Chapter 6 The Weight of Kingship
The Weight of Kingship
The ceiling light flickered once and steadied, and the hum of engines outside told him the Bastards were awake again.
The chapel smelled like oil, blood, and rain.
Old wood table scarred by years of bottles and boots sat in the middle, their patch banner hanging behind him. The skull and crown glared down like it was waiting to see if he’d flinch.
Eagle was pacing, boots heavy on the concrete. He does that when he’s thinking too much and trying not to say it.
“She’s awake,” he said. “Still beat to hell, but talking.”
“Talking means breathing,” he said.
“Yeah. But she’s already asking questions. You gonna tell her about the video or keep pretending she won’t find out?”
“She already knows,” he said.
He stopped pacing. “Then she also knows it was shot from our side of the county line.”
Tater looked up. “You saying what I think you’re saying?”
“I’m saying the Hades Hellhounds don’t know that road. Not unless someone drew them a map.”
That sat heavy in the room.
The rest of the patched were quiet. Ghost, Mouse, and Brick sat along the wall, all of them watching him like he might break or burn.
The weight of the cut on Tater’s shoulders felt heavier than usual. President. The word sounds like power until you’re holding the ashes that come with it.
“She left her chain,” he said. “I found it outside the door. You know what that means?”
Eagle frowned. “You think she was done with you?
“It means she thought she was saving us. Heard us talking, took it personal, went out alone.” he sat the chain on the table; the metal clinked against the wood. “She wasn’t wrong to think we were divided.”
Brick leaned forward. “We’re not divided, Prez.”
“Not yet,” he said. “But a war with the Hades Hellhounds will test that.”
Eagle crossed his arms. “If it was one of ours that sold her out, I’ll gut him myself.”
“You won’t have to,” Tater said. “That’s my job.”
The air went still. Outside, thunder rolled again—far off, but closer than before.
Later, after the room was emptied and the orders were given, Tater sat alone with the bottle.
The candlelight flickered across the map spread out on the table. County lines. Highway cuts. The trail where they found her marked in red.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her in that clearing—fire crawling over her arms, rain turning to steam. Beautiful and terrifying. Theirs’s.
The burner phone buzzed. Another video notification.
Tater played it once. Same footage. Same mocking skull watermark.
They were daring him.
He killed the screen and stared at the chain in his hand. The gold was warped, a single link bent out of shape by heat. He rubbed it between his fingers until it bit into his palm.
“You touched the wrong dragon,” Tater said to no one.
The room didn’t echo. It didn’t need to.
Tomorrow, we ride.