Gorgoneia listened in silence, taking in each voice without interruption. The varied tones—measured, wild, whispering, defiant—all formed a chorus of the Serpent Court. Her court.
When the last word faded into the stillness, she rose slowly from her seat, the subtle rustle of her long, dark gown echoing like the hiss of a blade drawn in ceremony.
"I hear you," she said. "And I value each of your truths."
She stepped around the edge of the table, her eyes meeting each Matriarch in turn. "We are not a coven of impulse. We are a court. A force. Our strength is not only in what we do—but in what we choose not to do."
She paused at the head of the chamber, letting the weight of her next words settle.
"So we proceed. As nine."
A quiet murmur passed through the chamber—neither dissent nor approval, but the tension of consensus in motion.
"But," Gorgoneia added, "we do not close the door."
