Page 42 of Sokâr

“…You’ve done well,” he murmured.

And then he was gone.

8

Eyes Atop the Vesper Seat

The Council Chamber stirred with muted whispers as the Resh’Agar entered, pulled forward by some terrible gravity that set the Lattice stones trembling beneath his steps.

Clad in the accursed Morvane, Kailorien Iridias Savarax was a silhouette of god-born fury. Azure channels of mana shifted along his chest plate, pauldrons sharp as judgment, his cloak trailing runes that danced like oil in water. He did not bow. Did not speak. Only walked to the Circle of Rule—the large, Polis crystal round table in the center of the chamber—and stood.

That was enough.

Councilors sat in semicircle tiers, flanking an empty dais reserved for the Sovereign Flame. Absent, as expected. At the center, Calixtan Murn—Elder Voice of the Eternal Seat—rose first, adjusting his flowing violet and maroon robes and offering a shallow nod.

“Your Quintessence,” he began, aging voice steady, “we were not expecting—”

The Resh'Agar lifted a hand.

“You come when summoned. That is your duty.” His voice was thunder held on a leash. “My duty is to ensuremySokâr’s comfort and safety needs are met. Upon investigation of her current living arrangements, I discovered she is residing in a room that does not meet theminimumcriteria of her station. The walls and floors are bare. The temperatureis unsanctioned. Her possessions are unguarded. Her bed is straw. Her warding —nonexistent.”

Gasps rippled through the lower tiers. Not even the opportunists could hide their alarm. Only the most influential of Councilors looked unaffected. Disturbed. Like they’d been caught red-handed stealing Gleams from the Selen District’s coffers.

“This isblasphemy, Councilors,” the Resh'Agar continued, drawing out the word, watching as it spread among them like blood in water. After a pause for effect, he went on.

“You will hear my terms. She will be given her own wing as Doctrine decrees. Equivalent in amenities and luxuries to that of the Resh’Agar.”

Draevan Sol, Master of Strategic Mana Flow, spoke first, ever practical. “The Sokâr’s elevation was not anticipated to require a separate wing, Your Quintessence. The funds are—”

“Available.” The Resh'Agar's blazing blue glare could have carved stone. “You will reallocate from non-critical Veilward expansion. If funds cannot be found, they will beseized.”

A tense silence. Draevan sat back, visibly swallowing. Others looked to him in panic. His voice often led motions to swing one way or the other, and they waited for him to take a side.

Ilyra Vaunt, a short man wrapped in violet vestments, sneered. “It is not only a matter of funds. Doctrine binds us to ceremony. The Sokâr and the Resh’Agar have never before—”

“Then Doctrine,” Kailorien snapped, “hasfailedher.” He stepped forward, voice dropping into lethal calm. “By every sacred writ, the Sokâr is to receive equal housing, equal protection, equal respect to the Resh’Agar. You have failed in this for decades, and that failure endsnow.”

Sevrion Hale rose slowly. Pale, fox-eyed, and draped in impeccable white, he offered a courtly bow. It was poisonous.

“No disrespect, Your Quintessence,” he drawled, “but your decision to shelter her in your own wing—your bedchamber, some whisper—borders on heresy.”

The Council tensed.

The Resh'Agar didn’t miss a beat.

“Then give her a wing of her own. Warded. Shielded. Like mine.”

“That would take years,” Sevrion countered. “Decades, if it is to match the Lattice's upper design.”

Kailorien smiled—cold and sharp. “Then she will remain with me for as long as it takes to build it. If the Council has objections, then it is free to find additional funding to buildfaster.”

The words landed like a blade driven into marble.

A few seats down, Lamari Dross stood once more. “If housing the Sokâr with the Resh’Agar violates Doctrine,” he said, voice ironclad, “then it is Doctrine that must yield. The fact that a wing was not built half a century ago is not only a shame—it is anegregious breachof our protocols.”

Vexan Til gave a single, silent nod of support. The room split.

Malri Den and Tharalon Drex both voted against the motion without comment. A few murmured in uncertain tones. The count teetered, uncertain, waiting—