Page 147 of Brutal Crown
The Elders return after more than two hours of silence—two agonizing hours where the room held its breath, every tick of the clock scraping against the nerves of everyone present.
They step forward, robes brushing the floor, and faces colder than before. The Moretti Elder steps into the torchlight and speaks, his voice slow, like a man choosing his words with the care of someone holding a loaded gun.
“Francesco Romano,” he begins. “We accept your invocation ofAntico Giudizio.”
A collective breath is sucked in. But he doesn’t stop.
“You seek your freedom. You demand the dissolution of your engagement.”
The De Luca Elder rises, his voice solemn, echoing across the chamber.
“Your petition is granted.”
A slow exhale leaves my lungs.
He turns to the accused. “Ermanno De Rossi. Giulio Salvatore. Alfonso Bianchi—stand.”
The room falls into tense silence.
“You are formally charged with treason against the Society. Your crimes include unauthorized executions, conspiracy, and the deliberate corruption of sacred oaths. Under the authority of La Mano Nera’s central code, you are hereby stripped of your titles, your votes, and your protections.
“You will face a closed tribunal to determine the full weight of your betrayal. Until a verdict is reached, your households will be placed under strict surveillance, and you are confined to isolation effective immediately.”
A shocked gasp spreads through the cathedral.
Giulio moves forward, face darkening, but the De Luca Elder lifts a single hand—and six guards step into view, armed and waiting.
“This is outrageous,” Giulio snarls.
“This is justice,” the seer replies.
The air tightens like a noose. “And you really expect me to trust your tribunal?”
“No,” the Moretti Elder says. “We expect you to build one.”
Silence crashes through the cathedral again.
“You wanted power,” the De Luca Elder whispers. “Now wield it.”
“Let the record reflect,” the Moretti Elder declares, his voice measured but laced with warning, “that this acceptance is no act of submission—it is a calculated act of preservation. We do this not because we bend, but because we adapt.”
“You may sit on the throne now,” the seer says, tilting his head, “but thrones are built on the bones of men who thought they were untouchable.”
A slow exhale leaves my lungs. The altar still stinks of smoke and old power. But something is different now.
I didn’t just survive them.
I made them kneel.
My jaw tightens as I step back, the silence of the cathedral wrapping around me like a second skin. Every man in this room just witnessed a shift in the world they thought they controlled.
Let them whisper. Let them plot; it doesn’t matter.
Because tonight—I didn’t just invokeAntico Giudizio.
Irewrote history.
The old world cracked open tonight, and from its ruins, I was born.
