Page 149 of Decimation

They will learn very quickly that Ezra will never be that. I will mould him, I will train him, I will teach him everything our father should have taught Konstantine but failed to. I will craft him into the greatest leader our Brethren has ever known.

“Ezra,” I say, looking down at him. “Do you have anything you wish to say?”

He looks up at me, and for a moment I see his mother in his eyes; Ines. The woman who ruined my brother, who destroyed so much, who brought chaos to our order. But I also see myself.

My steel.

My resolve.

My blood.

“I am grateful,” Ezra says, his voice clear and steady, carrying across the silent hall. “To my father. To the Brethren. I will serve you faithfully when my time comes.”

I feel a surge of pride so fierce it nearly undoes me.

“Then take your seat beside me,” I say, gesturing to the empty chair on my left. “Tonight, you feast as a man.”

He climbs into the chair, his feet not quite reaching the floor, and I turn my attention back to the assembly. The applause has faded. The room is expectant, waiting for what comes next.

They do not have to wait long.

“There is one final matter I must address,” I say, and I let my voice grow heavier, more deliberate. “Tonight, I announce that I have taken a new bride. Leandra is my wife, recognized by God Himself.”

The silence that follows is absolute. I feel the weight of every gaze shift to the woman beside me. Leandra does not flinch. She rises slowly, her movements fluid and deliberate, and steps away from the table into the open space before the high table. Her eyes meet mine for the briefest moment; a question, a trust, and then she turns her back to the assembly.

She reaches for the clasp at her shoulder. The silk whispers as it falls to her feet and then she steps out from it, standing naked before them all, her spine straight, her head high.

And there, burnt into the skin of her back, covering the entirety of her spine, is a crucifix. The scar tissue is raised and pale, a stark relief against her flesh, every detail of the cross etched in fire and pain. It is not a brand. It is a testament.

I let the silence stretch. I let them look, I let them understand.

Then I speak, my voice low and carrying. “She has been tested. She has been anointed by our Guardians, and she has been found worthy.”

I look around at the faces of the men, Chapter Lords, Guardians, the old and the young. I see the realization dawning in their eyes, the slow comprehension of what that crucifix means, what it cost, what it proves. Some bow their heads. Some stare with something close to awe. None dare speak.

Leandra turns back to face them, unashamed, wearing her nakedness like an armour of its own. She is not a victim here, she is a victor. My bride. My equal. The woman who has survived everything they could throw at her and risen from the ashes.

I extend my hand to her. She takes it, and I draw her back to my side.

“The feast continues,” I say, and my voice is iron and silk. “Eat. Drink. Celebrate the future of the Brethren and the woman who will stand beside me as we build it.”

The room erupts, not in applause but in a low, reverent murmur. The sound of men who have witnessed something sacred and terrible.

I seat Leandra beside me once more, and she sits there, not just content in her nakedness but possessing it in a way that reverberates through the entire hall. I see Lords staring, I see men hungrily gazing at her body and a jealous, possessive pride takes over me because she is mine, she is all mine. They can look, they can see what I have, what I get to enjoy, and not one of them will ever again know how delicious she tastes. How sweetly she cries, how perfect her cunt feels as she falls apart.

Her eyes find mine, and in them I see not gratitude, but a fierce, burning understanding.

She knows what this night has declared. She knows she is no longer a pawn, no longer a broken thing to be hidden. She is the Grand Master’s wife, consecrated by suffering and fire.

And every man in this hall knows it too.

Isit in the back of the armoured Mercedes as our convoy makes its way through Rome’s busy streets. Lazarus’s hand is resting on my thigh, and I feel the warmth of him through the thin fabric of my robe. I changed into it after the ceremony, after everyone had hours of feasting, not only on the food in front of them, but on my nakedness too. It had felt empowering to do it. To sit there, to show them my flesh, my scars, and everything my body had endured and know not one of them could touch me again, not one of them could ever hurt me.

Rome at night is a cathedral of shadows. The streetlamps cast amber pools across cobblestones that have witnessed empires rise and crumble. Churches and ruins blur together, monuments to gods and men who thought themselves immortal. I understand that arrogance now. I understand the temptation to believe that power can outlast death, but Ezekiel is still out there. Somewhere. Watching. Waiting. I feel him like a splinter I can’t dig out.

His fingers find mine. I don’t speak, but I don’t need to. The ceremony has drained me, I can feel it in the slight droop of my shoulders, the way my eyelids flicker with the effort of staying alert. The crucifix on my back is hidden now, but the scar tissue still aches beneath my dress. Three days of flaying. Three days of starvation. Three days of proving myself to men who wanted me to fail.

But I didn’t fail. I never fail, and now I wear his ring.