.
Then—
"The Book of Dorn would be rather insightful."
A pause.
The fingers stopped tapping. "Don't you agree?"