Sineus followed the Master Smith. Stoyan Forgehand’s iron grav-platform hummed a low, brutal note, a stark contrast to the silent, drifting delegates in the Grand Reception Chamber. Sineus walked, his polished boots making no sound on the crystalline floor. They passed from the cavern of light into a smaller, private chamber, a simple hexagonal void where the walls pulsed with a dim, internal glow. The air here was still and cold.
Stoyan turned his platform, the movement heavy and deliberate. He crossed his thick arms, the muscles bunching under his simple tunic. He did not invite Sineus to sit. There was nowhere to sit. This was a place for transactions, not comfort.
— The pleasantries are done, Admiral, — Stoyan rumbled, his voice like stones grinding together. — Let us speak of iron.
He laid out his terms with the blunt force of a hammer striking an anvil.
— My price is simple. My people are strong, but we are isolated. You will grant the Brotherhood of the Mountains permanent, sovereign control of the Hydrus and Volans Song-Path corridors.
Sineus kept his expression a mask of neutrality, but the demand was staggering. Those two corridors were major arteries of trade and military deployment for the Continuum's southern expansion. Losing them would cripple a century of strategic planning, a cost that would be measured in trillions of credits and a severe loss of political influence.
— You will also deliver 500 tonnes of high-grade psionic crystals to our forge-station, — Stoyan continued, his voice flat and unyielding. — And finally, the Slavic Continuum will enter into a full, binding mutual defense pact with the Brotherhood. An attack on us is an attack on you. That is the price for the Kolyada Alloy.
Sineus let the silence hang in the cool, clean air. He ran a gloved hand along the faceted wall beside him. It was cool to the touch, and he could feel the faint, living vibration of the station itself, the hum of a billion recorded truths.
— I am an Admiral of the Fleet, Master Smith. I command ships. I do not have the authority to cede sovereign territory. Only the All-Galactic Veche can ratify such a treaty.
Stoyan laughed, a short, harsh bark that did not echo in the crystalline space.
— The Veche. A council of whispers and shadows. You offer me a promise of a debate. A preference. — He pointed a thick finger at the shimmering Gzhel Weave insignia on Sineus's collar. — The iron requires a truth, Admiral. Something solid. Not like your pretty lights. They look strong until they flicker.
The insult was a calculated test of his composure. Stoyan was right. The political machinery of the Continuum was slow, and Zarya was dying now. He needed the alloy now. A promise was not enough. He needed to provide a truth. He made his choice. The price would be his own.
— You are correct, Master Smith, — Sineus said, his voice dropping to a low, formal tone that seemed to make the air in the chamber colder. — A preference is not enough. You will have your truth.
He stepped forward, away from the wall, and walked to the center of the chamber. He removed his glove, the motion precise and deliberate. He placed his bare hand flat against the smooth, living crystal of the floor. The surface was profoundly cold, a deep and absolute chill that seemed to draw the heat from his body.
— I, Valeriy Sineus, Boyar of the House of Sineus, Admiral of the Slavic Continuum, do swear this oath, — he declared, his voice ringing with a new authority, not of rank, but of personal conviction. — I bind my life, my honor, and the memory of my lineage to this pact. The Hydrus and Volans corridors will be given to the Brotherhood. The crystals will be delivered. The pact will be honored. If I fail, let my name be erased from the Sudopis. Let my house be forgotten.
This was the Boyar's Oath, an ancient and unbreakable promise. It was a truth more real than any treaty, for its price was not political capital, but personal existence. It was a move away from the convenient forgetting of politics and into the absolute certainty of a remembered vow.
The Crystalline Synod heard him. The floor beneath his hand flared with a brilliant white light. Luminous threads of energy, cobalt blue and gold, shot out from his palm, weaving themselves into the very structure of the chamber. The terms of the agreement appeared on the walls around them, not as text, but as a new, permanent Gzhel Weave, its lines sharp and absolute. The contract was now part of the station's memory, as real as the men standing within it.
Stoyan Forgehand watched, his cynical expression slowly replaced by one of grudging respect. Sineus had not offered a political solution. He had offered himself as collateral. He had forged a truth from his own honor.
The light from the imprinted contract faded, leaving the new pattern glowing softly in the crystal. The faint scent of ozone, the smell of reality being written, hung in the air.
Stoyan gave a single, curt nod.
— The iron will be delivered to your flagship within the hour.
He turned his grav-platform and departed, the low hum of its engine the only sound. Sineus was left alone in the chamber, the new weight of his oath settling upon him, colder and heavier than any armor.
The light from the new weave on the wall pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm. The air settled, the scent of ozone fading into the clean mineral tang of the station.
