Page 170 of Decimation

Tonight, there’s the stars and the jasmine and the man beside me.

Tonight, there’s peace.

Three Years Later

The light in our new hall is different.

I designed it that way. The old villa faced west, it caught the dying sun, painted everything in shades of blood and mourning. I never noticed it when I was young, never noticed how the shadows gathered in the corners, how the walls seemed to lean inward as if listening.

But Leandra noticed.

She noticed everything, even before her eye was changed. And after, well. After, she saw more than any of us.

So we burned it. Every room where my brother plotted, every corridor where Ines walked, every stone that remembered what was done to us both there. The Guardians argued against it, too much history, too many relics, but I overruled them.

I would have burned the whole world if she asked.

The new palace rises from the cliffs like something grown rather than constructed. White marble veined with gold, columns that catch the morning sun and hold it prisoner until dusk, windows positioned so that every room floods with light at every hour of the day.

There are no shadows.

No corners where conspiracy can fester.

No darkness at all, except the darkness we carry within ourselves.

And this hall, this great hall, where we hold our feasts and our councils and our triumphs, this hall is my favourite. The ceiling soars three storeys overhead, painted with scenes from the Brethren’s history. Not the sanitised version we told the outer circle, but the truth. The Templar Knights receiving their sacred charge. The Founders breaking away from a church that had grown corrupt. The blood rituals, the sacrifices, the centuries of secret rule.

All of it rendered in gold leaf and precious pigments, a testament to what we are and what we have always been.

At the far end of the hall, dominating the eastern wall, is a stained-glass window. The image is familiar to everyone who sees it; a woman in crimson, her face divided between ruin and radiance, her hands outstretched in benediction. Some of the Chapter Lords think it’s the Virgin Mary. Others think it’s Mary Magdalene, the apostle to the apostles, the first witness to the resurrection.

I let them think what they want.

Only Leandra and I know the truth. The artist worked from the same sketches he used for the painting in our private chapel. The face in the window is hers; scar, white eye and all. She’s been immortalised in glass and lead, and every Easter morning the sun rises directly behind her, setting her ablaze with holy fire.

Today she sits beneath her own image, and I cannot stop looking at her.

Her gown is gold. Gold for Easter, gold for resurrection, gold for the child growing in her belly. It falls in heavy folds around her body, draped like ancient statuary, and the burnished colour makes her dark skin glow. The scar on her face catches the light differently than it used to, she’s learned to tilt her head just so, to let it shine rather than hide it. Her white eye moves constantly, scanning the crowd, reading colours I can only imagine. She’s cataloguing threats and loyalties, measuring the weight of every soul in this room.

She’s magnificent.

I rest my hand on the swell of her belly, feeling the warmth of her through the silk. Our child shifts beneath my palm, a flutter, a promise, and Leandra’s lips curve into the smallest smile.

“She’s restless,” she murmurs, low enough that only I can hear.

“She knows her father is impatient to meet her.”

“You’re always impatient.” She covers my hand with her own, her fingers cool and steady. “Patience, Grand Master. She’ll come when she’s ready.”

I lean closer, my ruined voice scraping against her ear. “You’re certain it’s a she?”

“I am.” Her white eye flicks toward me, and for a moment, I swear I can see something moving in its depths. Something ancient. Something knowing. “She burns like you do. All that ambition, all that hunger. She’s already plotting in there.”

A laugh scrapes its way out of my throat. It’s barely a sound anymore, more of a vibration, a rumble that only she can interpret, but she understands. She always understands.

Around us, the feast is in full swing. The tables stretch the length of the hall, laden with roasted meats and fresh bread, with wine from our own vineyards and fruits imported from every corner of the empire. The Chapter Lords are in their places, arranged by precedence and power. The newly loyal sit closest to the dais, eager to prove their devotion. The old guard sit further back, their eyes still calculating, still measuring whether these years of peace will last.

They will. I’ll make sure of it.