Davorin’s command echoed, a low growl of pure menace, but Ilya’s words had already locked the room in a cold, inescapable truth. The Tribunal had not come to negotiate; they had come to bleed him. Copper coated the roof of Mireia's mouth as survival instincts took over. He was a predator, always, but now he stood ready to bare his teeth for her. She saw the calculation in his dark gaze, the instant shift from a man who confessed to a warlord prepared for annihilation. “The city will descend,” Ilya’s voice was a ragged whisper. “By nightfall.” Davorin’s hand, still warm from Mireia’s skin, moved not for a weapon, but to her shoulder. His grip clamped down, hard enough to leave bruises beneath the silk. “We walk in,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual gravelly charm. “Heads high. You speak when I tell you. Understand?” She met his stare without flinching. He offered protection, but demanded submission. Mireia’s chin lifted. “I understand how to survive, Davorin. I always have.” The grand hall, typically a cavernous space for feasting and strategic games, had been transformed. Heavy, unlit brass censers stood like sentinels, casting long, stark shadows under the anemic glow of emergency lamps. A circular table of polished dark mahogany dominated the center, around which sat eight figures. They were ancient, their faces like maps of old grudges and forgotten battles, their eyes the color of stagnant sea water. These were the architects of Obrezha's underworld, their authority bought with decades of slaughter. At the head sat an enormous man whose bulk swallowed the carved timber. Old Kaelos, warlord of the Vorlag faction, glared through one scarred lid and a milky white orb. Beside him sat a gaunt woman, Matriarch Zoryana of the Dvorak bloodline, obsidian rings clicking against the polished wood as her fingers twitched. A hush fell as Davorin and Mireia entered. The air grew thick, heavy with anticipation and animosity. Davorin’s enforcers fanned out behind them, thumbs hooked near concealed holsters. But the Elders’ own guards, hulking men with brutal efficiency in their stance, stood ready. This was not a meeting; it was a standoff. Davorin guided Mireia to the only two empty chairs at the table, directly opposite Kaelos. As she settled into the chair, Kaelos leaned forward. His voice, a low rasp, cut through the quiet. “The Cernak wolf brings his new plaything. Barely a woman, but ripe for the shearing. A Kosta, no less. Trash.” Then he spat. A glob of viscous phlegm landed directly on the polished mahogany between Mireia’s chair and the table, a stark, vile insult. Mireia’s breath held. Her gaze snapped to Davorin, whose expression set into flat granite. A cold, predatory glint appeared in his eyes. Before Mireia could even register the depth of the transgression, Davorin moved. It was a blur of motion, too swift for the eye to follow. His hand shot across the table, not to Kaelos’s throat, but to his right hand, splayed out on the dark wood. A splintering crunch broke across the timber. The warlord choked on a roar as Davorin twisted. Bone sheared under his palm with another snap. Ruined knuckles flattened sideways against the mahogany. Kaelos screamed, a wet, choking sound. “You will address my wife with respect, Kaelos,” Davorin said without raising his voice. He held Kaelos’s mangled hand, a trophy of his fury, for a beat longer before releasing it. The broken man collapsed back into his seat, cradling shattered fingers as his bodyguards reached for iron. Davorin simply tilted his chin, daring them to draw. His own men advanced, forming an impenetrable wall. The hall buzzed with the raw, volatile energy of impending war. The matriarch raised a thin hand, black stones glinting in the pale lamp glow. Her voice, thin and reedy, cut through the tension. “Enough. A display of brute force does not negate the law, Davorin Cernak. It only underscores your desperation.” Her gaze, sharp and assessing, landed on Mireia. “The Rite of Cleansing. You know its terms, Bride.” This was the trap: the ninety-day execution mandate. Davorin pulled his seat forward, heat rolling off his shoulders as he tracked the matriarch's every breath. “For a Cernak bride,” the old woman continued, dry lips peeling back, “the blood law is absolute. Within ninety days of the wedding, she must complete the Rite of Cleansing. She must assassinate a high-ranking member of a rival syndicate. Her blood debt must be paid in the blood of another. If she fails, if she falters, if she cannot prove her worth through the blade, her own head will be forfeit. It is tradition. It is justice.” Ice settled behind Mireia's ribs. This was why Davorin’s men had been so grim, why the ledger had been hidden. Not a random execution, but a forced, bloody initiation. The Tribunal demanded she butcher or be butchered. And then, a sickening realization bloomed. Davorin’s confession, his hidden ledger, the 87 days remaining. He knew this. He had planned for this. He had been preparing to take the fall for her. He would assassinate a rival, publicly, spectacularly, and claim he did it for her, as part of her rite. He would die for her to survive. His ruthless devotion hit her with brutal force. All her carefully constructed walls, her cold calculations, wavered. He would burn himself alive to keep her from the flame. Nausea churned behind her ribs. She couldn’t let him. “You have eighty-seven days, girl,” Zoryana rasped. “Your wedding is in three. The clock runs. The target must come from a house equal to, or greater than, the Kosta name. Choose wisely.” Mireia swept her gaze over the circle of weathered faces. She had no choice but to play their game, but she would play it on her own terms. Davorin reached toward her wrist, but she pulled back before his skin brushed hers. She studied the judges, measuring the ancient statutes she intended to twist. She had to take control, not just for her own life, but for Davorin’s. She rose, slowly, deliberately, her movements fluid and unhurried despite the tremor deep within her. The eyes of every man in the hall, including Davorin’s, fastened on her. She met Kaelos’s murderous stare, then locked onto Zoryana. A slow, chilling smile touched her lips, a predator recognizing its prey. “The Tribunal speaks of tradition,” Mireia said, her tone level across the long mahogany board. “Of blood debts and dynasties. The Kosta name, you claim, is trash. A house to be scorned, yet sufficient for this offering.” Her focus remained on Zoryana. “And the target must come from a house equal to, or greater than, my own.” The matriarch gave a single nod, curiosity sharpening her wrinkled features. “That is the law, girl.” Mireia straightened, her spine a rod of iron. She glanced at Davorin, catching the sudden, rigid comprehension on his features. His sacrifice would not be needed. His life would not be forfeit. She was Mireia Kosta, the discarded daughter, and she knew exactly how to pay a blood debt that would dismantle her past and secure her future. She turned back to the ring of judges, her voice cutting through the hall. “Then my target,” she declared, her gaze unwavering, “will be Jovan Kosta.”

The Elder Tribunal