"This isn't a tragedy yet," I said firmly. "We still have a chance to save Luka."
Rhadamanthys's dark eyes assessed me carefully. "Perhaps. But remember, not all salvation looks the way we expect."
With that cryptic comment, he left me. As I walked back, my mind raced with everything I'd learned. Ana's confusion, her determination, the hints of her original personality breaking through—all of it would be valuable for our case.
But more importantly, I now knew she was safe, treated well, and beginning to reclaim her true identity. Whatever happened at the tribunal, Ana Aleksandar was finding her way back to herself.
After leaving Rhadamanthys, I returned to our quarters, where the silence crushed me. The enormity of what we faced finally crashed through the careful composure I'd maintained in Tartarus and with Ana. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. I stumbled to the bathroom just in time to vomit, my body rebelling against the stress.
Kneeling on the cold bathroom floor, I finally allowed myself to break. Hot tears streamed down my face as sobs tore from my chest.
"Pull yourself together," I gasped between sobs. "He needs you."
After several minutes, the storm of emotion gradually subsided. I washed my face with cold water, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The man who stared back looked different—harder, more determined than the therapist who'd once worried about professional boundaries.
"Three days," I told my reflection. "You have three days to save him."
I stepped back into the living room and began methodically gathering materials. Notebooks. Pens. My professional journals with case studies on cult deprogramming that might be relevant to Ana's testimony. I would be ready when Lo returned.
The tribunal awaited, and with it, the chance to save not just Luka's life, but his future. For the first time, I understood why Luka had been willing to risk everything to kill Prometheus. Some battles were worth any price.
Now it was my turn to fight for him.
Three days in Tartaruscould break a normal man. The isolation, the sterile white walls, the constant surveillance. It was all designed to strip away resistance before judgment. My injuries had been left mostly untreated, a subtle reminder of my diminished status. The bullet graze along my side had finally stopped seeping, though the pain remained a constant companion. I'd spent the time calculating angles, reviewing every word I'd say at the tribunal, and replaying Vincent's visit over and over. His determination to fight for me had burned into my memory, a lifeline in the darkness of my cell.
When they finally came for me, I was ready. Four Cerberus operatives in full tactical gear escorted me through the underground passages of the Acropolis, heavy chains at my wrists and ankles more ceremonial than practical. The weight of the cold metal against my skin reminded me that I was not a person in their eyes, but property that had malfunctioned.
The Tribunal chamber screamed power and antiquity. It reminded me of a medieval cathedral designed by architects who worshippeddeath instead of salvation. Soaring ceilings vanished into shadows thirty feet above, while hidden vents circulated air that smelled faintly of incense and gun oil. Three enormous obsidian thrones dominated the center, forming a perfect triangle on a raised dais. Beneath them, the floor was inlaid with a mosaic depicting Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx, the ferryman's face hidden beneath a hood while his passengers stared out with expressions of terror and resignation.
Subtle but effective. A reminder of where power truly resided in our world.
I stood in the center of that mosaic. My body throbbed in time with my pulse, the bullet graze along my side burning fiercely. The bruises on my throat throbbed and my voice was hoarse. It was manageable. I'd survived worse.
Behind the single occupied throne, a massive stained glass window depicted scenes from Greek mythology, casting jewel-colored light across the polished stone floor. The chamber was located in the deepest level of the Acropolis, accessible only through a single set of bronze doors guarded by four Cerberus operatives in full tactical gear.
To my left stood a row of six large screens, each displaying the face of a director observing the proceedings remotely. Their involvement was ceremonial only. Here, in this chamber, the Tribunal reigned supreme, their judgment absolute and unquestionable.
No windows except the stained glass. No visible ventilation ducts were large enough for a human. Twelve armed guards stationed around the perimeter. Two snipers in elevated positions at the back of the chamber, their rifles trained on me. Overkill for one battered assassin in chains, but I was flattered by their caution.
They designed the chamber to intimidate, to remind the accused how small and powerless they were before the might of the Pantheon. To their credit, it worked. Even I, who had spent my entire life in thisworld, felt a flutter of fear crawl up my spine as I took in the theatrical grandeur of it all.
At precisely nine o'clock, the screens flickered to life simultaneously. The six directors appeared, each in their distinctive regional attire, their faces solemn as they prepared to witness my judgment. I recognized a few from intelligence briefings and mission files.
Then came the Tribunal. The bronze doors opened, and Rhadamanthys entered alone, his commanding height emphasized by his black Stetson. His pearl-handled revolver gleamed at his hip. He moved to occupy the central throne, spurs singing softly against the marble.
The other two thrones remained empty but active. Their obsidian surfaces displayed projections of Minos and Aeacus, who would judge remotely. Minos, with his calculating eyes that missed nothing, and Aeacus, her severe features carved from the same stone as her principles.
These three held my life in their hands, absolute and unquestionable arbiters of the Pantheon's justice. All other authorities bowed before the unanimous will of the Tribunal.
When all were connected, Minos spoke, her rich contralto voice filling the chamber through hidden speakers. "Luka Aleksandar, you stand accused of killing Director Prometheus, North American Head of the Pantheon. How do you plead?"
I straightened my spine despite the pain that radiated through my side. "Guilty."
A murmur rippled through the observers. No denials, no excuses. Just the simple truth.
"You admit to this capital offense?" Rhadamanthys leaned forward in his throne.
"I killed him," I replied, my voice steady as a sniper's hand. "Stabbed him repeatedly in the liver. And I'd do it again, slower next time."
