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The tension in the room spikes hard. I can feel it pressing against my chest like a physical weight. They’re not going to like what comes next. I take a slow step forward, boots echoing on the stone, and finally let my hands drop to my sides. The torchlight catches on the heavy BRN ring still on my finger.

“Things are changing, even if just temporarily,” I say, voice dropping lower, darker. “The King is down. Someone has to lead the Barons while he recovers.” I let the pause hang, watching their faces tighten with anticipation and unease. “It’s going to be me.”

The silence that follows is deafening.

I can already see the questions, the doubt, the anger starting to brew behind their eyes. Some of them look ready to argue. Others look like they’re calculating whether they can challenge me right here and now.

Hunter shifts slightly beside me, a silent warning to anyone stupid enough to open their mouth too soon. I haven’t even told them about the loyalty test yet. And when I do, this room is going to get a hell of a lot louder.

“This is official. I have been declared King of the Barons until Maddox is able to resume his duties. The other Houses have already been informed. The tribunal knows. There is no debate. There is no vote.” I step closer to the edge of the raised platform, boots ringing against the stone. “But before any of you walk out of this chamber tonight, you will prove where your loyalty lies. We can’t risk any other traitors still hiding among us.”

Hunter moves without a word, lifting a small, ancient iron cauldron from beside the throne. Inside it sits a dark, bitter-smelling tincture–mandrake root steeped in wine and certain other sacred herbs under the last full moon. He’d found the recipe in the forbidden texts, locked away in the library: Lingua Veritatis.

The tongue of truth.

A dose loosens the tongue and forces hidden things to the surface. A man who speaks true loyalty will feel the warmth spread through his veins like fire from the gods. A traitor’s words will twist in his throat, choke him, or spill secrets he never meant to release. The ritual is sacred, binding, but most of all: unforgiving.

“Each of you will come forward,” I say, voice low and steady. “You will drink from the cauldron. A full measure. And while the potion works through you, you will speak your fealty aloud. Not to the old King. To me. Damon Kemp. Your new King. You will swear your support, your dedication, your life to the Barons under the House of Night.”

I let that sink in. The sacred weight of it settles over the room like smoke from the torches.

“This is not a suggestion. This is a binding ritual. The Lingua Veritatis does not lie. It was grown in the old soil, harvested at the witching hour, and prepared accordingly. A loyal brother will feel the truth burn clean through him. A traitor,” I pause, letting the threat hang, “will find his tongue loosened in ways he’ll regret. The spirits we serve–the ones who walk the line between darkness and light–will know. And so will we.”

Hunter sets the cauldron on the small altar and ladles the first measure into a carved wooden cup. The liquid looks almost black in the flickering torchlight, thick and pungent.

One by one, they will have to step up. I meet the eyes of every man in the room, letting the promise sink in.

“Line up,” I command, voice ringing off the stone walls. “Starting now. Drink. Speak your oath. Prove you belong to the Barons or get the fuck out while you still can–before the choice is made for you.”

The first man steps forward. The torch flames flicker harder, as if the chamber itself is holding its breath.

Hunter hands him the cup.

And the real test begins.

I watch the line move forward, one man at a time, the torchlight flickering across their faces like judgment itself.

Carson steps up first. He doesn’t hesitate–taking the carved wooden cup from Hunter–drinks the full measure of the Lingua Veritatis in one steady pull, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. The mandrake hits him quickly–I see the flush rise in his cheeks–but his voice stays clear and strong when he swears his fealty. “I stand with King Damon and the House of Night. My blood, my blade, my loyalty–until the dark claims me.” No tremor. No secrets slipping out. Just clean fire in his eyes. Loyal.

A line of men follows–no masks here. No cloaks. Just the truth on their tongues and whatever deceiving secrets lie in their hearts. Denny, a junior who I learned roomed with Will Reynaud freshman year, Patrick Meyers, a sophomore, Jude Stockton, tall and broad-shouldered, a member of the rowing team… none of them hesitate, swallowing down the potion before repeating the oath.

Slade strides up next, taking the cup from Hunter. He drinks deep, grimaces at the bitterness, then speaks the oath like he’s carving it into stone. “You’ve got me, Brother, in this life and the next.” The mandrake only makes him stand taller, giving the impression he’s a giant.

Thank the fuck he’s with us, because I’d have to bring in the cavalry to take him down.

Jace follows his brother. He meets my eyes for half a second before he drinks, a silent fuck-you-and-good-luck all at once. The tincture loosens nothing ugly in him. He recites the words with that same half-cocked smirk he’s worn since I met him. “To the new King and the House we all love.” Loyal to the bone.

More come up and take their turn. Most grimacing at the taste, but swallowing it back diligently. Trevor Watson pinches his nose, and for a moment, I think he’s going to vomit the whole thing back up, but he blinks, tears in his eyes, and gets it down.

Dedicated. That’s what these men are, and we need them to finish out this fight.

Joshua Kimball comes after him. He downs the cup without flinching, then speaks low and deliberate, the mandrake making his voice rough but true. “I swear myself to King Damon and the Barons. No other master.” He steps back into line like the ritual was nothing more than shaking hands.

So far, nothing suspicious. The chamber feels almost too still, the only sounds the crackle of torches and the occasional cough as the potion works through their systems. I start to think maybe we’re cleaner than I feared.

Kendrick steps forward. He’s the King’s trusted driver. The man who’s been at Timothy’s side–driving him, protecting him, knowing every route and schedule. Witness to every business and personal deal held in that car. He stops at the altar and stares at the cup Hunter holds out like it’s poison.

He doesn’t take it.