Chapter 22: The Century Vote
The moment they were out of earshot from the noble brats, Regulus cornered Nyx near a topiary shaped like some obscure deity. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, casting jagged shadows across her smirk.
"Well?" he demanded, keeping his voice low. "Did you actually learn anything useful, or just memorize the entire Rosewind dessert menu?"
Nyx plucked a stolen strawberry from her sleeve and popped it into her mouth. "Oh, I'll have you know," she said around the fruit, "I uncovered the big secret behind all this vote nonsense."
Regulus crossed his arms. "Explain. Now."
"The ninth vote," Nyx said, licking juice from her fingers, "is happening next month."
"That's not—"
"Ah!" She wagged a finger. "Babelonia holds assemblies every decade, but the special votes? Only once a century. Been going on since the founding." She leaned in conspiratorially. "Those twins over there were arguing about how their great-grandfather voted last time. Something about 'upholding the family honor' and 'not repeating Grandmother's mistake.'"
Regulus's eyes flicked to where the noble siblings were now engaged in what appeared to be a very intense game of chess using stolen silverware as pieces. "And the eighth vote? The one everyone's being so damn cryptic about?"
Nyx shrugged. "No idea. That information's locked tighter than—"
"Don't." Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just tell me what these votes decide."
Nyx's grin faded. The shadows around her deepened as she glanced toward the manor's lit windows, where Cordelia had disappeared with the Athena Familia agents.
"Centennial tradition," Nyx said, taking a sip. "Babelonia's been doing it since the beginning of the Age of Gods. Every hundred years, they respond to the—"
A crash of porcelain interrupted her. They turned to see the twins had "accidentally" toppled a dessert tower, their chess game forgotten as they edged closer.
Nyx's smile turned razor-edged. "Shoo, brats."
When the nobles reluctantly retreated, she lowered her voice. "The Oracular Engine. Ancient artifact buried beneath the capital. Spits out prophecies like a drunk bard spits bad poetry."
Regulus blinked. "Prophecies."
"Mm. Vague, ominous nonsense about disasters, wars, divine retribution." Nyx waved a hand. "The votes determine how Babelonia acts upon it. Last time—"
A chill wind cut through the gardens. The torches flickered.
"—they voted to seal the southern mines for ninety-nine years. Before that, to ban all magic education for a century." Her eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Guess what happened both times?"
Regulus's breath caught. "They avoided the predicted disasters."
"Or caused them." Nyx shrugged. "Who knows? The nobles certainly don't—they just panic and vote for whatever sounds safest."
A shiver ran down Regulus's spine. "And the eighth vote...?"
Nyx opened her mouth—
"I don't know," she admitted with a careless shrug.
Regulus's hand twitched. Before Nyx could react, he chopped her lightly on the head with his open palm.
"Ow! What was—"
"After all that bravado," Regulus hissed, "you didn't even learn the one thing we were told to find out about!"
Nyx rubbed her head, scowling. "Excuse you! I learned plenty!" She jabbed a finger at his chest. "And didn't that silver-haired bastard specifically say to ask Cordelia about the eighth vote anyway?"
Regulus froze. The memory surfaced like a bubble from deep water—the god's words in the café: When you meet the Mad's daughter again... ask her about the eighth vote.
A beat passed.
"...Damn it," Regulus muttered.
Nyx smirked. "Exactly. So stop complaining and—"
A scream tore through the night. Not from the gardens.
From Cordelia's study.
The twins' abandoned chess pieces began vibrating on the pavement.
Nyx's smirk vanished. "That's our cue."
Regulus was already moving.
He sprinted toward the source of the scream, Nyx's shadows flowing alongside him like living smoke. As they rounded the corner into the main hall, the scene before them froze him mid-step.
To his left, Senior Maid Elaina directed her forces with razor precision:
Senior maids in front in perfect formation, their delicate-looking gloves deflecting steel with metallic clangs.
Junior maids wielding serving trays as shields, their movements synchronized.
Trainee maids shepherding panicked nobles and merchants through the exits outside the battle.
To his right, combatants from three different Babelonian Familias had formed a wedge:
Emerald Vanguard: Heavy infantry in formal armor, their ceremonial greaves leaving cracks in the marble
Silvershade Agents: Lithe figures with needle-thin daggers darting between the pillars
Gilded Rose: Spellcasters weaving enchantments through their jewelry
The air smelled of ozone and spilled wine.
A Silvershade agent had a junior maid backed against a shattered vitrine, her uniform sleeve torn and bleeding. Without thinking, Regulus moved—
Step-slide-pivot—just like the posture drills.
His intercepted punch sent the agent stumbling into a dessert cart. The maid didn't waste the opening—her serving tray cracked against the agent's temple with surgical precision.
"Trainee Nihil," Elaina's voice carried over the din, "status report."
Regulus opened his mouth—
The study doors exploded outward.
Cordelia emerged, her rose-pin cloak flaring, one hand clutching a scroll dripping wax the color of dried blood. The other hand held a letter opener pressed to the throat of a dazed Tyr Familia agent.
Behind her, the silver-haired god from the café leaned against the ruined doorframe, swirling wine in a crystal glass.
"Ah," he said, meeting Regulus' eyes. "Right on time."
The moment stretched like pulled taffy—Cordelia's blade at the agent's throat, the battling factions frozen mid-strike, the scent of spilled wine and ozone thick in the air.
Regulus' mouth moved before his brain caught up. "Who the hell are you?"
The silver-haired god chuckled, swirling his wine. The torches flickered, casting his shadow enormous against the ruined study walls—a silhouette crowned with unseen horns, a cloak of stars billowing where no fabric existed.
"Odin," he said, as casually as someone announcing the time. "Patron of Babelonia's First Familia. Keeper of the Oracular Engine." His single visible eye gleamed. "And you, little King, are stalling."
A shiver crawled down Regulus' spine. The name clicked into place—Odin, the Allfather, the god who'd traded an eye for wisdom. The pieces rearranged themselves: The century votes, the prophecies, the way everyone moved like characters in a story
Nyx's shadow twitched beside him, coiled tighter than a spring.
Odin sipped his wine. "Do what I told you to do." He nodded toward Cordelia. "Ask her about the eighth vote." His eye crinkled. "Then you'll understand why I brought you here."
Three Things Happened Simultaneously
1. Cordelia's grip tightened on the scroll, her rose pin cracking like an eggshell to reveal an Athena Familia insignia beneath
2. Elaina's maids shifted formation, their serving trays locking together into a shield wall
3. Nyx breathed a single, venomous word: "Liar."
The god's smile widened.