The broadcast hummed to life, flooding the sitting room with bright light and brighter smiles.
"Smart." Sorvan murmured. "No one resists what's dressed as help."
Navir leaned forward, eyes locked on the screen. The Othmir officials stood behind a polished obsidian desk, white-skinned men with neatly combed blond hair, pale lashes framing cold, measuring eyes.
Their suits were immaculate, tailored to perfection, smiles practiced to the point of sterility.
"A mutual economic partnership," one of them declared smoothly, fingers steepled. "This is a new era for Argathe."
The feed shifted.
An Argathe official appeared beside them, copper-skinned, draped in ceremonial crimson, posture stiff with rehearsed pride. "After careful deliberation," the man announced, voice ringing with forced confidence, "the council has approved this agreement in the interest of national growth, educational reform, and long-term stability."
Applause erupted in the chamber.
Measured.
Rehearsed.
Obedient.
From the dining area, the soft click of knitting needles kept time. "Hmm… Partnership," Arisha echoed dryly without looking up. "That word has always been cheaper than truth."
Sorvan glanced back. "You hear this, Mother?"
"I hear what they're not saying," she replied. "They never mention the creeks. The mines. The villages. Or even the graves."
"Notice what this means?" Navir said softly.
"That's how suffering survives," Arisha said, needles pausing. "By being edited out."
An Othmir official laughed lightly. "Transparency is our promise."
Navir scoffed. "Politicians are really good actors."
Without warning, the broadcast cut away.
For a heartbeat, the screen showed oil fields encircled by armed guards, black smoke twisting upward, the land scarred and choking.
Then the image returned to polished smiles and applause, as if nothing had been revealed at all.
No one spoke.
The Television had already switched into a weather forecast, nobody seemed interested except Sorvan, he leaned forward on the couch, his elbow and forearm on his lap, red eyes remained focused like he was anticipating something. Though it was dampened by his calm composed aura.
Navir leaned back, scrolling through the activist's feed. Each post carried a sting, a reminder that history rarely changes, only repackages itself.
"Look at this," he murmured, fingers hovering over the tablet.
A grainy clip flickered across the screen: Othmir officials decades ago, standing at the same polished podium, the same rehearsed smiles, the same promises of partnership.
Sorvan's eyes narrowed. "Hmm… Same lines. No wonder it feels so rehearsed."
Navir's jaw tightened. "Independence… was just a label. They rebranded control."
The activist's post zoomed in on a yellowed letter, its edges frayed, ink faded but deliberate. It was a formal initiation of a contract between Othmir and Argathe, though the language feigned mutual respect.
He highlighted subtle cues, phrases tucked between lines, faint markings, the way obligations were worded. Control hid in shadows, threaded through legalese, signaling that even after independence, Othmir still guided Argathe's hand.
"Wait… this…" Navir whispered, tracing the delicate stamp in crimson at the bottom. His pulse quickened. The same emblem had appeared on today's contracts, unchanged, unyielding.
It wasn't just a mark; it was a signature of quiet domination, a ghost stretching across decades.
Sorvan leaned closer, voice low. "Even freedom has strings."
Navir's fingers hovered over the screen. The truth pressed in, sharp and cold, freezing the room around them.
Navir scrolled, eyes narrowing at each post.
The activist's page was a mosaic of exposure: glossy photos of Argathe's elite schools, gates tall and forbidding, juxtaposed with children from prominent backgrounds.
"Look at this," Navir murmured, pointing at a picture of a playground surrounded by steel fencing. "These schools… they're not for everyone."
Sorvan leaned over, expression unreadable. "Education is currency. They hoard it to maintain power."
Another post showed a festival in the capital, bright costumes, music, parades.
Yet captions hinted at empty traditions, ceremonies stripped of meaning.
"They call it culture," Arisha said, still knitting. "But it's just another performance for those in charge."
Navir's stomach twisted as he scrolled further.
A pattern emerged: wherever Othmir stripped the land, Argathe's elites rushed in to 'clean up', patching wounds with gilded solutions that only masked the rot, leaving the deeper damage to fester unseen.
Like taping a crack in the wall.
"They profit from their own nation's chains," he said quietly, voice taut.
Silence filled the room, heavier than applause.
Navir's tablet pinged. Another document, quietly circulating among insiders, opened on the screen.
"What's this?" he muttered, eyes scanning the lines. "They approved it—the first oil seizures."
Sorvan leaned in, expression unreadable. "The dates?"
12th of Ardarn 1873
Navir's finger traced a line of text. "The Southern Creeks… it all lines up."
Sorvan's finger hovered over the bottom of the page. "Says something about a certain Elder Guyi Hamnan,"
Navir paused, eyes narrowing, "Strangely familiar," hands resting on his chin.
Sorvan continued, " He led a revolt against the Othmirs at the Southern Creeks. Post-independence."
Arisha's knitting paused.
She slightly tilted her gaze upward.
Navir's voice dropped to a whisper, trembling with disbelief. "It was signed by the President?"
"Here," Sorvan said, tapping a section of the page. "Guyi's forces… the villagers too, they were slaughtered by the Othmirs."
Navir's jaw tightened. "The government… they made him surrender on purpose."
"They used him," Sorvan replied quietly, voice cold. "Sent him to the front lines… as a decoy."
"Why?" Navir inquired, empathy etched on his face.
Sorvan replied, "to draw the people in of…"
"Slam!"
Arisha palm slammed the dining table.
She got up abruptly, her posture and facial expression tense, without explanation, she stormed into her room.