Page 64 of The Brotherhood

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Beth kept her focus on the plate in front of her, stomach a twisted knot of guilt and confusion. The food was untouched, though she moved a few pieces around to make it seem like she was trying. The longer she sat next to Sinrik, the harder it was to ignore the weight pressing in on her from all sides.

She told herself it was just the room—the shadows creeping along the edges, the unsettling quiet of the Pillars’ domain. But she knew better. It was him.

She’d woken up in his arms. A pull, low in her stomach, in her blood, twisted through her ribs like a phantom limb she wasn’t supposed to have. She kept telling herself taking his blood had been necessary—he’d said it was for the baby, and she could justify anything if it meant protecting him. Just like when she’d forced them to stop for the women and children. Necessary.

But guilt still crept through cracks, whispering accusations. He’d held her through the night. The baby hadn’t needed that. She had.

“You want to tell me about the nightmares?” he asked quietly.

Beth tried to meet his gaze, making it as far as his stern mouth. “Maybe later.”

Like five years later. She remembered fragments of something dark moving beneath her feet. That terrifying abyss. Stretching wide, waiting. But worse than that had been the feeling of hands pulling her down, whispers pressing against her ears, familiar yet distorted.

Silence stretched, thick and charged. She wanted to break it, to turn the conversation somewhere else, anywhere else. “Did you ever get in touch with my husband?”

She looked enough his way to see his expression didn’t change, but something in the air did.

Her heart slowed. “Sinrik?”

“Not yet.”

She opened her mouth as the heavy doors at the far end of the room creaked open. The Kings had arrived.

Beth barely had time to collect herself before the four figures strode in, their presence shifting the atmosphere like a storm rolling in. She sat with her hands wrapped around a warm cup, staring at the untouched food in front of her. Any other circumstance, the smells of spice and fresh bread that filled the room would’ve made her happy.

After cordial greetings with nods and smiles, they all sat, the Kings across from their apprentices while Sinrik and Beth sat five seats away at the opposite end. Within a minute, the apprentices engaged in deep discussions, the kind of intellectual combat that came from years of debating in circles.

Beth peeked at them, watching one lean forward, his sharp golden-brown eyes locked on the one she remembered to be Elias, who seemed entirely unimpressed with whatever point had just been made.

“I’m just saying,” the first one continued, voice smooth but edged with challenge, “if emotional chaos is truly the most volatile form, then the logical conclusion is that we don’t needto study the structure of chaos itself—just the instability of the people at the center of it.”

Elias scoffed as he filled his mouth with scrambled eggs before aiming his fork at him. “And that’s where you always get it wrong,” he mumbled. “Power doesn’t originate in emotions. It manipulates them. A system of control doesn’t break because of unstable individuals—it breaks because someone stronger learns how to use that instability.”

“Then why do we call it chaos?” Zahir countered smoothly. “If it were just power shifting hands, it would be politics.”

The one called Graves exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging his hand down his face. “This again?” he muttered, exchanging a glance with the last one, who had been quietly drinking his tea as if the entire debate was a headache he wasn’t willing to suffer through.

“The problem,” Graves finally interjected, setting his cup down, “is that you’re both under the illusion that chaos can be understood in such a linear way. Elias wants to believe it’s just power, Zahir wants to believe it’s just people. But what if it’s neither? What if the thing you keep arguing about isn’t something that can be explained within the limits of human comprehension?”

A silence settled for half a second before Zahir’s lips twisted. “Now he’s quoting Nexus.”

“And you sound like Noctis,” Elias shot back.

“I will take that as a compliment.”

Across from them, Noctis chuckled as he cut into his food. “You should.”

Volkan, who had been silent up until now, finally leaned forward, his deep-set eyes landing on Zahir. “And what exactly do you think emotions are?” he asked, his voice slow, measured, carrying the weight of someone who rarely wasted words.

Zahir arched a brow. “Complex biochemical reactions influenced by memory, environment, and perception.”

Volkan took a bite of his food and chewed like he had all the time in the world. “Then you just argued against yourself.”

Zahir frowned. “How do you figure?”

Volkan gestured vaguely with his fork. “If emotions are biochemical reactions—things triggered by external and internal forces—then you’re not studying the root of chaos. You’re studying one of its symptoms. Which means you’re wrong.” He shifted his gaze to Elias. “And so are you.”

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