The room was stifling, the air weighed down by unspoken rivalries and the grinding gears of ambition. Daenys' mind raced as she tried to keep her expression impassive. Her plan had been fragile, and now it teetered on the edge of failure. She needed something—anything—to fill the gap in power left by Nirme's betrayal. But nothing came. The vote was four to three not in her favor.
The sharp clatter of the door jolted everyone. All eyes turned as heavy boots thudded against the wooden floor. A shadow fell across the room, followed by the measured steps of Berm, the Enlightened Gahkar.
"The guidance of Totallis softly pushes the ebbs and flow of time," Berm said, his voice reverent, his robes a flowing cascade of ivory and gold. His presence shifted the atmosphere, the others straightening in their seats as if drawn by his calm gravity. Berm's eyes, dark and endless as a starless night, drifted toward Tengri.
"Is she a true Gahkar?" Berm asked, his question carrying the weight of divine judgment.
Tengri stood, bowing low before the room. His six eyes reflected the dim light of the torches. "My path is clear when I serve her. I would ask that others of the Enlightened consider following her as well. Let them stand as her personal guard."
Berm nodded, his expression unreadable. "Then Totallis' granddaughter deserves the right of the Pickette," he declared. His words were soft, but they reverberated like a hammer striking an anvil. "Let her be the Warden of the North."
The room rippled with murmurs as Kanna's gauntleted hand began tapping a rhythm against the wooden armrest of his chair. The tapping grew louder, punctuating the silence as he spoke. "I support the girl," Kanna said with a grunt, the drill he held digging into the wood of his chair like a predator gnawing a bone. His massive, chitinous armor creaked as he shifted, the sharp protrusions glinting in the firelight.
That made it five to four in her favor. A stalemate at worst. Daenys' chest tightened. The tide was shifting, but she wasn't safe yet. The room quieted again as every head turned to Lexin, the Outsider of the Light.
Lexin lounged in his seat, the very picture of ease, but his eyes glinted with sharp calculation. His smile, lazy and predatory, widened as he broke the silence. "So strange," he mused, his tone dripping with mockery. "That you would turn your back on her, Nirme. They don't call you the Old Wolf for nothing. I thought your pack stayed together."
Nirme's face remained impassive, his single gloved hand resting on the table. He neither looked at Daenys nor answered Lexin's bait.
Lexin's grin only grew as he stretched his arms out dramatically. "Now, let me think… what should I do?" he asked, feigning deep thought. "On one hand, our newest Gahkar shows ambition in a single meeting—a trait I find both admirable and... dangerous. On the other hand..." His gaze drifted lazily to Mox. "Would her claim to the Pickette not annoy you, Mox? After all, your territory does edge rather close to it, does it not?"
Mox's face darkened, his large hands clenching into fists, but he said nothing. Lexin chuckled, relishing the tension he was stirring.
"Then there's the alliance," Lexin continued, turning his attention to Wen and Augustus. "The three of you working together might pose a problem, especially with the Pickette in play. A fragile balance, isn't it?" His eyes lingered briefly on Berm, whose serene expression betrayed nothing. "Even the most silent among us seems to have something to say tonight. How rare."
Lexin leaned back, his arms draped over the chair like a king on a throne. "What a conundrum I've walked into," he said with mock despair. "To agree or not, knowing the consequences of my choice."
Daenys gritted her teeth, her hands clenched in her lap as she fought the urge to speak. Lexin was drawing it out, savoring the spotlight. She had to hold her ground. Any word, any sign of impatience, would only feed his amusement.
Finally, Lexin straightened. "I vote for the girl," he said, his grin sharp as a blade. "Let her have the Pickette. It's not like the rest of you would know what to do with it, anyway."
Daenys blinked, momentarily stunned. The room erupted into murmurs again, but her mind remained blank. She'd done it. The Pickette was hers. The hollow weight of victory settled over her shoulders. This was what she'd fought for, what she'd bled for. For Akash. For Nalla. For the people of the village. She had to remember that.
Nirme's voice cut through the noise. "The vote has passed," he announced, his tone clipped. "All Gahkar will support this decision when it comes before the Castellan Court."
The others murmured their reluctant agreement, even Mox, though his expression was sour enough to curdle milk.
Nirme turned to Daenys. "Will you allow us access to your camp?"
Daenys nodded, her voice steady despite the tension thrumming in her veins. "Yes. All of Estil is welcome to take up arms and siege the Pickette."
The scribes seated along the edges of the room began writing furiously, their quills scratching against parchment as they recorded every word spoken. Merd was among them, her brow furrowed in concentration as she struggled to keep up.
The meeting dragged on, the Gahkar turning to trade agreements and probing negotiations. Daenys listened with half an ear, her body sagging against the hard wood of her chair. The adrenaline that had kept her sharp was fading, leaving her drained and aching. Her ribs throbbed where the hammer had struck her earlier, and the scar on her chest felt like a brand.
When Nirme finally dismissed the meeting, Daenys pushed herself to her feet, swaying slightly. The other Gahkar rose in unison, a display of equality meant to avoid slighting anyone's honor.
"Gahkar Daenys," Lexin's voice called as the others began to disperse. "A moment of your time?"
Daenys stilled, her jaw tightening at the overly familiar tone. The title wasn't used lightly; it implied camaraderie, trust—neither of which she felt toward Lexin. She glanced at Tengri, who stepped closer, his hand already resting on the hilt of his blade.
"Yes," she said after a pause, her tone measured. "But my guard will accompany me."
Lexin's smile widened, his teeth gleaming in the dim torchlight. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of separating a Heartrender from her protector."
They stepped out into the Lunar Storms, the swirling violet mist parting around their mooneye silk cloaks. The cold air bit at Daenys' skin, but she ignored it, her attention fixed on Lexin.
"Why support the claim?" she asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the quiet.
Lexin glanced at her, his expression unreadable for once. "And why should I tell you?" he replied. "You got what you wanted, didn't you?"
Daenys' lips pressed into a thin line. "There's always a reason, Lexin. Always."
He shrugged, his smile returning. "Perhaps I simply enjoy watching the chaos unfold. Or perhaps I see potential in you. Does it matter?"
Daenys didn't answer, her eyes narrowing. Lexin's games were infuriating, but she couldn't afford to let him unsettle her. "You said you wanted to speak. Get on with it."
Lexin tilted his head, his smile turning sharp. "Oh, I just wanted to see how you'd react. You're fascinating, Daenys. A Heartrender who claims to despise the games, yet plays them anyway. It's... refreshing."
Daenys scowled. "Your games mean nothing to me."
"They will," Lexin said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "Every Gahkar plays them, whether they admit it or not. The Castellan Court ensures it. You'll see soon enough."
He paused as they reached the edge of the camp, the gates looming before them. "But I'll leave you here. It was a pleasure, Gahkar Daenys. May we meet again on the battlefield—as allies, of course."
With that, Lexin disappeared into the mist, his figure swallowed by the storm.
"You've made a dangerous enemy," Tengri said quietly, his six eyes scanning the darkness where Lexin had vanished.
Daenys' gaze lingered on the swirling mist, her thoughts churning. "Perhaps," she said. "But I've also gained the Pickette."
And that, she reminded herself, was all that mattered.