The words of Elder Maren left behind a silence that did not merely linger — it demanded to be filled.
How irritating, she thought.
The shadows that once shielded her face had receded. Myra rose slowly, joints protesting with the quiet defiance of a woman who had not slept since the Thirty-Ninth was first Mantled. Her silver hair — usually a symbol of prestige — was a frayed mess, and the dark circles beneath her eyes looked like bruises carved into porcelain.
As the head of the Moon Division — the engine of finance, logistics, and foreign trade — Myra was the clan's unseen architect. Every favour bought, every loan laundered, every grain of rice fed to the front line began and ended at her desk. She knew where every skeleton was buried because she had usually been the one to authorise the funding for the shovels.
She was utterly, bone-deep exhausted.
Her greatest wish was retirement, but in the Nyxvalis, the only exit from the Council was a shroud.
Her resentment for Chion wasn't born of moral outrage or fear of his power — it was the resentment of a worker toward a firebrand who had just burned down her library.
Because of this boy, the Patriarch had been a shadow over her shoulder for weeks. Decades of meticulously planned logistics for the Exodus Trial had been scrapped overnight. She was back at the drawing board with the spooks of the Blade Division — men who spoke in blood while she tried to speak in ledgers.
She looked at the cocoon holding Chion with a gaze that wished only for its immediate incineration.
Execute him, she thought. Let the logistics be damned.
But she was a creature of process. She would not scream. She would calculate.
"Enough posturing," Myra began — the voice of a woman who had spent the night arguing over interest rates. "My eyes ache, and my ledgers are bleeding. If we are to decide the fate of this… complication… let us do so with the clarity of a balance sheet."
She took a deep breath, smoothing a stray, unkempt lock of hair.
"For the sake of the Council's remaining sanity, I shall simplify this entire ordeal into five criteria. This is how the Law of Blood will be measured."
She held up five weary fingers.
"First: the Council. How does this trial affect our internal stability?
Second: the Patriarch. What price do we pay if his wrath is mishandled?
Third: the Thirty-Eighth — and the rest of the masses. What story do we tell the lower houses to keep them from following his example? Or worse — what story do we tell when a Mantle-bearer accused of a minor offense dies in this chamber?"
Her lip tightened.
"Many already resent him, fear him, whisper his name like a contagion. Regardless of our choice, questions will be asked — questions that will reflect upon our moral and institutional integrity. More importantly… upon Viren. Can we afford to risk the life, reputation, and future of a Warden of six campaigns for a political statement?"
She did not let the weight of that linger.
"Fourth: the Thirty-Ninth. What does this trial cost us in regard to them? They are his peers, yet they fear him enough not to speak. They would go so far as to steal classified intelligence concerning him. What does his death mean to them? What does it cost us?"
Her fingers trembled slightly. Not with age. With fatigue.
"And lastly… Outcome. What is the cost the Council is willing to pay to control all possible outcomes?"
She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on the silenced Riven — as if daring him to argue with arithmetic.
"I will lay out the statistics. The viability of each path. The loss of resources. The projected fallout. I will show you precisely what we lose if he lives… and what we lose if he dies."
She paused, her eyes fluttering shut for a moment — as if she might fall asleep standing.
"But I am a woman of numbers, not ghosts. I will need time to finalise the data."
She turned her head slightly toward a figure who had remained as still as a statue.
"Time which can be occupied by Elder Sariel. If I am to provide the statistical reality of our future, she must provide the historical precedent of our past. Let her account of the Law's history aid my account of our current losses."
She sat back down. Not waiting for permission.