Page 141 of Vendetta Crown

"I vote no," he proclaims.

A final act of defiance that changes nothing.

Scattered murmurs ripple through the gathered pakhans. Some smirk, some shift uncomfortably.

But none interfere.

Not that they could.

"It seems theVorino longer belongs to you, Gregor Iosifovich," I say, keeping my voice level. "The vote has passed."

Gregor's shoulders drop just slightly. A momentary lapse in his rigid composure that speaks volumes about the weight of what he's lost.

"And what happens to him now?" Korsakov's gruff voice cuts through the moment, his meaning unmistakable.

I know what he's asking.

The old ways would demand Gregor's death.

It's what the gathered men expect: a blood sacrifice to christen the new tsar.

But as I look at the old man, I think of Aurora. Her voice whispers in my mind, reminding me that mercy may be the harder path, but it is ultimately the better one.

I think about what happens if I order Gregor's death today. The men who still have interests tied to him—and there are many—will not forget.

They'll bide their time, nurture their resentment, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. For every drop of Gregor's blood that is spilled today, a river will flow in the future.

TheVorihas seen enough civil war.

"Gregor Iosifovich will be allowed to retire from his duties," I announce, watching confusion spread across the faces of the gathered men. "He will be mySovyetnik."

A sovyetnik is an advisor. A man with status but no power, only the trappings of power.

Voronin leans toward Svarikov, whispering something I can't hear. Balakirev watches me with narrowed eyes, recalculating his assessment of me.

My eyes find Gregor's.

"Consider it a courtesy for your decades of service and a reminder that I'm not Vitaly." Then I lean in close and whisper in his ear. "But if you so much as dare to plot against me, Gregor Iosifovich, Iwillretract my mercy."

I thrust my hand forward, extending it toward Gregor where the ring on my finger gleams in the sunlight.

Gregor stares at it, his jaw clenched so tight I can see a muscle twitching beneath his weathered skin.

For a moment, I think he might refuse.

But power recognizes power.

With excruciating slowness, he bends forward. His lips press against the metal, cold and formal. When he straightens, something in his eyes has changed. The fight hasn't left him. I'm not fool enough to believe that

But acceptance has settled in.

One by one, the other pakhans step forward. Voronin first, then Balakirev, then Svarikov. Each man bends to kiss the ring, sealing their loyalty, or at least their temporary allegiance, to me as pakhan of pakhans.

The transfer of power is complete, and now they all look to me expectantly.

"What now, Ruslan Vitalyevich?" Gregor asks, his voice carrying across the suddenly silent gathering. "You've claimed the crown. You've declared your war. What will be the first action you take as our leader?"

I sweep my gaze across the assembled men.

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