Page 16 of Heresy
Faces grim and set for business, expressions that speak to understanding that church means serious discussions requiringserious decisions. I catalog each brother as he passes—weapons in human form, tools shaped through shared violence and mutual dependence.
Fuse’s explosive energy now contained like banked coals ready to ignite.
Zero’s face maintains a blank slate expression, a weapon waiting to be aimed at the appropriate target.
All of them. My brothers, my burdens, my instruments of necessary brutality.
The men I sacrificed my soul to save.
When the last patched member disappears through the heavy oak door of the church room, I follow. Crossing the threshold into the heart of our darkness, space that serves as confessional and court and execution chamber depending on circumstances.
The room smells of old wood, stale smoke, and accumulated secrets.
Decades of difficult decisions have soaked into timber and fabric, creating an atmosphere thick with the weight of choices that shaped organization into what it has become. A single fixture hangs low over a massive oak table, illuminating scars and names carved into the surface over years—historical records written in wood and blade.
I walk to the head of the table, an empty seat that belongs to me by right and blood.
My hand traces back of the chair, fingers finding deep letters carved there before mine claimed this position: ABEL. The ghost is always present at this table, a silent observer at every meeting, constant reminder of the price paid for the throne and the cost of maintaining a kingdom built from loyalty and violence.
I push the memory down and take my seat.
The heavy chair scrapes against the floor with a sound unnervingly loud in charged silence. I survey faces of my menarrayed around the table like a jury waiting for a judge to speak, eyes reflecting mixture of curiosity and absolute trust in whatever decision I'm preparing to render.
They are waiting for their king to decree the fate of a problem that threatens stability.
I letsilence hang for another calculated beat, allowing weight to settle on every man in the room like atmospheric pressure before a storm. My gaze moves systematically from face to face, lingering on each brother for a moment that acknowledges his presence while reinforcing hierarchy.
When I speak, my voice carries easily in dead air.
"We have a civilian witness in containment." I keep language simple, clinical—administrative rather than personal. "She saw the brand being set on the traitor. The floor is open."
I don't use her name. Here, at this table, she is not a person.
She is a situation requiring resolution.
I nod to Zero, acknowledging his position as Sergeant-at-Arms whose purview includes club security. His word carries the weight of cold, hard steel, opinion shaped through years of eliminating threats before they could compromise organizational integrity.
He doesn't stand. He doesn't need to.
"She's a threat," he states with characteristic flatness. "Unknown variable. She witnessed a ritual not meant for outside eyes. Only one acceptable outcome for a threat of that nature. Elimination. It's clean."
Several younger members nod agreement, blood still running hot.
A simple, violent answer appeals to those who haven't yet learned that some problems require more sophisticated solutions. Easy path that eliminates complication through application of permanent force.
I turn my gaze to Rook.
"Rook."
My VP leans forward, hands clasped on scarred table surface, posture that suggests careful consideration rather than immediate reaction. Strategic mind that operates three moves ahead of current position.
"Zero is right," he begins with a tactical opening that validates his brother before disagreeing. "She is a threat. But her death could be a bigger one. She's a ghost right now—no connections we know of. If she vanishes, she becomes a headline. Headlines bring federal attention we can't afford."
His argument carries the weight of consequences extending beyond immediate tactical concerns.
"Unknown variable needs to be understood before it's removed. Intelligence precedes action."
I let their two arguments hang in air—hammer and scalpel, force and precision.
