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 rhetoric died—
from within,
and from without,
where the whispers still flowed around her..
From the shadow draped over House Castyr's throne, a heavy sigh broke the tension. It was 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 at last, 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.
Maren continued, unbothered. "And I extend equal gratitude to the High Law—and to the Council as a whole—for indulging in a debate so elegantly prolonged that it has yielded not a single actionable outcome."
The atmosphere in the chamber shifted. Attention turned like a physical weight toward the Castyr throne.
Unlike the others, Maren did not rise; he had no need to. His presence alone bent the air around him.
"Some of us," he went on calmly, "had more pressing concerns than the existential implications of a child's defiance."
Silence.
"Such as ensuring the Thirty-Ninth does not collapse entirely during the coming Exodus Trial."
A pause.
"Or am I mistaken, Elder Riven?"
Riven's jaw tightened. "You are not."
"Not only House Castyr and Artyr," Maren pressed on smoothly, "but all ruling Houses under the Blade Division.
"We are already operating under brutal conditions, pressed harder still by the Patriarch's Decree.
Are we not, Elder Nariel?"
"We are indeed," Nariel responded smoothly.
A satisfied smirk ghosted across Maren's visage.
"Then we are aligned ."
He leaned forward slightly, shadow stretching farther 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, forced to make it happen. We have minimised attrition. We will be the ones to ensure our losses are acceptable beneath the eyes of the First Fang of Night."
His eyes flicked toward the High Law's throne.
"You understand this better than most, Elder Mirell."
A thin smile followed.
"Time is not a luxury we possess."
He watched with visible relish as the High Law 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. I say we call the vote now. Settle the matter. End this indulgent spiraling and return to the work that actually sustains the Clan." He paused, his grin sharpening. "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, the challenge absolute. "Or have my words offended the council?"
Mirell took a slow, deep breath, vacuuming down the incandescent fury that threatened to shatter her dignity.
"The Council takes no offense," she said, her voice strained but steady. "All voices are viable and to be heard—if protocol is observed. And as it stands, Elder, your suggestion violates—"
"If," Maren cut her off, his voice slicing through hers like a blade. "If the Council finds that suggestion distasteful… then let us at least be honest." His eyes glinted. "Let us lay the matter bare and—"
"Elder Maren, you are out of turn!" Mirell's voice rose, a desperate grasp for the reins of the room.
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 am simply finalizing my stance before the High Law's… diligent appraisal. So, I would ask the High Law to politely hold her tongue and let me finish."
Mirell held his gaze for a long, burning moment.chocking on her pride in silence.
Then she sat back.
"Proceed."
"Thank you, High Law," Maren muttered with a smug, 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 in this Trial. 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, replaced by something colder and more familiar.
Iron. Coin. The arithmetic of survival.
"Elder Myra of House Roa." His gaze settled on her with the ease of a man who had already reviewed her conclusions. "You are, as ever, meticulous. I trust you have already quantified the probable outcomes."
A beat.
"And Elder Sariel of House Morge." His eyes moved without hurry toward the far side of the chamber. "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."
No one spoke.
The chamber had shifted registers entirely — and everyone present knew it.
This was no longer a court.
It was a ledger.