Chapter 51: Ch51 In Secrets
The silence shattered with a booming laugh, grotesque and wheezing, rattling the chamber like the snort of a beast in its sty.
"Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh, this is rich!" Elder Gorrim’s (The Pig) slammed his meaty palm against the polished table, the wood groaning under the weight. His laughter spilled over, thick with scorn. "A child? A boy barely grown into his boots? That’s their proclaimed savior? The ’child of God’?" He shook his massive shoulders, his laughter turning to mocking snorts. "What spine could he have? He doesn’t even have the hair on his chest yet! And yet, fools are whispering that the Crown Prince’s plan has failed because of him?"
The mocking elder with the snake-like voice tittered cruelly from the shadows. "Oh, how poetic! The Empire’s grand design undone not by armies, not by Dukes, not by Liliana... but by a boy who hasn’t learned to lace his own armor." His laughter was thin and sharp, slicing through the chamber. "The Crown Prince must be livid. To think, all his puppetry ruined by a child’s stumble onto the stage."
A blade scraped in the corner as the towering warrior sharpened his steel, saying nothing. The coin flipper kept tossing, though his smirk widened. The parasol woman gave a long sigh, tapping the tip of her umbrella on the floor in annoyance.
"Mock all you want," Mina’s voice cut through the mirth like ice. Sweet, girlish, but dripping with venom. She leaned forward, her hooded face tilting just enough for the faint gleam of her crimson eye to pulse. "But you forget something."
The coin stopped mid-air.
Mina’s smile sharpened. "Five of our best. Five mages? Gone. They were sent to kill the Duke and Liliana. And now that boy stands beside them." Her voice turned into a sing song lilt, mocking and eerie. "If that’s what a ’child of God’ looks like, I’d say he’s already worth more than you lot sitting here squabbling."
The air grew heavier. Elder Gorrim’s grin faltered, though he growled and slammed a fist against the table again. "You dare—!"
But Mina didn’t flinch. She let the shadowy blade unfurl in her hand again, twirling it like a toy, the black mist curling against the floorboards. "I dare remind you, Elder Pig, that arrogance blinded those five as well. And their corpses don’t laugh quite as loudly as you do."
The parasol woman snorted, half amused, half irritated. "Tch. She’s got a point, swine. That brat shouldn’t be overlooked. Nor the Duke. Nor Liliana."
"Pah!" The fat elder sneered, though unease had crept into his voice. "If the child is truly blessed, then we’ll crush him early. Snap his bones before they harden. Isn’t that right?"
The coin flipper chuckled softly, flicking the silver piece back into the air. "Easy to say. Not so easy to do. A Duke, a witch, and a boy with prophecy wrapped around his shoulders? That’s not a stew I’d eat without burning my tongue."
The shadow sharpening warrior finally spoke, his voice low, iron scraping against iron. "Mockery won’t change the truth. The child’s survival shifts the board. We either adapt... or we end up the next corpses Mina giggles over."
Mina’s grin widened, her crimson eye glowing faintly in the dark. "Oh, I do love when you speak sense."
The chamber sank again into a silence far heavier than before, one that smelled of blood and prophecy.
A slow grin crawled across Elder Gorrim’s face, sour as a bruise. "We are gathered because that traitor Harold made an ugly show," he muttered. "The filth at the temple has spilled into the city. The crown prince’s plans are ruined. All because of the damned prophecy and the... the child."
"Child?" flounced the coin fidgeter. "You mean the saint? The miracle boy? The pamphleteers haven’t stopped crying about him since the priest read that scroll."
Across the table, a ripple of discomfort moved through the elders. The parasol lady’s fingers tightened on the shaft until the wood creaked.
"The attack was fruitless" said the swordman.
"We didn’t send them to die," snarled a voice from the gloom, Elder Vrain, small and mean like a rat. "We sent them to soften targets. We did not expect Harold’s... theatrics. Who tipped them off?"
Mina’s smile didn’t fade. "Perhaps they weren’t tipped off. Perhaps they were simply... inadequate."
A low chuckle, dry and cold, escaped the man sharpening the blade. "Inadequate? Bah. I call them expendable. One less loyal mage to clog the ranks."
An elder,older, with hair like a storm cloud,pounded the table. "We are not butchers. There is a line."
Mina’s head tilted. "Lines," she purred. "How quaint."
From the corner, the parasol woman, lifted her voice like a scalpel. "This council is not for finger pointing; it is for action. Our plans unraveled tonight because Harold, that traitor exposed what the Prince sought to hide: that he has no control. Mark’s play to secure the throne through an obedient bride... ruined. And he will blame us for it if we do not act."
"Blame? He’ll make a spectacle," the coin man sneered. "He’ll parade the boy through the courts, crown the child saint, and all his little puppets will bow to—what? A boy who can’t pick his nose without a crystal."
A murmur from the back, a heavy, wet laugh. Gorrim’s voice again. This time, it was almost joyful. "If the Prince has scheme enough to mind, let him. We have bigger things."
"Bigger things," repeated Mina, and then, with the sweet cruelty of someone tasting a fresh wound, "Do not forget, sirs, that our losses were not merely inconvenient. Five mages gone. Skilled men, not to be replaced. Who will repair this wound? Who will stop the Duke? Who will stop—"
She jabbed a finger at the door, where a silent shadow watched from the archway. "our enemies?"
A hush drifted like a funeral shroud. Manners thinned and sharpened; old alliances glittered with rust.
It was then that the parasol woman, who, if one caught the gleam at the corner of her eye, might have been called Lady Shae rose and moved to the table’s center. She tapped a wooden ring into place, and old maps unfurled: the capital flanked by trade roads, the coastal ports, the deep line of the Envelon trail. Her finger traced the world like a surgeon mapping a vein.
"The Prince’s little plan," she said, voice flat as winter, "was only phase one. We intended to let him blunder. A lazy prince is the perfect puppet. But with Harold’s mutiny, with the Temple in flames, there can be no slow hand. We must accelerate."
She met each elder in turn. "We will not be reactionary. We will be surgical. Aithur and that Ruby Knight took the north trail. They are skilled but predictable. Harass the Duke; blacken his name; set the people’s gossip alight. If the Prince is weakened, we will be nearer to the seat than he is."
Gorrim rubbed his chin. "And the child? This... saint?"
Mina’s laugh was a curtain closing. "The child matters little if he can be exploited. If he is a puppet we can control, if he can be guided, fed, and paraded the people will sing to whichever hand holds the reed. If not... then he is a threat that must be neutralized. Either way, we must be ready."
From the shadows, the blade man, the one who rarely spoke tapped his sword on the floor. "We lost five mages. They were sent with poorly chosen purpose. I say we match fire with fire: recruit new hands, burn the Duke’s supply, and above all, seize the temple’s influence back. The temple is the city’s throat. Control it, and you whisper into every ear."
Old Vrain’s voice was a bitter rasp. "And the crown? The Prince will not remain idle. He will lash out, and his father... the Emperor... cannot be ignored."
"Let the Emperor be a rooster crowing at dawn," Gorrim said, voice cruel with appetite. "We will not bow to the old man. He is tired. Small wonder the boy with the prophecy will not scare him; we have grown tired of kings. We want a place in a new order."
A clack of the parasol’s tip punctured the suggestion.
"But Sorus will decide," she said simply.
The room inhaled as one. Mina’s smile again, broader now, wicked with expectation. The coin twiddler tossed the coin once more, it rang a hollow, mocking note, then stopped and folded his hand, as if paying off a debt.
The sound that interrupted them this time was not a footfall but a change in the air: subtle, patient, like the shift when twilight eats day. The thirteenth chair creaked, though no one touched it.
The elders turned. Mina’s pupils narrowed; the parasol woman’s hand tightened on the shaft; the coin man’s face went a tremulous shade paler.
A presence filled the doorway.
Tall, lean, cloaked; he moved as if the flamelight took shape at his will. Sorus’s hood was off, and when he stepped into the light, the circle seemed to coil around him and willing the darkness to bend the elders’ breath dropped as if someone had put a hand over it.
Sorus’s smile was slow and patient, like a blade sliding from silk.
"Elders," he said, his voice a soft bell that did not ring so much as command the space to listen. "You are all predictably noisy. I trust Mina kept you sufficiently pruned."
Gorrim grunted, furious. Mina bowed with theatrical sweetness.
Sorus turned his gaze to the maps, then to the faces that studied him like cursory meat. "Five mages," he mused, almost to himself. "An unfortunate tally. But useful. Sacrifices clear paths faster than patience ever could."
Silence came again, heavy and expectant.
Sorus’s eyes roved the room until they came to rest on Gorrim. He inclined his head. "Dear pig," he said, the words unfamiliar as a whip. "Your belly has always suited you. It will not suit you soon if you do not fatten the pot with execution. Clean up this mess."
Gorrim bristled, but did not answer. He was not a fool.
Sorus paced slowly, not fast, but with the impression of silent rivers under a calm surface. "The Prince’s theatre has collapsed," he said. "The Temple gave birth to a saint the gods did not ask for. Harold danced. The lights have revealed half the city’s fools. That is... inconvenient." He smiled thinly. "But useful."
"And the boy?" Elder Vrain whispered. "Proclaimed by the Father’s voice, real or staged? If real, he is too volatile. If staged, fragile. Either way... a leash."
Sorus’s grin turned almost fond. "Leashes are a base tool. I prefer... levers. We will push where the bone is weakest. We will not only seize the Temple’s throat, we will compress it until the head chokes."
Mina hummed like a struck blade. "Which starts tonight."
Sorus’s hand brushed the map and the lamplight shivered. Around him the elders leaned. The parasol woman’s voice was a dry instrument. "And the Crown Prince?"
Sorus’s eyes cooled. "Prince Mark is a puppet with sharp gossip and a nasty temper. He will thrash. We will let him. He cannot be allowed to crush us by ignorance. He must be guided and in place, replaced in influence by one to his liking." He spread his fingers and the candlelight seemed to climb his knuckles. "We will use chaos to make order. The Temple will burn brightly enough that the nobles will look our way for salvation. We will not rescue them. We will command them."
A rustle, the coin clinked one final time and fell silent.
Mina stepped closer to Sorus. "And Harold?"
Sorus’s smile cut like a razor. "Harold gave us the spectacle, and spectacles have price. We will use him until he is spent. He will be needed to topple the first pillar. After that, he will be... politely removed."
A cold, unanimous satisfaction breathed through the room. Plans nested inside plans, each elder swallowing the next with a smile that did not reach their eyes.
At the outer door, thunder rolled like a drum, a reminder from the world that storms did not care who sat in dark rooms plotting change. Mina’s hand found the thirteenth chair, her fingers curling around its back like a cat claiming a mouse.
Sorus inclined his head to the gathered council. "Prepare our next steps. Gather new hands; bring the merchants to heel; starve out the Duke’s allies; let the Prince’s rage be a marsh where we plant our banners. Tonight was a message. Tomorrow will be a campaign."
He turned. For a breath, the room felt like a held knife.
"And one more thing," he added, voice cool and precise, "the child of Asmethan, whether saint or stumbling boy will be ours to present or to break. I prefer the former. Make it so."
Mina clapped once, delighted. The fat elder grunted, the parasol woman inclined, the coin man clicked his coin and put it away like a promise.
Sorus sat. The thirteenth chair finally had weight in it. Mina moved back, the shadows parting around her.
The rain outside hammered the stone. The elders looked at one another with the sudden, dull knowledge of people who had chosen a war.
In the doorway, unseen by the council, a servant breathed out and then froze. A muffled noise came from the hall, the distant howl of horns, the temple bells still ringing like alarm and prayer braided into one.
Sorus’s lips thinned. He looked at the map, at the marks of the city, then at the elder faces around him, and smiled a smile that tasted of winter.
"Tonight," he said softly, "we make the city bend."
The chamber’s shadows drew closer like velvet curtains.
Outside. Beyond the stone and mad plotting, the city burned in scattered light and smoke. The echo of a temple bell bled into the storm like a wound.
Mina’s left eye flashed once more, crimson and small as a coin. She leaned forward and whispered, deadly soft, "Commence."
The elders rose like predators answering a bell. The thirteenth chair rocked, as if something heavy and inevitable had settled into it.
On the street below, a voice cried out, and then the night swallowed the answer.
And in the heart of the chamber under the iron lion, Sorus’s fingers drummed the table with a careless rhythm, as if he were only enjoying a late cup of wine.