10 hours ago
As Helena spoke, Nikolai fell into silence. Not the brooding kind, nor the silence of a man plotting violent reprisal, but the precise, attentive stillness of a hunter waiting to see what else might stir in the bushes. His fingers remained steepled beneath his chin, unmoving. His eyes, however, tracked her.
There was something there. Something that did not fit. She was not Atharim. He believed her. Or rather, he believed that she believed that. Her answers had the structure of a woman who had already measured the world in his term. They were calculating, unsentimental, and quietly ruthless. Her words had weight, but it was also the manner of her delivery that caught him and not just the content.
He watched her posture and breathing. The subtle shift in attention when she gestured to Nox, then turned her gaze to the Dominion at his left flank. That had not gone unnoticed.
She’s probing the structure, he thought, curiously. Most people either flattered him or feared him, but Helena seemed quietly indifferent. It made her intriguing.
Her point about the Atharim was correct: they were fractured and desperate, devouring their own from within. And still clinging to the past like a drunkard to an empty bottle. His gaze slid to Eliot next. And there… the irritation returned.
Cowboys.
Nikolai didn’t smile, though the thought of Eliot casually throwing the word around made the corner of his mouth twitch inwardly. I was an Atharim, you overconfident child, he thought bitterly, and Nikolai was far cry from the rodeo-and-spitfires archetype Eliot seemed to imagine. His memories of that period of life were twisted and bitter, but he was still insulted to be counted among their number so irreverently. He never thought the day would come when he preferred the company of Nox to another Atharim. By comparison, Nox was a prince among pig-farmers.
Of course they would want to start in Moscow. That was always the pattern. These people, these visionaries, always started with dreams but they could never scale them. They had no concept of what it meant to bring the world to heel. And the irony? They had come to him the very man they feared as a tyrant because he understood scale better than anyone.
Still, he allowed them this illusion of progress. Let them plant the seeds. And when their garden burned to the ground? He would inherit the soil and grow his own.
I will not have to lift a finger against the Atharim. They would collapse under the weight of their own contradictions. And when they did… someone loyal would be needed to rebuild what remains.
He leaned back in his chair now, posture deceptively casual, though the Dominions behind him shifted subtly at the change.
“And who exactly,” he said at last, his voice soft and cool as glass, “will sit on this tribunal of ours?”
It was a simple question, but buried within it was a thousand others: Who do you trust with power? Who do you intend to judge the world’s gods? And most importantly: how easily could they be bent to his will when the experiment unravelled?
There was something there. Something that did not fit. She was not Atharim. He believed her. Or rather, he believed that she believed that. Her answers had the structure of a woman who had already measured the world in his term. They were calculating, unsentimental, and quietly ruthless. Her words had weight, but it was also the manner of her delivery that caught him and not just the content.
He watched her posture and breathing. The subtle shift in attention when she gestured to Nox, then turned her gaze to the Dominion at his left flank. That had not gone unnoticed.
She’s probing the structure, he thought, curiously. Most people either flattered him or feared him, but Helena seemed quietly indifferent. It made her intriguing.
Her point about the Atharim was correct: they were fractured and desperate, devouring their own from within. And still clinging to the past like a drunkard to an empty bottle. His gaze slid to Eliot next. And there… the irritation returned.
Cowboys.
Nikolai didn’t smile, though the thought of Eliot casually throwing the word around made the corner of his mouth twitch inwardly. I was an Atharim, you overconfident child, he thought bitterly, and Nikolai was far cry from the rodeo-and-spitfires archetype Eliot seemed to imagine. His memories of that period of life were twisted and bitter, but he was still insulted to be counted among their number so irreverently. He never thought the day would come when he preferred the company of Nox to another Atharim. By comparison, Nox was a prince among pig-farmers.
Of course they would want to start in Moscow. That was always the pattern. These people, these visionaries, always started with dreams but they could never scale them. They had no concept of what it meant to bring the world to heel. And the irony? They had come to him the very man they feared as a tyrant because he understood scale better than anyone.
Still, he allowed them this illusion of progress. Let them plant the seeds. And when their garden burned to the ground? He would inherit the soil and grow his own.
I will not have to lift a finger against the Atharim. They would collapse under the weight of their own contradictions. And when they did… someone loyal would be needed to rebuild what remains.
He leaned back in his chair now, posture deceptively casual, though the Dominions behind him shifted subtly at the change.
“And who exactly,” he said at last, his voice soft and cool as glass, “will sit on this tribunal of ours?”
It was a simple question, but buried within it was a thousand others: Who do you trust with power? Who do you intend to judge the world’s gods? And most importantly: how easily could they be bent to his will when the experiment unravelled?