75. Lazarus
She’s starting to believe me. She is starting to truly trust me. I can see it in her eyes, I can see it in the way she smiles at me, the way she moves, the way she’s started to truly let her guard down when we are alone.
Tonight she will realise all her fears, all those voices still whispering in her head to be cautious, to be wary, are for nothing.
The great hall is drowning in candlelight.
I watch it flicker across the table, across the polished ebony surface that stretches the length of the room like a dark river.
Across the gold-rimmed plates and the crystal decanters filled with wine so dark it looks like blood, across the faces of the men who have gathered here at my command.
Chapter Lords from every corner of earth.
Guardians whose bloodlines stretch back to before the Founders themselves.
Men who have kneeled before my father, Grandfather, and now kneel before me.
My throne sits elevated at the head of the table, carved from the same obsidian that lines the walls of this chamber. Ancient stone. Stone that has witnessed countless ceremonies, countless oaths, countless deaths. Tonight, it will witness something new.
I run my thumb along the armrest and feel the smoothness of it, the coldness. Everything in this room is cold, save for the woman seated to my right.
Leandra.
She is dressed in turquoise tonight, silk that pools around her, making her dark skin glow, with a neckline that plunges low enough to remind every man in this room that she is untouchable.
Mine. Her hair has been re-styled to a weave that falls in waves past her shoulders, and her now blue eyes scan the hall with the careful attention of someone who has learned long ago that predators wear smiles.
I watch her more than I watch any of them.
I cannot help it.
Even now, after everything, the sight of her does something to my chest that I have no name for. Something between rapture and rage. Something that makes me want to tear the room apart and rebuild it in her image.
She is healing. I see it in the way she holds her shoulders now, straight and proud, no longer the hunched creature I first found cowering in the shadow. The scars on her body have faded to silver lines, though she still touches them sometimes when she thinks I am not looking. I always am.
But there are other wounds, deeper ones. Wounds I have not yet had the chance to close but I will, in time.
A servant steps forward, and I lift my hand.
The room falls silent immediately, the conversations dying, the rustling of robes and the clinking of glasses all ceasing as if a blade has cut through them.
I rise slowly, letting them wait, letting them feel the weight of my presence.
My brother was impulsive. He demanded attention with noise and spectacle.
I have learned that silence commands far more effectively.
“Brothers.”
My voice carries across the hall, low and steady. I have practiced this. Every word, every pause, every inflection. There is no room for improvisation tonight.
“We are gathered here for a feast. A celebration. But before we eat, before we drink, there is a ritual we must observe.”
From behind my throne, Ezra steps forward. He moves carefully, his face a perfect stillness, masking whatever nervousness I know he feels as he performs this ritual.
His dark hair is neatly combed, his small shoulders squared, his chin lifted with a dignity that makes my chest ache. He wears the ceremonial robes of an heir, black silk embroidered with gold thread, the sigil of the Brethren stitched right over his heart.
Beside him, waiting are dozens of servants carrying velvet-lined trays, and upon them sits rows of chalices. Human skulls, each one polished to a gleaming white. The tops have been removed and gold cups have been placed inside to form drinking vessels.
Ezra stops before me and bows his head. I take the first chalice, a skull that is polished, bejewelled, unlike the others.
My father’s skull, boiled, cleaned, and prepared for this moment here.
When I die, once my body is consumed by my son, my skull will have the same ending.
It will be kept safe until Ezra has an heir, and this ritual will be repeated again.
I lift it high, letting the candlelight catch the precious stones, letting them all see my father’s remains.
“We honour the dead who made us what we are,” I say. “We drink from the vessels that once held their souls, and in doing so, we remind ourselves that we are temporary. That power is borrowed. That even the greatest among us will one day be nothing more than bone.”
I lower the chalice and gesture to Ezra.
He moves down the table, offering a skull to each man in turn.
Some take theirs with reverence, running their fingers over the bones.
Others hesitate, their faces betraying a flicker of discomfort before they remember who they are meant to be.
Chapter Lords do not flinch. Guardians do not show weakness. They take their skulls and they wait.
Leandra is the last to receive one.
Ezra pauses before her, and I see the way his eyes flick her way, not with judgment but with something close to sympathy. He knows what this skull means, he knows what I am about to ask of her.
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.
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.