The Elders sat in the quiet of stone monuments, each re-evaluating how lightly they had taken this trial to begin with.
Myra noted it — and pressed on.
"While the Council reflects on the third," she said evenly, "I will proceed with the fourth."
Several heads lifted at once.
"The Thirty-Ninth."
A pause.
"As it stands — we have forty-seven. We require at least two hundred to maintain the Black Envoys' commission rota at minimum operational capacity."
A brief pause.
"Even as we apply pressure to the other Primarchs — so do they apply pressure to us."
Her gaze hardened slightly.
"The phenomena caused by the rise of the Harbinger Moon at the birth of each cycle are numerous. We cannot afford to outsource our resources — particularly when our lands remain the most affected."
Silence followed.
"As it stands, most of our cubs will be running two, three — even four missions compressed into one."
A slight breath.
"And those fortunate enough to carry a single assignment will be deployed into verified global red zones."
A beat.
"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.
"We transferred him to the Selerians to ensure his first assignment became his last."
Her tone remained level.
"He dies here — someone must take his place."
A pause.
"And that someone does not exist."
Her gaze swept the chamber.
"Nor can we afford for them to."
The implication tightened the air.
"Such a move would only deepen their resentment toward us."
Another beat.
"And given that even we possess limited understanding of the precise relationship between Number Eighteen and his peers…"
Her voice lowered — just slightly.
"…we risk becoming the fathers who poisoned their own children's broth."
******
"Now, Elders… let us move to the final stance."
Myra's gaze slid across the thrones.
"Controlling the outcome of this… lose-lose situation."
The thrones shifted—attention sharpening, silence tightening.
"With my first four positions already established," she continued evenly,
"and my faith in each Elder's capacity to interpret and reach a conclusion without coercion from their peers…"
A brief pause.
"We shall settle this next matter… by a vote of the Black Hands."
Murmurs rose.
A vote of the Black Hands?
What exactly was her fifth stance about—
or were they about to render their final decision now?
"Any objections?"
She cut cleanly through the noise.
Nothing.
Not a single voice.
"Perfect."
Her tone did not change.
"At my word, you will have fourteen seconds to cast your vote—approval or rejection. Nothing more."
Faint, uncertain nods followed.
Then—
"All those in favor of seeing the boy dead… raise your hands."
Stillness broke.
One.
Three.
Seven.
Nine.
A pause.
Plus her.
Ten.
Myra almost smiled, her gaze flicking—brief, sharp—toward those who had not moved.
Bastards.
Oh well.
It hardly mattered.
He would die either way.
"Then we proceed."
Her voice remained level.
"All those who wish to see him dead through the path of the Blood Trial… raise your hands."
A shift.
One.
Five.
Nine.
Another pause.
Plus her.
Eleven.
Her brow lifted—just slightly.
How… fascinating.
A beat.
"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."
A pause—thin, precise.
"Controlling the outcome of his death… through the Blood Trial."
Her eyes narrowed, just faintly.
"To minimize our losses."
******
"As all gathered wisdom on the boy has already established," Myra began, her voice even, "he is… somewhat special."
A faint pause.
"Irritatingly so."
Her gaze sharpened.
"And as such—we must respond in kind to that specialty."
Silence settled.
"Sabotage. Poison. Intelligence leaks. Even the granting of greater weapons to Viren."
A slight tilt of her head.
"It does not matter."
Her voice cooled further.
"The objective is not justice."
A beat.
"It is murder."
The word landed clean.
"Dressing it in outrage or guilt will only invite complications."
A faint exhale.
"As this… botched trial has already demonstrated."
No one moved.
"We must prepare for both outcomes within the arena."
Her eyes swept the chamber.
"If he falls—then the matter resolves itself."
A pause.
"If he does not…"
The air tightened.
"Then his life must be extinguished before the next sunrise."
Each word, precise.
"Everything must be… meticulous."
Another step forward.
"Exact."
A beat.
"And for the sake of unity—of participation—of mutual implication…"
Her gaze hardened.
"Should events deviate from expectation—"
A slight pause.
"Every one of you will play a part."
Silence.
"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.
Instead, 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."
A thin pause.
"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…"
A breath.
"…into a fitting—"
Her gaze lingered on the cocoon.
"—poetic grave…"
A final beat.
"For the Eighteenth… of the Thirty-Ninth."
END OF CHAPTER.