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I look away from Briar’s incredulous stare, my jaw clenching. Of course she doesn’t get how serious this is. She has no idea what could happen if the higher-ups found out about my screw-ups.

Briar snorts, lifting her chin defiantly. “Am I supposed to be scared of some ancient cult pulling strings from the shadows?” she scoffs. “Hate to break it to you, , but secret societies trying to control the world are a dime a dozen these days. Just because there’s a lot of crazy people with weird beliefs doesn’t make them scary.”

I shake my head, resisting the urge to facepalm. Of course Briar would brush this off like it’s nothing. Even with the truth right in front of her, she’s still acting like nothing can touch her. As if ignoring the danger will make it go away.

“You’re being an idiot if you’re not at least a little afraid,” I say, my voice a mix of annoyance and pity. “Especially considering some of the… fucked up things I’ve had to do for them. Things that’ll haunt me forever, no matter how they try to justify it.”

Briar’s eyes narrow at that, her suspicion obvious. “What exactly are you saying?” she sneers, trying to sound tough even though I can see doubt creeping in. “Should I be worried about finding dead bodies in your trunk next time you pop it open?”

Christ, I’m so tired of all these secrets and lies. At first, the cat-and-mouse game was kind of exciting, a break from the boring day-to-day stuff in the Order. But now? Now it’s just exhausting, and my patience is wearing seriously thin.

“I thought you’d crack by now, you know,” I admit, looking at Briar with grudging respect. “Not right away—I knew you’d be tough from the start. But three fucking weeks of having to feed you vague bullshite and little bits of truth? That’s pushing even my limits, drahu?ka.”

I groan in frustration, my hands clenching on my thighs as I slouch in the chair. “Why do you have to be so damn stubborn all the time?” I’m not really asking her, more just venting to the universe. “Is it really that hard to just go along with things sometimes instead of fighting every step of the way like a bratty kid?”

Briar just shrugs, clearly not bothered by how annoyed I am. “I don’t make things difficult on purpose,” she says with a smirk. “It just comes naturally. Like I’m compelled to break every rule and expectation people put on me.”

For a few seconds, I just look at her, taking in her defiant stance and fake casual attitude. This whole situation is so fucked up already, spiralling out of control so fast that hiding things from her isn’t even worth it anymore. In fact, it’s just making everything ten times worse with every minute I waste trying to dodge the truth.

In times like this, when I realise my first plan has totally backfired, there’s only one smart thing to do—change tactics before everything goes to shite even more.

I sigh heavily, looking Briar right in the eye. “If you’re so damn determined to charge ahead no matter how risky it is…” I spread my hands, inviting her to continue. “What do you want to know, then?”

She hesitates for a second, then seems to make up her mind. “Right, well…” Briar bites her lip, glancing away before looking back at me. “Let’s start with the obvious, shall we? Does this secret society you guys belong to even have a real name, or is it just some vague idea from too many dudes jerking off to illuminati conspiracy theories?”

Despite how serious this all is, I can’t help but snort at that. Leave it to Briar to cut straight through the bullshite and demand answers in her usual blunt way. I have to admire her guts, even when she’s facing something she can’t fully understand. The Order’s going to have a hell of a time trying to break someone this stubborn.

“Believe it or not, we do have an official name,” I say with a smirk as her eyebrows shoot up. “We’re a brotherhood called the Ordo Lyrae.”

She snorts, rolling her eyes. “Order of the fucking Lyre?” Briar repeats, glaring at me. “You can’t be serious with that pretentious bullshite. Next you’ll tell me your recruitment slogan is on some illuminati pyramid, probably with lyrics about how the children are our future—”

I wave a hand to cut her off before she really gets going. “Don’t look at me, I didn’t pick the fucking name,” I retort, lowering my voice a bit. “The founders who came up with this fucked-up game were a bunch of entitled pseudo-mystic arseholes who convinced themselves they were chosen by some higher power.”

I roll my eyes for emphasis, making a face. “Of course, their big ‘revelations’ were just elitist delusions of grandeur, wrapped up in a bunch of dramatic pomp and ceremony to hide the fact that it’s basically just an overblown masturbatory cult. So feel free to mock their pathetic attempts at seeming smart and important.”

Briar snorts again, shifting her weight and folding her arms. Her jaw is set stubbornly as she looks me over, obviously sceptical. For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then I stand up and walk the few steps to her. Briar tenses a bit as I reach past her to grab another folding chair and set it up. It’s a clear invitation for her to sit, which she eyes warily for a few seconds before giving in.

I don’t push it, just sit back down and wait quietly as she lowers herself into the chair next to me. We’re shoulder to shoulder now, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her tense body. The only sound is her slow, measured breathing for what feels like forever before she finally speaks up.

“What did you mean before?” Briar asks, looking at me sideways. “About me being… your wife, or whatever? Before that trial bullshite started?”

My jaw clenches, my fingers flexing on my thighs as I look down. I can’t meet her eyes, not with the shame churning in my gut like broken glass. How do you even start to explain the fucked-up shite I’ve allowed, all the horrible things done in the name of sacred tradition and twisted ethics?

The words feel like poison in my mouth as I force them out hoarsely. “It wasn’t… your scholarship here was never real, Briar. You were never meant to actually attend any classes here.”

She scoffs incredulously, hugging herself tighter. “Yeah, I kind of figured that out after waking up with four ancient cult brands permanently scarred into my skin and then promptly shoved into etiquette classes,” she retorts sarcastically.

I just hum in response, chewing my lip in a rare show of self-blame. A silent acknowledgement of the cruel shite she’s been forced to go through as an unwitting player in this sick game. Of the suffering I’ve directly enabled through selfish indifference and cowardice.

“You were… vetted,” I continue hesitantly after a pause, tensing as the words keep spilling out like pus from a lanced wound. “Scouted and screened as a potential candidate to bring new blood into our… society. One that had gotten stagnant through generations of inbreeding and tradition.”

Briar’s brows furrow a bit at that, but she doesn’t interrupt yet. She just waits silently for me to keep going, her sceptical glare boring into the side of my head.

“Your academic skills and physical toughness made you stand out from all the other… breeding stock being considered,” I press on, ignoring how my stomach turns with each damning confession. “So Headmistress Hansley came up with this sick, twisted game of cat-and-mouse. You being here was just an elaborate setup, a means to an end where you’d eventually be… given to the four of us as some kind of fucked-up plaything, but ultimately to be my wife.”

A visible shudder runs through Briar’s body, her posture stiffening until the tendons in her neck stand out. To her credit, she doesn’t immediately unleash the torrent of disbelief and outrage I half expect after my stark admission. Instead, she visibly pulls herself together, her lips flattening into a grim line before she speaks again in a carefully controlled tone.

“That doesn’t add up with what I know,” she says evenly, frowning as she finally meets my averted gaze. “Hayes is clearly gay, for one—he’s never once hit on me or said anything suggestive. And Jace, for all his dirty jokes and crass bullshite, hasn’t actually tried to put a finger on me. Then there’s Rhys, who seems to outright hate my guts and wouldn’t piss on me if I was on fire. So where exactly do they fit into this arrangement you’re claiming is happening here?”

My jaw twitches in amusement at Briar’s blunt assessment. “You’re only partly right,” I say, leaning back casually. “Hayes might prefer men, but he’s not against trying women when the mood strikes, but this isn’t his style of depravity. Jace won’t do anything I don’t tell him to. And as for Rhys… let’s just say his outward hate masks a deeper hunger. He doesn’t hate you—the bastard wants you for himself, and the fact you’ve been ‘given’ to us is driving him crazy. Rhys doesn’t like to be given things, he enjoys earning them. He also doesn’t like sharing with me.”

Briar frowns as she processes this. “So if Hayes and Rhys are avoiding whatever this twisted shite is,” she says slowly, “and Jace is just being his usual crude self… that means you’re the only one actually going along with Hansley’s sick fantasies.”

I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. “The others might have their own… interests when it comes to you,” I admit, a smidge of possession clear in my voice. “But yeah, I’m the only one who’s acted on Hansley’s insane demands so far. Though trust me, it’s not because I want to.”

Briar looks at me sceptically. “I still don’t get what any of this has to do with me being your… wife, or whatever,” she says, frowning deeper. “If the other guys aren’t playing along with Hansley’s twisted games, and you’re only doing the bare minimum to stay out of trouble, where does that leave us?”

Christ, just explaining the basics of our situation is like wading through a swamp of lies and bullshite. Each truth I reveal only leads to more confusion and anger. How can I possibly untangle this mess without sending Briar running, or worse—caught up in the Order’s clutches where I can’t protect her?

I rub my face with a groan before speaking. “After I Ascend, I’m on track to become a Redcoat, and from there a Sentinel. By the end of this semester, I need to prove to the Purefires that you’re not only a good candidate for the Order, but…” I look down at my hands, my ears burning with embarrassment. “But that you’d also make a suitable Redcoat’s wife, embodying all the outdated ideals and misogynistic values our archaic brotherhood still clings to.”

The words taste bitter in my mouth. When Briar stays silent, I force myself to meet her gaze again.

“Keeping quiet around men, for starters,” I continue, my voice low and full of self-loathing. “Being totally obedient and submissive in everything. Existing as nothing more than a brainless ornament whose only purpose is to warm the beds and bear the children of whatever arrogant prick claims you as his property—”

“Like hell I’m ever going to play the simpering, obedient little doormat for you arseholes,” Briar scoffs, shifting in her seat as her eyes bore into me. “Do you really think I’d debase myself by spouting that antiquated, misogynistic bullshite after everything you’ve already put me through?”

I roll my eyes. “Of course not,” I concede with a sigh. “I know you’ll never fit into that outdated, oppressive mould they’re so desperate to force every potential candidate into. Honestly, I don’t want you to become some mindless, vapid cunt existing only to warm a guy’s bed while popping out his kids. Hating each other and living on opposite sides of the house.”

Briar raises an eyebrow, clearly waiting for more explanation before firing off her next round of blunt questions. Christ, just having to repeat the misogynistic ideology behind this whole depraved system leaves a disgusting taste in my mouth.

“Right, well, if embodying those repugnant values isn’t a requirement in your eyes, then what fresh hell do the Council have planned next?” she prompts after a pause, lifting her chin defiantly. “Or is the rest of these ‘Trials’ just going to be one continuous parade of hoops for me to pointlessly jump through while these arseholes get off watching me debase myself?”

I purse my lips, considering how to explain the archaic rites and rituals still to come without confirming her worst fears. “The next Trial could be anything, really,” I hedge with a casual shrug, purposely leaving out specifics that might set her off. “There’s a whole bunch of ceremonies and rites laid out in centuries-old sacred books that the Council can choose from. Each new female bloodline brought into the Order has to endure seven trials to prove themselves worthy.”

Briar pauses at that, looking almost impressed despite herself before quickly putting her defiant mask back on. “Seven fucking trials?” she echoes. “And what exactly does the boys’ Purefire Council have in store for the men trying to join their misogynistic little club? Surely their own entry requirements for guys are way more strict than that pitiful handful if they’re meant to be the ‘superior’ sex, right?”

I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head in a mix of grudging admiration and resigned disdain. “Nine trials for male Neophytes, excluding legacy Bloodlines, if that makes your feminist heart swell with any smug satisfaction,” I confirm with a wry smirk. “Though I’d hold off on gloating too soon if I were you. You’ve no idea what kind of fucked up scenarios and elaborate tortures await you during the ‘pitiful’ seven ordeals the council thinks are enough to ensure a woman’s strength of mind and fortitude. And you’ve only been through two. Well, three. Though I suspect Hansley will deem this one a failure.”

Briar’s humour instantly vanishes at my ominous warning, her jaw clenching as her eyes flicker with the first hints of worry. She quickly rallies, squaring her shoulders and fixing me with a challenging look.

“So when’s the next fucking exhibition of your buddies’ fuckery set to start, then?” she demands bluntly. “Or is this entire wank fantasy just going to drag on forever with zero transparency while you yank me around like the world’s most sadistic puppet show?”

My jaw clenches as I wrestle with how much to reveal about her rapidly approaching date with the Order’s unique brand of crazy. On one hand, blindsiding her with no warning could be disastrous, making her lash out in a way that paints an even bigger target on her back. But giving away too many nasty details too soon is also risky, possibly sending her running for the non-existent safety of the outside world beyond these walls.

In the end, I decide the safest bet is to offer the bare minimum to quiet any further demands for transparency—at least until I can figure out how to best prepare her for the shitestorm that’s coming.

“I’ve got a meeting with Hansley in two days to nail down the date and details of your next ordeal,” I admit, watching Briar’s reaction carefully as her face goes blank. “But based on the usual timeline between Trials, I’d guess it’s set for sometime this weekend. Beyond that…” I shrug half-heartedly, pretending not to care despite the weight in my gut. “Your guess is as good as mine until Hansley lays out the specifics, drahu?ka.”

Briar’s piercing blue eyes narrow as she registers the lack of damning details, clearly wrestling with which part of my reticence to prod next. For several beats, the tense silence between us stretches out like forever while she decides her next calculated move.

Finally, she lets out a sharp breath through her nose, terse and clipped. “I don’t know how you can possibly justify participating in this depraved bullshite anymore, ,” she bites out, her tone full of naked accusation as her icy glare cuts into me. “Putting aside the morally bankrupt principles guiding the fucking agenda here, the sheer depravity you guys are already knee-deep in is appalling enough on its own without piling more barbaric rituals onto the existing mountain. Are you really so far gone?”

A harsh chuckle rumbles from my chest at Briar’s scathing indictment, the sound devoid of any real humour. Have I really presented such a monstrous facade over these past few weeks that she now sees me as little more than a depraved sadist actively enabling the Order’s most repugnant proclivities? The prickly vixen seems to have an unerring knack for cutting straight through the bullshite to lay bare the unvarnished truth lurking beneath, after all.

“You seem to be under the mistaken impression that I’m somehow blind to the ever-spiralling depravity unfolding all around us, drahu?ka,” I reply at length, meeting her accusatory glare with a heavy-lidded stare of my own. “As if I’ve become so thoroughly inured to the Brotherhood’s sordid machinations that I can no longer discern just how twisted this entire pissing contest has become.”

Shaking my head slowly, I rake my palm down my face in a gesture of weary resignation. “Believe me when I say I’m anything but oblivious to the Order’s rapidly deteriorating moral bankruptcy,” I continue in that same low rasp, my fingers splaying over my jaw as if to physically pry the damning words free from some deeply entrenched wellspring of shame. “Every vile act they compel me to commit, each new line forcibly crossed in service of their repugnant agenda—it all adds another layer of tarnish to my already blackened soul, drahu?ka. An indelible stain that can never truly be scoured clean, no matter how fervently I may try atoning for it in the future.”

For several tense beats, Briar remains utterly silent in the wake of my stark admission, her lips compressed into a harsh line as she mulls over my blunt candour. When she does finally find her voice once more, a hint of challenge still laces her low alto in a defiant reminder that she won’t simply be cowed by empty platitudes or half-hearted mea culpas.

“You haven’t exactly been a paragon of gentlemanly virtue, though, have you?” she points out with a delicate snort, her chin angling upwards as her eyes pin me with a look of exasperated censure. “Or are all those wandering hands and filthy innuendos just your own unique brand of harmless flirtation I’ve somehow managed to grievously misinterpret over these past few weeks?”

The words hit their intended mark with unerring precision, rekindling a simmering flicker of shame deep in my gut even as I nod in silent acknowledgement of the scathing rebuke. Briar’s absolutely right—regardless of whatever justifications I may spout about having no choice but to go along with Hansley’s depraved status quo, I’ve still become little more than a silent enabler actively perpetuating the cycle of depravity. My own selfish cowardice in refusing to extract myself from the spiralling ordeal has only served to embolden the Order’s most repugnant elements in doubling down on their deranged indulgences.

The tight line of Briar’s jaw flexes as some unspoken emotion flickers across her expressive features, features I’ve come to know almost as intimately as my own over these past several weeks despite her volatile moods. For a fraction of a second, her penetrating stare seems to drift beyond my left shoulder, her gaze sharpening into an icy blade before snapping back to pin me once more.

I don’t need to turn around to identify the exact source of her sudden distraction, the distinctive staccato cadence of Headmistress Hansley’s footfalls like a death knell reverberating behind me. Every tendon in my body instantly tenses as if preparing for an imminent blow, muscles rippling and cording beneath my skin until I force myself to uncoil with visible effort.

Rising to my feet in a single fluid motion, I straighten my tie and jacket lapels before pivoting to face the approaching Matriarch head-on. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Briar remains stubbornly seated, refusing to immediately offer even the barest display of contrived deference towards our esteemed ‘guest’ despite my infinitesimal nudge to her shin. Defiant to the last, the fierce little hellion—I can’t quite smother the reluctant flare of admiration gnawing at my insides in that moment.

“Headmistress,” I murmur, dipping my chin a scant inch in a shallow courtly bow as Hansley finally reaches us. That papery hand extends towards the back of my abandoned chair, fingers trailing aimlessly along the sleek metal as if she can somehow imbue the inanimate object with her own unique brand of sinister occult energy through mere touch alone.

“Mr. Whitlocke… Ms. West,” she wheezes in turn, sharp eyes flickering between the two of us with an assessing look that borders on a tad too keen for my sense of comfort. Then, mercifully, Briar seems to think better of provoking the feral crone’s infamous wrath before it even has a chance to fully manifest.

“Hansley,” she bites out from between gritted teeth, practically spitting out the single syllable like a mouthful of poison even as I silently mouth a fervent prayer of gratitude towards the heavens. It’s far from the fawning, ingratiating display of obsequiousness Hansley so clearly craves, but at least the rebellious vixen hasn’t completely thrown all caution directly into the raging inferno of her pride and impudence. Small mercies, drahu?ka… small bloody mercies.