The chamber fell into shocked silence. With deliberate slowness, he raised it toward the High Priestess, his eyes locking respectfully yet definitely onto hers.

  “Honored Priestess of the Founding Flame, I seek to buy indulgence for this breach of protocol.”

  Gasps rustled like wind through the high seats. He cut his hand. “Clan Albastis will gift the Mekelos Estate to the Temple, regardless of your decision.”

  A single gesture from the Hyphant silenced the room. The murmurs died like breath in winter. She looked at the Patriarch until he took a step back under the depth of her gaze. She cleared her throat and waved her ears.

  “You may violate protocol now. But remember where you are, or I may take more than one estate.”

  The man bowed deeply at the hip, bringing his head level with her knees. “Clan Albastis will remember this favor.”

  He straightened and turned to the audience. “Grandmaster Keios Albastis Donia, Senior President of the Institute of Rhetoric. Step forward, drink and—”

  The Noctales Patriarch sprang to his feet, teeth pressed together like grindstones.

  “You dare bring a sophist into the holy session of the Sixteen? For this insult—”

  Again, the thunder of the High Priestess blowing her trunk made everyone flinch. “There will be order in the hall. And the Temple will receive five hundred diamonds from the Noctales clan for this insult to sanctity.”

  The Patriarch ground his teeth with audible force. “Ye—”

  “Silence,” thundered the High Priestess’s voice.

  He lowered his gaze and sat down. Fuming for all to see.

  Only then did the Speaker notice she was sweating as hard as her colleague. The arcane pressure in the room had been joined by the tang of ozone. Magic was being made ready in anger. I am dead if something starts. Please, Weaver, spin my fate onward from today.

  A lavender-robed figure rose smoothly from the first row, stepping confidently into the circle. Prismatic reflections danced across his ornate robe, marking him unmistakably as a high-ranking mage. With a polite bow to the Speakers, Grandmaster Keios Albastis Donia accepted the chalice and drank deeply.

  “I thank the sacred Sixteen for this honor. It shall stay with me until an Edict strikes me down.”

  He smiled wryly, and a few of the Conservationists chuckled. They are taking the Champion’s fate this seriously. Please. Let the Fist’s wrath be diverted.

  She stopped breathing.

  “I have already met, measured, and assisted the Champion. The indifference of some and the negligence of others,” he seemingly—by accident—pointed to the two previous speakers, “could have put the Champion in peril as he was revealed. I care for the Polis, but more importantly, I care for him.”

  He paused for effect. Only the glare of the High Priestess kept the Noctales Patriarch at bay.

  “I can truly care because I am not sworn to a fraternal faction. I am a sophist and thus may care for what is effective in exceeding the will of the Gods, without being blinded by any faith or belief. I will shield him from politics and those egotistic enough to exploit him for their own ends.”

  He bowed deeply.

  “Again, I thank the Sixteen for this honor.”

  With that, he drank down the chalice and returned to his place.

  Absolute silence gave her a moment to recover as she took the ladle. The back of her formal tunic was wet. Another ladle, another lash of fate.

  She exhaled under the cold and pitiless gazes of the Sixteen.

  “Who will continue the debate and drink the fith ladle?”

  A beautiful woman in sea-blue robes rose. The Speaker’s heart missed a beat. The leader of the Abolitionists. This is the only way this can get any worse. Preserve us all.

  “I, Millia Erostes Ultima, Sacred Patriarch of Clan Erostes, will drink from the Well of Virtue.”

  Silence answered her. The Speaker’s fists clenched. Why do they have to speak up now? Why can’t they stay silent in protest, as always? Accursed traitors.

  Stomps from the side of the Matriarch and her allies gave her sentiment voice. Five times. Then a thump fell.

  She did not hold back her sneer. She didn’t have to. Yes, mark yourself with your ilk.

  Eyes met across the circle. Venom and pressure flowed across the space.

  Then, the Noctales Patriarch raised his fist. Gasps could be heard from the audience. And from her own mouth, she realized belatedly.

  The fist fell.

  Thump.

  More followed. Seven. Eight. Nine.

  She swallowed, trying to clear her dry throat.

  “With… With partial quorum—” She paused, until she got a nod from the High Priestess. She almost stumbled over the last few words. “You may step into the circle.”

  She closed her eyes. What have I done?

  She poured the golden wine into the Chronoaqua.

  The beautiful woman smiled and looked around the circle. How can evil be so beautiful?

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Clearing her throat, she addressed the hall.

  “No one here has talked about the Chains of the Fist hanging over us. What has every Prophet spoken of? Why do they appear around us? Because certain practices of subjugation displease the Gods.”

  A few of the Sixteen avoided her gaze. Others sneered.

  “You speak of stability, expansion, or service. But none of that will hold back the angel who will deliver the Edict upon us in the end. We all might be bound for eternity in burning chains. Pella: the City of Scorched Chains. It has a nice and prosperous ring to it, does it not?”

  She gasped alongside the audience—and all but three of the Sixteen. How dare she suggest this? My children. My family. The dirty bitch.

  She took a step forward, before she remembered the lancer robes the traitor in their minds wore. I need to stay calm. Must stay calm.

  “None of us is free of sin,” she declared, “her voice growing sharper, cutting through the stunned silence. And thus, in humility, I nominate a resident xenosophont to guide the Champion.” Gasps echoed throughout the hall, disbelief etched into every face.

  “Master Mericek Kostaric, Archmage of Halidomancy and Metallomancy Soulsmithing and Senior President of the Institute of Alchemy. May the wisdom of the Hive and the perspective of a Hiverat Elder guide the Champion to virtue instead of vice.”

  He accepted the chalice from the Speaker’s numb hands, sipped, and returned to his seat.

  What has she done? A human Champion being guided by a xenos?

  The hall around her erupted into murmurs. They grew in volume and quantity, but the High Priestess remained silent.

  Then, the Patriarch of Clan Albastis jumped to his feet. His lips trembled as he stared in anger at the leader of the Abolitionist faction. But he did not speak up—casting uncertain glances at the High Priestess. She held the Patriarch’s gaze until he looked away.

  Then she motioned to her fellow Speaker.

  He took a deep breath. And shook himself. Then froze, remembering where he was. The tang of ozone had grown suffocating and burned hot in both their throats.

  The man spoke with a raspy voice. “Who will continue the debate and drink the sixth ladle?”

  The Albastis Patriarch jumped forward like a praying mantis. “I, Odessis Albastis Ultima, Sacred Patriarch of Clan Albastis, will drink from the Well of Virtue!”

  The Conservationists thumped their fists violently. Then, both Abolitionists grinned and thumped their fists as well.

  Static cracked through the air. They dare mock the Guardians of Tradition further? Have they gone mad? Are they in league with the Unchained? Will the Bonded revolt with their help? Curse it, I need to get home.

  She shivered as cold crept up her spine. Then she noticed the white fog of condensation collecting on the floor. The mana leaked from the mages and twisted the world with their anger.

  The Abolitionists grinned at the faces of the Conservationists and the Matriarch, who were frozen in outraged masks of shock.

  Then, the fists of the Expansionists thumped in near unison. Their vicious smiles let the temperature in the room fall by several more degrees.

  The Speaker felt her hair stand on end as static buzzed in the air. The ozone made her gag.

  She inhaled deeply, gasping for some air. “I…” She shook herself. “With full quorum, you may step into the circle.”

  As the Patriarch crossed into the circle, she poured the wine.

  He spun and jabbed a finger like the blade of a katar at Millia Erostes Ultima, the accursed leader of the Abolitionists.

  “I accuse you of promoting atheism and endangering the Polis! I motion to suspend you from your council seat and besiege your clan for an elder worthy of the title of Patriarch!”

  His voice grew louder and more thunderous with every breath.

  After taking in one final breath, he spat out his last statement.

  “Someone who isn’t a traitor and slave lover! I motion to vote on taking her to trial immediately!”

  The Hyphant motioned Millia Erostes Ultima toward her fellow Speaker.

  The beautiful woman stepped forward, confidently stepping forewards. She met both the Speakers’ eyes for a second. Then shook her head with a sorrowful expression.

  The female Speaker felt a rise in her chest. How dare you. Slave-fucking slut.

  The leader of the Abolitionists spun in a slow circle. Then she began laughing as the other Speaker filled her wine into a second pipe.

  “You call me atheist, even as you openly subvert the Weaver's will? Millia’s voice dripped with disdain. That, my dear Odessis, is called heresy—”

  A strangled cry erupted from the Patriarch. His face contorted in uncontrollable fury as he lunged forward. Arcane energy crackled violently around his raised hand, suffusing it with angry red light.

  The Speaker felt arcane rage rolling up inside her. A thought shouted through her head, a slipping lifeline in the emotional storm. Affectomancy. A rage spell. This isn’t real. Let this not be real.

  Her heart pounded painfully. The thunder-trumpet of the High Priestess shook the room.

  The cold was replaced with scorching heat. Motes of flame curled over the walls and converged from ceiling and floor on the Patriarch.

  He screamed—no longer in rage, but in pain—and collapsed.

  “For the sacrilege of unsheathing a spell in a meeting of the Council of the Sixteen, your clan will pay five thousand diamonds and you will receive fifty lashes in a private chamber. Do you dispute the judgment of the Genius Loci?”

  Suffocating heat and red, pulsing veins of amber decorated all surfaces. Nearly everyone fell to their knees.

  She had dropped and scraped her knee painfully on the floor. She trembled. Meeting the Genius Loci like this. And a Patriarch’s magic. Just let me live.

  The curled-up body groaned as he smoldered. “I… I do not…”

  He gasped as his robe caught fire, ignited by the attention of the spirit of the city. He rolled about frantically until a Matriarch waved a hand and the flames died.

  No one smiled. No one moved. Sacrilege never left the room quietly.

  The disheveled Patriarch gasped deep, then prostrated himself before the High Priestess.

  “I… I do not dispute your judgment. And—” He gulped and glared at the leader of the Abolitionists.

  The woman’s face remained neutral, no sign of triumph on it.

  “I retract my allegations.”

  The Hyphant nodded. The towering xenosophont High Priestess rose slowly, her immense form dominating attention and silencing murmurs. Calmly, the male Speaker poured wine into the chalice, his hands shaking slightly. She took an audible, commanding breath, reclaiming the room’s focus entirely.

  “Before I close the session, I will announce a nomination and a suggestion. I hope the honored Sixteen consider it.”

  She inclined her head ponderously.

  “Firstly, I, Master Medianisa, High Priestess of the Flame and Master Philosopher of Aesthetics, nominate myself as a potential mentor to the Champion.”

  Silence. Then, a single rustle. No one dared speak.

  “I do not claim the position. I will compete against the other candidates. The divine Champion must be guided in sacred matters. Furthermore, appearances matter a lot for those in power.”

  The black-clad Hyphant turned toward the disgraced Patriarch, her citrine and ruby-studded robes reflecting the amber glow of the Genius Loci. The man flinched back a fingerspan.

  The High Priestess spread her powerful arms wide.

  “The Champion himself shall decide who is worthy to mentor him. All prospective candidates will be granted access. You are free to present your offers—and prove your worth.”

  She turned to the amber mist and the dancing column of fire that had risen where the Patriarch fell.

  “The Genius Loci has spoken.”

  The pillars pulsed. Whispers surged like a kicked beehive. People flinched, dropped behind benches, prayed.

  Without a word, the High Priestess turned and walked back into the dark corridor, her silhouette swallowed by flame and shadow.

  She had to stop a war from spilling from a boy’s lips—and drowning Dorian civilization with it.

  +++ Shout-Out Time +++

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