Elder Myra rose.
Five written parchments were clasped tightly between her ink-stained fingers. "Grand Elder," she said, inclining her head with precise formality. "Thank you for the floor." Aerion acknowledged her with a slight nod. Myra turned to the chamber. "As I stated earlier," she began, "my findings are structured in five parts. Each addresses a separate vector of concern, which, once assembled, forms the full statistical and strategic picture of this trial." She paused. "But before I proceed, there are clarifications that must be made."
The chamber stilled. "For the duration of this trial," she said calmly, "House Roa has been treated as a reservoir for deferral. A convenient delay mechanism. A scapegoat by which other Houses have purchased time, indecision, and distance from accountability." No one interrupted her. "In doing so," she went on, "you have, perhaps unintentionally, positioned me as the final matrix upon which this vote will crystallise." Her fingers tightened briefly around the parchments. "I will not pretend that this is comfortable," Myra said. "But I will accept it. On one condition."
Her eyes lifted fully. "There will be no scoffing."
A beat.
"No questions."
Another.
"No rhetorical posturing masquerading as insight."
A pause, sharper than the rest.
"And no judgment before or after my presentation is complete." The chamber was very still. "If any Elder present believes this standard unreasonable," Myra continued evenly, "or feels that my findings will not align with their preferred outcome, voice your objection now."
She let the silence stretch. "Or," she added, tone unaltered, "we may dispense with this exercise entirely and proceed to the vote at once." Her gaze moved, measured, unflinching, from face to face. Maren did not meet it. Zerus's jaw tightened. Others stared straight ahead, expressions carefully neutral. No one spoke. Seconds passed. Myra exhaled. A slow, controlled breath she had not realised she had been holding for days. "Good," she said quietly. Neither triumph nor relief. Only approval. She aligned the parchments with meticulous care and lifted the first. "Then we will proceed."
Her eyes lowered briefly to the text. "The First Stance. The internal stability of this Council." Myra's eyes lifted from the parchment. "Given that I am no seer, I can only project outcomes based on observable patterns. On how my peers are likely to act in response to the consequences of our final decision." A measured breath. "I chose to omit this Council from my vector of calculation and instead anchored my analysis in historical precedent." The chamber was quiet. "The probability of internal stability tilting negative stands at ninety-one point seven percent."
A beat.
"With a seven percent margin of error." Gazes fixed. Minds turned. "From the first Trial sanctioned under the Seventh Council… to the last recorded invocation at the Twelfth generation, erasure has consistently followed disaster." A faint shift of her hand. "Lineages collapse. Heirs are reduced to orphans. Territories must be seized, reassigned, stabilised." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "And beyond that, there are the variables."
A pause.
"The bearer's clan. Its vassals. Their allegiances. Their retaliation." Then, quieter: "And this Council itself." The words settled heavily. "To manage such fallout is to engage in a high-risk, no-reward gamble. One that will carve yet another fracture into our already fragile foundation."
A beat.
"A foundation barely weathering the aftermath of the Thirty-Ninth." Silence. No one spoke. No one could. Data did not allow argument. Myra smiled faintly and slid the first sheet to the back of the stack.
"Let us proceed to the second stance. The Patriarch." Her gaze lifted, sharper now. "What follows," she said, "if we choose to murder the boy in cold blood, here and now?"
A breath.
"Or," she continued, "if we elect the alternative…"
Another breath.
"…and send him to face the Iron Veil?" Myra let the title sit a moment before continuing. "As this Council is fully aware, the disaster of the Thirty-Ninth has placed the First Fang of Night in a rather volatile disposition." A measured pause. "His eyes and blades are upon everything and everyone with careful scrutiny. It is without doubt that this trial has already fallen beneath his gaze." Her voice did not rise. "Which means consequences are not a distant consideration. They are hours away." The chamber absorbed that without comment.
"Should one of the cubs he directly decreed fall within this chamber today, the logistical fallout is not probable."
A beat.
"It is guaranteed." She let the next word stand alone. "Please take note. If the boy possessed sufficient clarity to deduce a coordinated assassination attempt from requisition logs and personnel rotations, then so does he." Her eyes moved across the thrones. "The probability that the Patriarch has already done so, and simply chooses to remain silent, is considerable."
A pause.
"Even after accounting for various methods of concealment. Justification. Procedural cover." Her fingers shifted against the parchment. "The probability of logistical fallout barely moved." She said it plainly. Without apology. "Murder is still murder. Regardless of the pretense we construct around it." Gazes stiffened. The arithmetic was landing in real time across every face in the chamber. Myra did not pause for them.
"Then there is the second option."
A breath.
"We proceed with the Blood Trial." Silence held. "On one hand, the Patriarch may be impressed. Not by this Council. But by the boy." Her tone remained even. "Reckless enough to be caught. Fearless enough to show teeth. Choosing, as he himself was once told to do, to die with a blade in hand rather than kneel for forgiveness."
A beat.
"That outcome carries a degree of favour. Not certainty, but possibility." She tilted her head slightly. "The alternative reading, however, is this: that he concludes we engineered the Blood Trial deliberately. That we wanted the boy erased by overwhelming force and dressed it in the language of law."
A pause.
"That assumption, should he reach it, carries its own consequences." She set the parchment down, a rare gesture. The implication lingered without assistance. "Both outcomes remain assumptions," she said. "Derived from my understanding of his disposition."
Then — sharper. Cleaner.
"But for the Council's sake, I will be precise." A step forward. "Regardless of interpretation, we stand to lose more by executing the boy here than by allowing the Trial to proceed."
A beat. Final.
"That, at the very least… is no assumption."