Page 28 of Carry Your Debt

When the velvet drapes part completely, it’s to unveil the towering form of an ornately carved hourglass on a low marbled rostrum. The supporting framework of the massive structure is crafted from dark cherry oakwood, with each of its pear-shaped bulbs spanning dozens of feet in both directions and only separated by an extremely narrow and delicately blown stem.

The top half still contains each one of its crimson ‘grains’—but everyone knows the grains of ‘sand’ aren’t sand at all. They’re a mixture of metal oxides, slate, and most notably, the pulverized bones of fallen Underworld leaders. Each ‘grain’ has then been carefully stained the same deep red asConcordia’s signature color: the unmistakable color of blood.

It’s no secret that the entire tableau has been designed as a macabre reminder of the nature of our world. A symbol of the fleeting lifespan of man versus the everlasting legacy of theImperium in Imperio. The belief that it will endure no matter the discord between North and South—an eternal empire within an empire.

Seeing the Green Knight’s final resting place up close has those same soft fingers of dread brushing against the base of my skull as when I read the paternity results for the first time.

Because an hourglass only has one purpose.

Butwhatexactly will it be counting down?

The crowd—already uneasy following the curtain’s reveal—shifts again when a lone, hooded figure steps out from behind the hourglass, cloaked in the same crimson as its bloody sands.

Their face remains in shadow, but as they take their place at the front of the dais, there’s no mistaking that air of power.

“Welcome to the 63rd Annual Symposium,” the Arbiter intones, her voice a somber lilt as it echoes across the open atrium. The solemn greeting is met with a scattering of polite but nervous applause. “I only wish the occasion could be marked by a more joyous state of affairs. Alas, I fear that we will soon have nothing short of civil war on our hands.”

This is it.

This is why we’re in Themis this year.

She’s never really been one to mince words, and true to her nature, the Last Word of the Underworld dives right to the heart of the matter. “It is no secret the former Southern Sovereign died without issue, nor that his estate has remained hotly contested.”

My jaw clenches when she clasps her hands before her, as only someone who has come bearing grim news would.

“In the absence of an heir, in both blood or name, suitable Sovereign nominations must then not only find a majority, but do so within a timeframe as deemed reasonable by the standing cohort. The Southern Crown has now lain in dispute for a total of one hundred and fifteen days.”

No. He wouldn’t.

Like an unwitting magnet, my eyes seek out Midas’s blond hair. He’s situated right next to the dais itself, nursing a new whiskey and looking entirely too fucking pleased with himself as thestanding fucking cohort.

The trepidation that follows creeps along my scalp until it feels like all the hair on my body is standing on end.

Despite his leonine demeanor, Midas and the Gordian Knot are more akin to a pack of hyenas: always circling, testing the waters, stealing scraps—all before going in for the final kill.

In fact, he’s so well known for his risk-averse, hands-off approach to business, that I would’ve putactualmoney on his organization continuing to sit back and monitor the chaos in the South. Right until its explosive conclusion. Content to wait while we finish tearing ourselves apart from the inside first—leaving them free to swoop in and clean house in the aftermath.

For him to make the first move like this, means he knows something we don’t, and the realization lodges in my throat like a fishbone.

Whatever else the Arbiter says next turns to static in my ears as I scan the area around the platform and inadvertently lock eyes with the Gray Man. He’s standing opposite the stage in dark contrast to the golden Northern Sovereign.

“He’s here,” I breathe, not needing to elaborate on whoheis, and trying to move my lips as little as possible. Sebastian’s penetrating gaze has not once left my face.

How long has he been watching us?

Unlike Midas, he does have a mask—a black-plumed replica of the ones my Crew is wearing.

“I see him,” Zeus replies, and I hate how empty he now sounds. Gone is the firm but flirty Jax. He’s shutting all the playfulness down and slipping the role of the indifferent son back on his shoulders like heavy battle armor. “Keep listening,” he urges.

I force my focus back to the dais. “And to see through this historic changing of the guard,” the Arbiter is saying, “the younger Southern cohort must now carry forth the burden of their fathers’ debts.”

The cold shock of seeing my guardian in the flesh for the first time in months is met with a new wave of existential dread.

Fathers’ debts?

“Fuck,”Dio hisses at the possible implications of those cryptic words. Zeus’s fingers dig reflexively into my hip bone beneath the edge of my bodice, right as my own go numb against the delicate stem of my champagne glass.

Jackson.

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