Page 148 of Decimation

She reaches out, her fingers slender and steady, and takes the chalice. She does not tremble, she does not look at me. She simply holds it before her like a queen accepting tribute, and my heart swells with a pride so fierce it borders on pain.

Wine is poured. Deep crimson, thick as blood. The servants move through the room like shadows, filling each skull to the brim. When they finish, I raise my chalice once more.

“To the fallen,” I say, and the words are ash in my mouth, because I know whose skull she holds. I know whose bones she will drink from tonight.

“To the fallen,” the room echoes.

The wine is bitter and strong, the taste of it coating my tongue, and I watch Leandra over the rim of my chalice as she brings the skull to her lips. Her throat moves as she swallows. If she feels anything, horror, revulsion, grief, she does not show it. She simply lowers the skull and places it on the table before her, her expression perfectly composed.

I lean toward her, my mouth nearly brushing her ear.

“The skull is your father’s.”

She goes still with that perfect, practiced stillness that I have come to recognize as her armour. For three heartbeats she does not move, does not breathe, does not blink. Then slowly, dangerously, her lips curve into a smile.

“He always did have a thick skull,” she murmurs back, her voice so low only I can hear it.

Laughter rises in my throat, dark and unexpected. I swallow it down.

God help me, this woman. This magnificent, broken, ruthless woman.

I should have known she would not tremble. I should have known she would take this gift for what it is and find it fitting.

“Consider this another delicious taste of revenge.” I say quietly.

She turns her head then, and those blue eyes meet mine. There is no love in them, at this moment there is something else. Something that burns far fucking hotter than mere love.

I almost kiss her right there, in front of everyone. Instead, I force myself to straighten and raise my voice once more.

“Tonight, we honour more than the dead. We honour the living who have sacrificed for our cause. Those who have fallen on their swords. Those who have put themselves in jeopardy for the sake of the Brethren.”

My eyes find Antonio. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since everything went down. I know Zayn spoke with him, ensured he would be here tonight. He sits near the end of the high table, his wife Grace is beside him, her golden hair pinned in an elegant twist. She is beautiful despite being obviously drugged.

“Antonio,” I say, lifting my chalice toward him. “My most trusted Guardian. The man who willingly took on the role of Judas, who allowed himself to be branded a traitor so that every serpent in our garden might be exposed. Tonight, we honour your sacrifice.”

The room lifts their chalices. Murmurs of agreement ripple through the crowd. Antonio inclines his head, his face unreadable, but I see the tension in his jaw. I see the way his knuckles whiten around the stem of his skull.

He knows the truth.

He knows I used him, that I twisted his loyalty and his love for his wife into a weapon I could use.

And he knows that if he speaks, if he so much as breathes a word of the truth, Grace will suffer for it and so will all the Brethren.

I hold his gaze for a long moment. A challenge. A reminder too. Oh, I respect Antonio. I respect what he has given, what he has endured, but I will not hesitate to destroy him if he threatens what I am building.

“To Antonio,” I say.

“To Antonio,” the room echoes.

I lower my chalice and sweep my gaze across the assembly. “But there is another reason we are gathered here tonight. A reason that extends beyond celebration and remembrance.”

I gesture, and my son comes to stand beside me.

The room stirs. Whispers begin to rise, but I silence them with a look as I place my hand on his shoulder.

“Behold my son,” I announce. “Tonight, I present him as my heir. The future of the Brethren. The one who will carry our legacy into the next generation when I am gone.”

A beat of silence. Then, slowly, the room begins to applaud. Some faces show genuine approval, others hide their doubt behind careful masks. I mark them all; The ones who clap too slowly, the ones whose smiles do not reach their eyes. They are not loyal to me, not truly. They are waiting. Watching. Wondering if this boy will grow into a Grand Master they can control.