Chapter 5: The Vote
The dough had been resting for an hour, and Chris Bolgrey was staring at it like it might offer some kind of answer.
It wouldn't, of course. Dough was forgiving, patient, and utterly silent. It didn't judge him for the dark circles under his eyes or the way his hands had trembled that morning when he'd measured out the flour. It didn't ask about his son, who had walked out of this very house hours ago with that distant look in his grey eyes—the same look his mother used to get when she was chasing something she couldn't explain.
Chris ran a rough palm over his face, feeling the stubble that had grown in overnight. He'd stopped counting the years since he'd washed up on Gantor's shores, but the number didn't matter. What mattered was that he was still here, still breathing, still making bread in a kitchen that smelled of yeast and wood smoke and the particular loneliness of a man who had learned to live with the shape of his own solitude.
Peaches, the orange tomcat who had adopted him three winters ago, was curled on the windowsill, tail flicking lazily in the afternoon sun. Spot, the scrawny mutt with the white patch over his left eye, was sprawled across the doorway, snoring in a way that made his whole body shudder. The house was quiet. Too quiet. Chris had always been a man who appreciated silence, but these days it felt less like peace and more like waiting.
The dough sat there, smooth and patient, and Chris found himself thinking about home.
Not the home he'd made here—the crooked cottage, the garden that never quite grew what he planted, the friends who had become family in the absence of blood—but the home he'd left behind. The green hills of the north. The sound of his mother's voice calling him in for supper. The way his father's hands had looked wrapped around a tankard of ale, calloused and strong, the hands of a man who had built his life from the ground up.
He hadn't thought about them in years. Hadn't allowed himself to. There was no point in mourning a place he could never return to, people who were likely dead by now, a life that had been stolen from him by a storm and a ship that never should have sailed. But today, with the year winding down and the air carrying that particular chill of endings and beginnings, the memories had crept in like tidewater through a cracked hull.
Another year gone. Another winter approaching. Another revolution of the sun that he would spend on this island, in this town, in this life that he had never chosen but had somehow made his own.
The knock at the door was loud enough to startle Peaches off the windowsill and Spot into a flurry of confused barking. Chris wiped his hands on his apron, frowning as he crossed to the door. Visitors were rare in the middle of the day. Most of Seko knew better than to interrupt him during his baking hours.
He opened the door to find Derran standing on his porch, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a man who desperately needed to piss and couldn't find a bush.
"Derran," Chris said, crossing his arms. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Derran's smile was too wide, too quick, the expression of a man who was trying very hard to appear casual and failing miserably. He was a sturdy man, with the tired features and comfortable bulk of someone who had spent his life in kitchens and meeting halls rather than fields and forges. His hair was thinning, his beard was graying, and his eyes had that permanent look of mild worry that came from a lifetime of people-pleasing.
"Chris! Good, good, you're here. I mean—of course you're here, it's your house, where else would you be?" Derran laughed, a forced, brittle sound. "Lovely weather we're having, isn't it? A bit brisk for this time of year, but nothing we can't handle. I remember a winter about fifteen years back when we had frost on the windows for three straight weeks. Three weeks, Chris! And the crops—well, you remember the crops. Or maybe you don't. It was before your time, actually. Before mine too, now that I think about it."
"I was on the island fifteen years ago, Derran."
"Were you? Right, right. Of course you were." Derran laughed again, and this time it had a high, nervous edge. "Time flies, doesn't it? One moment you're young and spry, the next you're—well, here we are. Anyway! I came to see you because—because the council needs you. Now. Urgently."
Chris's frown deepened. "The council?"
"Mm-hmm. An emergency session. Very official. Very important." Derran was nodding so vigorously he looked like a chicken pecking at grain. "The Chief convened it himself. Wants everyone present. You especially."
"Me especially." Chris repeated the words flatly. "Tibber Waldkros wants me in his council chamber so badly he sent you to fetch me. That doesn't sound like Tibber."
"Well, he did. I mean, he didn't send me specifically, I volunteered. Offered. Insisted, really. Told them, 'I'll get Chris, I know how to talk to him, we go way back.' And they said, 'Derran, that's a wonderful idea, you're so good with people.' And I said—"
"Derran." Chris's voice cut through the stream of words like a blade through soft cheese. "What's this about?"
Derran's mouth opened, closed, opened again. He looked at Chris, then at the ground, then at the sky, then back at Chris. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple despite the cool air.
"You know," he said, "I don't actually know all the details. They didn't tell me everything. Promised they would, but you know how it is, everyone's so busy, so many things to discuss. Probably something about the harvest, or the repairs on the south wall, or—or something. Nothing important, I'm sure. But they want you there, so if you could just come along—"
"Let me grab my coat."
The relief on Derran's face was almost comical. "Yes! Yes, of course. Take your time. No rush. Well, actually, some rush, but not too much. It's fine. Everything's fine."
Chris grunted, stepping back inside to grab his worn leather jacket. He paused by the kitchen, looking at the dough that was still resting on the counter. It would need to be punched down soon, kneaded again, shaped into loaves. But the council wouldn't wait, and Derran wouldn't stop talking if he was left alone for too long.
"Watch the house," Chris told Peaches and Spot as he headed for the door. The cat ignored him. The dog thumped his tail once, then went back to sleep.
The walk through Seko was short but telling. The town was quiet in the way it always was during the final days of the year—families preparing for the feast, children collecting wood for the bonfires, women hanging garlands of dried herbs and berries over their doorways. The air was thick with the smell of wood smoke and roasting meat, and somewhere in the distance, someone was playing a lute badly enough that it could only be old Marta Kettleby, who had been tone-deaf since birth and saw no reason to let that stop her.
Chris took it all in with a familiarity that had become second nature over the years. He knew these streets, these people, these sounds. He knew which roofs leaked during heavy rain and which wells ran dry in the summer. He knew the names of every child who ran through the market square and the secrets of every adult who watched them with wary eyes.
It wasn't home. It never would be. But it was something.
Derran filled the silence with an endless stream of chatter about the weather, the harvest, the price of grain, the new well that was being dug near the east gate, the rumor that someone had seen a strange bird flying over the forest, the time he'd once seen a bird like that when he was a boy and it had turned out to be a kite, and hadn't that been embarrassing, and oh, did Chris know that old Marta had finally gotten a new lute, and—
"Derran," Chris said, interrupting the flow for the second time. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you talk about everything in the world except what's actually on your mind."
Derran fell silent for a moment, his face crumbling into something vulnerable and tired. Then he let out a long breath and shrugged.
"I don't know what the meeting is about," he said quietly. "That's the truth. But I don't like it, Chris. The Chief's been acting strange all week. Snapping at people, calling for extra meetings, muttering to himself in his office. And now he wants everyone together right before the holiday, including you specifically." Derran shook his head. "That can't be good."
"No," Chris agreed. "It usually isn't."
The council chamber was a squat, stone building in the center of Seko, its walls thick enough to withstand the winter storms that battered the island from the sea. Inside, it was warm and dimly lit, with a long wooden table dominating the center of the room and chairs arranged around it in a rough circle. The walls were lined with shelves of records and ledgers, the accumulated bureaucracy of a town that had learned to govern itself through necessity rather than choice.
They were all there. The council members, twelve of them in total, sat in their usual positions around the table. A few nodded greetings as Chris entered; most kept their eyes fixed on the papers in front of them, studiously avoiding his gaze. Vyka was seated near the head of the table, her sharp features arranged into an expression of bored superiority, her thin fingers drumming against the wood like she had somewhere better to be.
And at the head of the table, in a chair that was slightly larger than the others, sat Tibber Waldkros.
The Chief of Seko was an imposing man in the way that a sack of flour was imposing—there was a lot of him, most of it soft, and he occupied more space than he deserved. His face was round and florid, framed by a mane of gray hair that he wore too long for a man of his age, and his eyes were small and dark and perpetually calculating. He was dressed in his formal robes, which were slightly too tight and slightly too ornate for a town meeting, and he was smiling the smile of a man who knew something everyone else didn't.
"Chris Bolgrey," Waldkros said, rising from his chair with theatrical warmth. "So good of you to join us. We were beginning to think you'd forgotten the way."
"Took a wrong turn at the turnip fields," Chris said, taking the seat that Derran had pulled out for him. "Almost ended up in the next town over."
"Sloppy navigation for a man who's lived here as long as you have."
"I got here eventually. That's what matters, isn't it?"
Waldkros's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in his small eyes. Something cold and patient. "Indeed. Now that we're all present, I believe we can begin."
He settled back into his chair, steepling his fingers, and surveyed the room with the indulgent air of a man about to grant great favors. Chris felt his stomach tighten. He'd seen that look before, on the faces of men who were about to do something they believed was generous but was actually catastrophic.
"As you all know," Waldkros began, "we are approaching the final days of another year. A year of hard work, of challenges overcome, of sacrifices made for the good of our community." He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the assembled members. "And I believe that this community deserves a reward."
Murmurs rippled around the table. Chris stayed still.
"To that end," Waldkros continued, "I have proposed, and the council has unanimously agreed, that we grant everyone—and I mean everyone—the final two days of the year off. No work. No responsibilities. No duties."
The murmurs grew louder, tinged with surprised pleasure. Several members nodded approvingly, and even Vyka allowed a thin smile to cross her sharp face.
"Even the soldiers," Waldkros added, "guarding our outposts on the outskirts. They will return to town for the holiday, and we will hold a proper celebration. A feast. A bonfire. Music and dancing and all the merriment that this noble town deserves."
Chris waited for someone else to say it. When no one did, he cleared his throat.
"And who will stand guard while we're all... celebrating?"
The silence that followed was immediate and complete. Waldkros's smile tightened.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The soldiers," Chris said, keeping his voice calm and neutral. "You just said you're pulling them back from the outposts. For two days. Which means the town will have no one watching the approach roads, no one manning the watchtowers, no one to raise the alarm if something happens."
"Something happens?" Waldkros repeated, his voice taking on a condescending edge. "What exactly do you think is going to happen, Chris? We're a peaceful town on a peaceful island. There hasn't been a raider attack in—"
"A raider attack isn't the only thing I'd worry about. What about the forest? What about the creatures that live in it? We've had sightings of things near the tree line, things that have no business being that close to town."
"Sightings." Waldkros waved a dismissive hand. "Superstitious nonsense. Old wives' tales. You've been in the forest too long, Chris. The shadows are playing tricks on you."
"I know what I've seen."
"And what have you seen, exactly?" Vyka's voice cut through the tension, honey-sweet and poison-tipped. "A flash of movement? A shape in the dark? The imagination of a man who spends too much time alone in his cottage with his animals for company?"
"Isolation isn't a crime, Vyka. Neither is being observant."
"No, but paranoia is certainly a condition worth examining." She smiled, showing teeth. "Perhaps you should spend more time with people. Less time in the forest. Fewer... episodes."
The word hung in the air, loaded with implication. Chris felt his jaw tighten.
"There's nothing wrong with my head," he said. "And there's nothing wrong with my eyes. I'm telling you, there's something in that forest that didn't used to be there. And pulling our defenses back right now, for any reason, is reckless."
"Reckless," Waldkros repeated, savoring the word like it was a particularly fine wine. "You call the council's decision reckless."
"I call it what it is."
"Then you misunderstand the situation, Chris." Waldkros leaned forward, his voice dropping to a silky murmur. "This isn't a debate. This isn't a proposal up for discussion. The council has voted. The decision has been made. You are being informed, not consulted."
"I don't remember voting."
Because you weren't here, the unspoken words hung in the air. Because you weren't invited. Because we didn't need you.
"Regrettable," Waldkros said, "but unavoidable. We couldn't wait for you to make up your mind when the rest of us were already in agreement. But I'm sure you'll see the wisdom of our decision, won't you? You'll sign the order, and we'll all move forward together."
Sign the order. Of course. That was why he was here. Not to participate in the decision, but to rubber-stamp it. To give it legitimacy by placing his name on the same document as the others.
"The soldiers," Chris said slowly, "the ones guarding the outposts. How many are we talking?"
"Twenty-three," Vyka supplied, her tone bored. "Twenty-three soldiers, spread across five outposts. All capable of taking two days of rest."
"Twenty-three soldiers protecting the entire perimeter of our town. And you want to pull them all back."
"The holiday is a special occasion."
"The holiday is when the town will be the most vulnerable. Everyone celebrating, everyone distracted, everyone thinking about food and drink and family instead of watching for threats. It's the perfect time for something to happen."
"Nothing will happen." Waldkros's voice was hard now, the silk wearing thin. "You're inventing dangers where none exist. You always do. You've become a man who sees shadows in every corner."
"I've become a man who sees clearly enough to know when something is wrong." Chris pushed back from the table, standing. "And this is wrong. I won't sign it."
The room went silent. Even the crackling of the fire seemed to stop.
Waldkros stared at him, his face darkening. "You won't sign."
"No."
"Chris—" Derran started, but Waldkros cut him off with a wave of his hand.
"Let me understand you correctly. You are refusing to support the unanimous decision of this council."
"I'm refusing to support a decision I believe will endanger the town we're all supposed to be protecting."
"Protecting." Waldkros laughed, but there was no humor in it. "You, protecting the town. That's rich. What do you do, Chris? You bake bread. You keep a garden. You take long walks in the forest like some kind of woodsy hermit. You don't protect anything except your own solitude."
The words were meant to wound, and they did, but Chris kept his face neutral. "I'm allowed to disagree without being insulted."
"Prepared to protest," Vyka interrupted, her voice dripping with mockery, "voting against the welfare of the citizens he claims to serve."
"I'm serving the citizens by not leaving them defenseless."
"Defenseless? Chris, we're not at war. No one is attacking Seko."
"Not yet. But you're making it easier for them."
Waldkros was on his feet now, his face red with barely suppressed anger. "You will sign the order, Chris. You will sign it because I am the Chief of this town, and this council has spoken. Or do you believe yourself above us? Above the law? Above reason itself?"
"I believe in being practical," Chris said. "And there's nothing practical about leaving your town unprotected so everyone can get drunk and sing songs around a fire."
The chamber erupted. Voices rose, overlapping, accusations and defenses tangling into a single cacophony of outrage. Derran was on his feet, shouting something barely audible. Vyka was laughing, a sharp, brittle sound that cut through the noise. Other council members were arguing amongst themselves, some defending Chris, most siding with the Chief.
And through it all, Waldkros stood at the head of the table, staring at Chris with a hatred so pure it was almost crystalline.
"Everyone out," the Chief said.
The room fell silent.
"You heard me. Out. All of you. Except Chris."
Derran hesitated, his eyes darting between Chris and Waldkros. "Chief, maybe I should stay and—"
"Out."
The council members filed out slowly, casting backward glances as they went. Derran squeezed Chris's shoulder as he passed, a gesture that was meant to be reassuring but only made Chris feel more trapped. And then it was just the two of them—the baker and the chief—standing on opposite sides of a table that had suddenly become a battlefield.
Vyka alone remained.
"Vyka," Waldkros said without looking at her. "Lock the door."
A slow smile spread across her face as she complied, the lock clicking into place with a sound like a closing coffin.
Waldkros let out a long, slow breath, steadying himself. "She'll remain. As a witness, to ensure that whatever happens here is properly recorded."
Chris said nothing. He stared at Waldkros, waiting for the next move.
"You've always been a problem, Chris." Waldkros began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. "From the moment you arrived on this island, you've questioned authority, challenged tradition, refused to accept your place. I've overlooked it because the people seem to like you. They trust you. They listen to you." His voice dripped with contempt. "But that trust is not without limits, and neither is my patience."
"Then let me make this simple." Chris's voice was flat, unimpressed. "I won't sign your order. I won't pretend to support a decision that puts this town at risk. And I won't be threatened into changing my mind."
Vyka stepped forward, her lips curling. "You think you're so courageous, don't you? Standing there with your fists clenched and your jaw set, playing the martyr for a town that would forget you in a year." She reached past him to the table. "The Chief isn't threatening you. He's offering you a chance to do right by the people you claim to serve. And you're throwing it away because of pride."
"Pride has nothing to do with it. This is about common sense."
"The only thing common here is your obstinance." Vyka was close now, close enough that he could smell the rosewater perfume she wore. Her voice dropped to a hard, mocking whisper. "You think you're so different from the rest of us? You think you're more principled, more righteous? You're just another man with a chip on his shoulder, desperate to prove he matters."
"Maybe." Chris met her gaze without flinching. "But at least I'm not willing to hand my home to its enemies because I wanted a day off."
The slap came out of nowhere. Vyka's hand cracked across his cheek with a sound like a dry branch snapping, and Chris's head snapped to the side. For a moment, the world swam in a blur of light and pain. Then it cleared, and he turned back to face her, his jaw already beginning to ache.
"Better," he said quietly. "At least now I know where I stand."
Waldkros laughed. "You have no idea where you stand, Chris. None at all." He moved to the table, pulling a document from a stack of papers—the order, Chris realized. The one he was supposed to sign. "But I'm about to show you."
He laid the paper on the table, smoothing it flat. Then he reached into his robe and pulled out a quill, setting it beside the document with deliberate care.
"Sign it," Waldkros said.
"I told you. I won't."
"Sign it, and I'll forget this entire conversation ever happened. I'll even make it look like you supported the decision all along. You can keep your seat on the council, keep your reputation, keep the trust of the people who look up to you."
"And if I don't?"
Waldkros's smile spread slowly, a predator's smile, all teeth and anticipation. "Then I'll make sure you lose all of it. The position. The respect. The trust. Everything you've built here. Every person who looks at you with admiration will look at you with pity instead. And when you've lost everything, when you're standing alone in the rubble of your own failure, you'll remember this moment and wish you'd taken my offer."
Chris met his eyes. "You don't have that kind of power."
"Don't I?" Waldkros's voice was dropping to something almost intimate, and he stepped closer, his expression shifting into something fond—and false. "You see, Chris, I know things about you and your family. And so does Vyka. And so do some others in this town." He paused. "I know, for instance, that your son left home this morning."
The room seemed to tilt. He felt a cold hand close around his heart, crushing, suffocating. "My son is none of your business."
"Ah, but that's where you're wrong, Chris. Your son became my business the moment he started wandering around that forest. The moment he started poking his nose into things he doesn't understand." Waldkros stepped closer, his small eyes gleaming with malice. "He is careless, that boy of yours. Investigative. Curious. And he's been asking questions in town. About markings. About the old places. About things that are better left buried."
And there it was.
Chris felt the air leave his lungs. This was no longer a dispute over a holiday. This was no longer about the soldiers or the outposts or the year's end. This was about Briv. This was about the son he had raised, the son he had watched walk into the forest that very morning with a strange look in his eyes and a future he couldn't grasp. Briv, who had gone into the forest without knowing who he was or what he was becoming. Briv, who was out there right now, walking through the labyrinth, with his scarred back and his mourning eyes and his uncertain future.
"If anything happens to him," Chris said slowly, his voice a low, dangerous growl, "I will burn this council chamber to the ground. And I will stand on the ashes and watch you burn with it."
Waldkros smiled. "No one will let you in for the ceremony. I've done it a thousand times. I know exactly what to do."
But Vyka was already moving. She knelt on the floor in front of Waldkros's chair, her hands reaching up to his waist, undoing the fastenings of his trousers with practiced ease. Waldkros let her, keeping his eyes on Chris the whole time, a cold amusement flickering in his gaze.
"She's a good woman," he said. "Loyal. Enthusiastic. Willing to do whatever it takes to serve her Chief."
Chris stared. He couldn't look away. Vyka's hands worked the fabric aside, pulling his cock free. It sprung up, half hard, thickening as she wrapped her fingers around its base. She leaned forward, her lips parting, and took him into her mouth. A wet, obscene sound filled the room, the slick slide of her tongue along his shaft.
Waldkros exhaled slowly, his head tipping back, his smile widening. "Ah. Now where was I? Oh, yes. Your son."
He reached down, tangling his fingers in Vyka's hair, guiding her as she bobbed her head. The sound of her mouth was loud in the quiet chamber—wet, rhythmic, punctuated by small, throaty hums that made the hair on Chris's arms stand up.
"You see, Chris, I've made a career of understanding men like you. Strong men. Stubborn men. Men who think that because they're right, they can't be beaten." Waldkros's hips moved in small, messy circles as Vyka's eyes fluttered closed, her cheeks hollowing. "But that's the trick, isn't it? The rightness doesn't matter. Only the position does. Only the power."
"Touch him again," Chris said, "and I'll kill you."
"Big words, baker. Bold syllables from a man whose son is wandering the woods with no one to protect him." He moaned at his own favorite and drew the word out, as though tasting it. "People like him—people like your boy—they tend to find trouble. They tend to get lost. And sometimes, they don't come back."
"Go on," he said, pulling Vyka deeper onto him. "You've always been good at this."
Vyka made a mock appraising sound around his length, and he let out a low, dirty chuckle. Below them, she sucked harder, sloppier, a wet tongue curling around the swollen head.
"You don't care about the town, Chris. You care about him. That's your weakness. That's always been your weakness." Waldkros's breathing quickened, his thrusts becoming more urgent. "And the moment you forget that I can reach him—the moment you forget that I can hurt him—that will be the moment you lose everything."
"Wait—" Chris started.
Waldkros ignored him, his hips pumping faster, his hand tight in Vyka's hair. She was moaning now, loud and shameless, a performance meant to humiliate. Her nails dug into his thighs, and her skirt had ridden up around her waist, exposing the curve of her ass as she worked.
"So," Waldkros panted. "The question is: what do you want me to do with all this power? I could share it with you, Chris. I could let you keep your seat, keep your respect, keep your son safe and sound. All you have to do is sign."
The quill sat on the table. The paper waited, blank and white. And Vyka's head rose and fell, milk and slick, her throat working.
Chris reached for the quill.
His hand was steady, even as the rest of him wanted to be violent. Even as he wanted to take the quill and drive it into Waldkros's throat. Even as every instinct screamed at him to fight, to refuse, to burn it all down and let the ashes settle where they may. He signed the order. His name looked foreign to him, letters arranged in a shape that didn't feel like his own. He set the quill down with a quiet click.
"Good," Waldkros breathed, pulling Vyka off his cock with a wet pop. "See ? That wasn't so hard, was it?"
He rose abruptly, hauling Vyka to her feet and bending her over the table in one motion. She gasped, then moaned, her hands gripping the edge. He was behind her in an instant, lifting her skirt, her wet cunt glistening in the firelight. He positioned himself at her entrance and plunged in without warning.
Vyka cried out loudly and Waldkros grunted, his fingers digging into her hips as he drove into her hard and fast. The slap of flesh echoed through the chamber, wet and obscene. She was moaning, obscene noises falling from her mouth, her back arching into him.
Chris watched the act with cold, clinical horror, the paper still in his hand.
"Now," Waldkros said between thrusts, his voice strained, "the other part of the order. Everyone gets the leave. Everyone gets the celebration. Everyone except you, Chris."
Vyka moaned louder, a fake, theatrical sound, and Waldkros grunted in response.
"You," Waldkros continued, slamming into her, "will stand guard. Alone. From now until the new year. You will walk the perimeter by yourself, watch the outposts by yourself, protect the town by yourself. And while everyone else is celebrating, you will be cold and alone and reminded of exactly what happens when you cross me."
The anger was a living thing, a beast that had clawed its way out of his chest and was now roaring through his veins. Chris slammed his hands against the table. The impact made the paper jump. It made the quill roll. It made Waldkros pause, halfway inside Vyka, and look up with a raised eyebrow.
"No," Chris said. "I will not tolerate this. I will not humiliate myself for your amusement. I will not—"
"You will," Waldkros said, and he resumed his rhythm, his voice all serpent silk, "because that's the price of your son's safety. You will do as I say, or I will make sure that the next time someone goes into the forest, they come back with terrible news about the Bolgrey boy. The boy who wandered too deep. The boy who asked too many questions. The boy who disappeared."
Obscenely, Vyka moaned like she was being honored.
Derran had slipped back into the room, unnoticed during the chaos, and was gripping Chris's arm with white-knuckled intensity. "Chris, don't. Don't. He's not worth it. Your son isn't worth this. You have to let it go for him, you need to calm down and walk away."
"Get your hand off me, Derran."
"Not until you hear me. Listen. I know you're angry. I'd be angry too. But you can't win this. Not here, not now. He has the power, and he knows it, and the only way you survive is to take the punishment and wait."
"Wait for what?"
"For your moment." Derran's voice was low, urgent, cracked. "And it will come, Chris. Men like Waldkros always overreach. And when he does, you'll be there. You'll be standing in the ashes of his failure, and the people will finally see him for what he is. But that can't happen if you end up in a cell—or worse."
Waldkros came with a loud, theatrical grunt. Vyka stopped moaning, sliding off him. She wiped her mouth, straightening her skirts, smoothing her hair back into place. She looked at Chris with a satisfied, almost triumphant smile.
Chris pulled his arm free from Derran's grip. The rage hadn't diminished, but it had crystallized now, hardened into something cold and sharp and patient.
"Thank you for your time, Chief," Chris said, voice as brittle as winter ice. "For your wisdom. For your—" his eyes flickered to where Waldkros and Vyka still stood in their disheveled state, "—leadership. I hope the celebration is everything you deserve."
He turned and walked toward the door.
"Chris." Waldkros's voice was a warning, a command.
Chris paused. He didn't turn around.
"Someone," Waldkros said, "has to be willing to stand against cowardice and corruption. Even when it costs them everything. Even when it means standing alone."
He walked out of the chamber, through the antechamber, into the cold evening air. The door slammed behind him, a sound like a gauntlet thrown. And standing alone in the last light of the dying sun, Chris allowed himself a single moment of pure, unfiltered rage, before he turned his face toward the forest and began to walk.