Dance of Ruin: Chapter 38

The flames in the cathedral torches burn steadily, casting shadows across the stone columns and masked faces.

The Black Court is now in session.

The Marquis stands in the center of the chamber, his posture straight and arrogantly defiant.

The fact that he’s not begging really pisses me off.

The Hound speaks.

“You stand accused by this Court of assassinating Boris Vabnik in order to avoid paying your debt, thereby violating a sacred blood marker.”

He pauses. No one says a word.

There is no defense, only judgment.

Five masks. Five votes.

Each “guilty” from our lips falls like a hammer.

No one’s made a fuss about my demand to mete out the punishment tonight. And of course, the Marquis doesn’t choose “flight”, because let’s be real: the motherfucker looks close to eighty. At his age, I’d get him before he even took ten steps into the labyrinth.

When I step forward, his proud, arrogant expression wavers just a little.

“Choose your weapon.”

The Marquis shifts—only slightly, but enough for me to see it.

His veneer breaking.

His certainty gone.

“I can pay you,” he murmurs. “Whatever you want. Come now, we’re both men who understand how the world works.”

I take a step closer.

“Choose. Your. Weapon.”

“I can make things disappear,” he presses. “I have reach. I have protection⁠—”

“You had reach and protection.”

He swallows twice. His posture changes, arrogance unraveling in real time.

“There’s no need for blood,” he says. “We can make a deal.”

I step so close to him I can see the glint of fear in his eyes. The final, desperate bid for survival.

“You sent men to hurt her,” I say, my voice low.

His brow furrows for a second, like he doesn’t immediately understand what I’m saying. But then… There it is. The spark of pure fear in his eyes.

Fuck, I could inhale that fear and get high off it.

“She—”

“I’m no saint,” I growl. “And yes, I understand how our world works. But…” My jaw grinds as I get right into his face. “You hurt what’s mine. You sent men to lay hands on what. Is. MINE.”

“I—I—” He stammers. “We can work something⁠—”

“Choose your fucking weapon,” I snarl. “Or I’ll assume you’ve chosen bare hands, and I’ll kill you right here with mine.”

“She was just collateral⁠—”

My right hand is around his throat in half a second. Squeezing. Hard.

His eyes bulge obscenely from his head. His face turns purple as he claws and kicks and tries to escape my wrath.

Not happening.

I look right at him, my fingers wrapping tighter and tighter, not a drop of mercy in my veins as I watch the light flicker in his eyes.

Then, with a final, futile paw at my wrist, it goes out.

I let him fall.

He hits the stone floor like a bag of rotten meat, and the chamber goes silent.

There’s no applause. No commentary.

Only the low torchlight crackling.

Justice isn’t clean. It’s not righteous. Definitely not holy.

But it’s been done.

I just wish it had taken a bit longer for him to die.