The Elders sat in the quiet of stone monuments, each re-evaluating how lightly they had taken this trial.
Myra noted it and pressed on. "While the Council reflects on the third, I will proceed with the fourth."
Several heads lifted at once. "The Thirty-Ninth."
"As it stands, we have forty-seven. We require at least two hundred to maintain the Black Envoys' commission rota at viable operational capacity." Her gaze hardened slightly. "The phenomena caused by the rise of the Harbinger Moon at the birth of each cycle are numerous. Even as we apply pressure — the Imperials, the rest of the Primarchs — the demands remain. We cannot afford to outsource further resources. Particularly when our lands remain the most affected."
"We have already been forced to overload our cubs — two, three, even four missions compressed into one. And those fortunate enough to carry a single assignment will be deployed into verified global red zones."
"The accused included."
The words landed without ceremony and carried full consequence.
"Who," she continued, "do we delegate the Red Rising Incident to, should he fall here?" No one answered. The silence was its own answer. "When this so-called plot to bring him before us was born — true, the objective was to harm him. But not kill him. He was to be broken. Charged. Bound and shipped off to the Selerians so they might finish the task. He dies here, someone must take his place. And that someone does not exist." Her gaze swept the chamber. "Nor can we afford for them to. Such a move would only deepen their resentment toward us. And given that even we possess limited understanding of the precise relationship between Number Eighteen and his peers —" her voice lowered slightly — "we risk triggering yet another insurgence from within the future of our House."
No one spoke. That pleased her deeply.
"Now, Elders — the final stance."
Myra's gaze slid across the thrones. "Controlling the outcome of this unwinnable situation."
The thrones shifted, attention sharpening.
"With my first four positions already established, and my faith in each Elder's capacity to interpret and reach a conclusion without coercion from their peers — we shall settle this next matter by a vote of the Black Hands."
Murmurs rose. Myra cut through them cleanly. "Any objections?"
Nothing. Not a single voice.
"Perfect. At my word, you will have fourteen seconds to cast your vote. Approval or rejection. Nothing more."
Faint, uncertain nods followed.
"All those in favour of simply seeing the boy dead and buried — raise your hands."
Stillness broke. One. Three. Seven. Nine.
Plus her.
Ten.
Myra almost smiled, her gaze flicking brief and sharp toward those who had not moved.
Bastards. Oh well. It hardly mattered. He would die either way.
"Then we proceed. All those who wish to see him dead through the path of the Blood Trial — raise your hands."
A shift. One. Five. Nine.
Plus her.
Eleven.
Her brow lifted, just slightly. How… fascinating.
"Then the vote is settled." Her gaze tilted — soft but deliberate — toward the High Law. "Is it not?"
"It is indeed, Elder."
Myra nodded once. "Then we may proceed to what truly matters." Her eyes narrowed faintly. "Controlling the outcome of his death through the Blood Trial. To minimise our losses."
"As all gathered wisdom on the boy has already established — he is… somewhat special." A faint smile. "Irritatingly so. And as such, we must respond in kind to that specialty."
"Sabotage. Poison. Intelligence leaks. Even the granting of greater weapons to Viren." A slight tilt of her head. "It does not matter. The objective is not justice."
"It is murder."
The word landed clean.
"Dressing it in outrage or guilt will only invite complications — as this botched trial has already demonstrated."
No one moved.
"We must prepare for both outcomes within the arena. If he falls, the matter resolves itself. If he does not — then his life must be extinguished before the next sunrise."
She stepped forward. "Everything must be meticulous. Exact. And for the sake of unity, of participation, of mutual implication —" her gaze hardened — "should events deviate from expectation, every one of you will play a part."
"Whether in sabotaging the boy —" her eyes flicked briefly — "or in aiding Viren."
The chamber did not breathe.
"Are there any objections to this stance?"
A few stirred. Some almost spoke — perhaps to question, perhaps to condemn, perhaps to remind her of the line she had just crossed. But no voice rose. Their gazes drifted toward the cocoon. Then back to Myra.
Her exhaustion remained. But beneath it, something else flickered. Anticipation. Twisted. Alive.
"Then it is decided." Her voice settled into finality. "You have twenty minutes. Present your omens for the boy — or your blessings for Viren."
Her lips curved, just slightly.
"And I will see how we may weave them together into a fitting grave."
Her gaze rested on the cocoon a moment longer than necessary.
"For the Eighteenth… of the Thirty-Ninth."
END OF CHAPTER