Brute 176

Chapter 176 

MATRON YARA’S POV 

The Matron expected something from Atasha when she spoke. Even the smallest reaction, perhaps a flicker of guilt, a twitch in the jaw, a spark of fear, anything that might show the consort understood her own deceit. 

But nothing came. 

Atasha didn’t glare nor stiffen. The woman didn’t even flinch. She just stood there, pale and fragile, leaning slightly into Grace’s support while the crowd whispered in sympathy. 

Yara’s jaw tightened. 

It was infuriating. Even with her obvious hint, the crowd didn’t seem to realized that something was wrong. If anything, they leaned closer to her as if the Lady needed their collective breath to stay upright. 

Then Sister Veris stepped out of the gathered clergy. 

Yara froze when she saw Veris approached Atasha quickly, her expression filled with worry. She reached for Atasha’s arm and checked her pulse, then murmured something soft near her ear. Atasha didn’t answer, but she didn’t pull away either. Veris supported her other side, placing a steadying hand on her back as if she were made of thin glass. 

Yara felt something flare hot under her ribs. 

Even Veris? She who pretends to value discipline and fairness? Did she not realize that she had been manipulated? 

It took everything in her not to roll her eyes. So, she turned her head sharply instead, focusing on the stage as the ritual attendants entered. 

Two guards stepped forward carrying the Stone of the Goddess. 

The moment the box appeared, the entire square fell quiet. Even the wind pulled back. Yara watched the polished container move toward the central pedestal, her heartbeat ticking loud in her ears. 

When the guards opened the case, a pale silver glow spilled out. The stone sat inside like a sleeping eye, smooth and bright under the last hints of twilight. 

Yara’s gaze snapped toward Atasha. 

Now show me, she thought. 

She watched every twitch of the consort’s face, searching for a wince or a tightening around the eyes. That man’s words had been very clear. He said the real test wasn’t when Atasha touched the stone. 

No. The real test was before that. 

“A witch feels the pain long before her hand meets the stone,” he had whispered. “It pulls the corruption from 

the inside. It reacts before she does.” However, it was clear that Atasha was not a witch. So, the man said, he was going to do something to make sure that she feels this pain the moment she see’s the stone. 

So Yara waited. 

She expected Atasha to falter. To gasp, to grab at her chest. 

But Atasha only blinked slowly, breathing through her nose as Grace and Veris kept her steady. There was no sudden collapse. 

Yara gritted her teeth. Maybe the woman was already in so much pain that the reaction blended into everything else. Maybe she was hiding it. Maybe- 

“Matron,” Lady Kenneth’s voice broke through her thoughts. 

Yara looked up sharply. 

The sky had darkened fully. The moon was beginning to rise, a thin crescent sharpening into view. Its light spread across the square, catching the stone and turning its glow brighter. The ritual assistants stepped back. 

Lady Kenneth raised her voice so that even the outermost edges of the crowd could hear her. 

“In a few minutes, Her Highness, the Consort of the North, will touch the Stone.” 

A ripple moved through the crowd, a mix of fear and anger tightening the air. Some people murmured anxiously. Others clenched their fists, their frustration barely contained. Most simply stood frozen, unsure whether to hope or dread what would come next. 

However, Lady Kenneth didn’t let this affect her. Her voice was clear as she continued speaking as if she had rehearsed this moment many times. 

“We all know the rule. A witch cannot touch this stone without suffering pain. A witch cannot stand against its force. A witch cannot survive its presence.” 

Several murmurs rose and fell in the crowd. 

“Her Highness will place her hand on the Stone of the Goddess for one full minute. That is all. One minute will determine whether she stands pure… or falls to its judgment.” 

The words landed like stones thrown into water. Gasps erupted first. Then whispers of disbelief. A few men near the front shouted in protest while the council guards shifted uneasily, shields lifting as the tension swelled. 

Why do they look like they are about to attack Lady Kenneth? Matron Yara snorted inwardly. What foolishness is this? The Matron glared at Atasha. 

This is it. No more hiding behind sympathy. No more titles to shield her. No more tricks to sway the people. 

Lady Kenneth stepped aside from the center of the stage, clearing the straight path to the stone pedestal. Her eyes flicked briefly to Atasha, then to the crowd. 

“The time has come,” she announced. 

The entire square fell quiet at once. Every voice, every breath, every movement stilled as Grace and Veris guided Atasha forward, each step echoing in the tense, frozen air. 

And Matron Yara watched, her pulse pounding in her throat, waiting for the moment she had been promised, the moment when Atasha would finally break. This is her moment. This is the moment when the north will become hers. 

She watched as Atasha approached the stone and stood before it. Then out of nowhere, Atasha turned her head towards her… and gave her a small… smile. 

Atasha’s gaze held hers for a heartbeat. 

Then, slowly, she turned back to the pedestal and lifted her hand. 

Yara’s breath caught as Atasha’s fingers brushed the surface of the Stone of the Goddess. There was no flash of light. Her palm settled fully on the smooth, glowing surface. 

Nothing happened. 

Atasha did not wrench her hand away. She did not arch in pain or crumple to her knees. She simply stood there, thin and pale against the cold, her shoulders drawn but steady, her fingers spread over the stone as if she were only resting her hand on polished glass. 

This isn’t right. 

The thought slammed through Yara’s head as the seconds stretched. 

The square went completely still. Even the usual sounds of the city, seemed to vanish. There was only the sight of that frail figure at the center of the stage, cloak fluttering weakly in the wind, her hand on the stone. 

Atasha swayed, barely, as if the effort of standing was costing her everything. Grace moved like she wanted to rush forward but held back, jaw clenched. While Veris pressed a hand to her chest, lips moving soundlessly in 

prayer. 

The stone did not flare. There was no visible sign of rejection. 

Yara forced herself to look away from Atasha and turned toward the crowd. 

The reaction was exactly what she had feared. 

Some of the women near the front already had tears in their eyes. One of them covered her mouth with her scarf and shook her head as if she couldn’t bear to watch. A miner Yara recognized had his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles looked bloodless, eyes fixed on Atasha with a kind of desperate loyalty. 

“That’s enough…” 

“She’s too weak…” 

“She’s still doing it…” 

The words drifted up, quiet but sharp. Not one accusation against Atasha. Not one doubt. Every line of their bodies said the same thing, that they saw a victim, not a threat. 

Atasha was getting exactly what she needed from them, sympathy and anger in equal measure. 

Yara’s jaw locked so hard it hurt. This was the opposite of what she had been promised. The man’s assurances, his talk of guaranteed pain, of reaction, of terror before the touch, it all rang hollow now with every beat of the silent moment ticking past. 

On the stage, Lady Kenneth’s gaze flicked between the stone and the sandglass set beside it, the thin stream of sand already falling. The envoy’s expression did not change, but Yara noticed the way her fingers tightened once at her side. 

Yara’s heart hammered harder. 

Why is there no reaction? Why is she still standing? 

The moonlight slid across the stone, brightening its pale glow. Atasha’s hand remained where it was. Her shoulders rose and fell in slow, careful breaths. 

The crowd watched, every eye locked on the consort. 

Yara barely felt the cold anymore. Every part of her attention was fixed on the shrinking line of sand and the still figure beside the pedestal. Each grain that fell pressed heavier on her chest. 

Something is wrong. 

Her fingers dug into the edge of her cloak as her thoughts darted between possibilities. Had the man lied? Had the stone changed? Had Cassian done something she did not know? Had Atasha? 

The sand slid lower. 

Atasha didn’t look away from the stone. The only sign of strain was the faint tremor in her fingers, the slight tightening around her eyes that most people would mistake for fatigue, but Yara saw it, and it chilled her more than any open cry. 

Yara’s throat felt dry. This was not the scene she had prepared for, not the one she had turned the council toward, not the one she had staked her standing on. 

On the far side of the pedestal, Lady Kenneth’s hand moved toward the sandglass, her lips parting to speak. 

The last thin stream of sand was about to disappear. 

Then, as if on cue, one lieutenant rushed towards Grace and whispered something. Almost immediately, Grace’s face turned ugly.