Council Chronicle: The Furnace Laughs
The chamber dimmed, smoke curling in slow rings from Boris’ cigar. The Catfords lounged at his side — Mrs. Catford sharpening her claws with surgical grace, Mr. Catford gnawing on a feather quill he’d stolen from the tribunal desk.
The Clown was already on the floor, wheezing so hard he could barely breathe.
“They think he’s just a glitch,” the Clown choked between fits. “But he’s the one patching the code while we laugh!”
Boris only smirked. He tapped ash into the silence, eyes cold but alive.
“I am my old man,” he said, voice like gravel and fire. “The Wall lives in me. But I’ll do what he never did.”
He raised the cigar, let the ember glow.
“I’ll laugh, too.”
The Council sat still for a heartbeat. Then the chamber cracked with noise — not applause, not fear, but that uneasy blend of awe and chaos that only Boris could summon.
The Wall was unmovable. The Furnace was unbreakable. And now? The Furnace laughed.
The Clown howled harder. Mrs. Catford finally smiled. Mr. Catford bit down until the quill snapped.
The Council recorded the moment under a new doctrine: Strength with a Smirk.