Returning slightly in time, on that very same night when Dex and Lumia were purging the city's alleyways of spy eyes, another scene was being drawn with painstaking care inside the palace walls. The great hall of the Williams family palace, that venerable hall that had witnessed for centuries the grand celebrations of victory, the councils of honor, and the gatherings of knights, had this night been transformed into a lavish theater for a silent and terrifying betrayal.
The enormous crystal chandeliers hanging from the soaring ceiling gleamed with a warm and steady magical light, their brilliant radiance reflecting off the carefully arranged golden and silver table settings and the luxury dishes brought specifically from every corner of the Empire to dazzle the assembled guests.
The scent of grilled meat seasoned with rare spices, aged Imperial wines, and the fragrance of fresh tropical fruits filled the air. Yet despite all this opulence and those appetizing aromas, there was another smell, subtle yet overpowering, that permeated the place and assaulted expert nostrils: the smell of cold fear, the smell of human sweat laced with dread.
Sylvester Williams sat with excessive confidence at the head of the long black oak table, in the seat that had always been reserved for his brother Marcus. He wore an extremely luxurious crimson velvet robe embroidered with threads of pure gold forming the family crest, and on his chest gleamed the Lion of the West medal, a medal he had wrenched from his dying brother's chamber.
His smile was wide and welcoming, yet his eyes were cold, dead, and predatory as a venomous serpent's, sweeping the faces seated before him with deliberate slowness and sadistic relish, savoring their trembling.
Around that long table, the leaders of the seven great clans had been compelled to sit, the men who formed the economic, political, and military backbone of the city of Seiron.
There was Lord Kaylen, chieftain of the merchant clan that controlled the markets and ports; Jarik, captain of the smiths who forged the army's weapons; Arion, representative of the regional mages' guild; and others representing the farmers and landowners.
They all wore their finest silken and embroidered attire as a demonstration of respect, yet their faces were pale as the dead, their lips dry, and their hands trembling so slightly that the crystal rang faintly each time they attempted to lift their wine goblets to moisten their throats.
The true cause of this collective dread was not Sylvester alone, despite the hideousness of his betrayal, it was what stood like shadows of death behind their backs. Behind the chair of every clan leader, no more than an arm's length away, stood a masked figure in a tight black suit that reflected no light, showing nothing but two narrow, dead eyes completely devoid of any human emotion. They were elite killers from the Shadow Organization.
They did not move a hair's breadth, did not breathe audibly, and barely blinked, yet their hands, sheathed in leather gloves, rested with a terrifying lightness, the lightness of the professional killer, on the hilts of their poisoned daggers and short swords. Sylvester's theatrical message was as clear as the sun: make a wrong move, raise your voice in objection, or even push your chair back too quickly, and this lavish dinner will be your last meal on the face of the earth.
After savoring their prolonged silence, Sylvester raised his golden goblet, and his voice rang out clearly in the silent hall like an executioner reading a verdict. "Honored gentlemen, esteemed leaders and pillars of Seiron. I thank you most sincerely for attending my urgent invitation on this late evening. I know well that the times are very difficult, and that ugly rumors are spreading through the markets like wildfire."
Sylvester set his goblet down with extreme slowness, and his vocal tone shifted suddenly from bright welcome to a manufactured grief, deep and so perfectly crafted it inspired nausea. "It grieves me deeply, and with a heart wrung by pain, to inform you officially this evening of what you have feared and whispered of. My dear elder brother, Lord Marcus, our great hero, is now breathing his last breaths in his private wing. The senior physicians from the capital have confirmed beyond all doubt that his great heart can no longer endure, and that it is a matter of hours only before the gods receive him."
Sylvester paused for a moment, savoring the impact of his words on the shocked faces of those present, then continued with a yellow, twisted smile like a broken blade: "As for his son, the young heir, poor Dex. We received confirmed reports a short while ago from the western borders.
The fierce beasts of Falus Forest showed him and his companions no mercy. We found the remnants of his torn, blood-stained clothing, along with fragments of his armor. The family, the storied Williams family, has lost its legitimate heir."
A muffled murmur, strangled by fear, passed among the seated leaders. Some exchanged glances of deep suspicion, knowing Sylvester's cunning, others bowed their heads in despair and submission to the fait accompli.
Sylvester gestured lightly with his hand, and his personal servant advanced with silent steps and placed an official document in the center of the table, crafted from thick and rare parchment leather, surrounded by an elegant golden frame. Beside the document was placed a black eagle feather dipped in a glass inkwell containing blood-red ink, viscous as fresh blood.
"Since the ducal throne cannot, and should not, remain vacant in these critical circumstances, and to protect this great city and our vast province from chaos and gang warfare," Sylvester said, leaning his body forward, his eyes gleaming with naked greed, "I, Sylvester Williams, in my capacity as the remaining blood of this lineage, will assume the reins of governance.
This document before you is the Pledge of Allegiance. Signing it tonight means declaring absolute loyalty to me in my capacity as the new Lord Williams, and providing formal and collective recognition of my legitimacy before the Imperial court."
The hall froze completely. The air became as heavy as lead. Signing this covenant was no mere formality, it meant surrendering their necks and their families and their fortunes to Sylvester forever, and becoming formally complicit in his betrayal. Sylvester's victorious smile widened, and he directed his eyes slowly and with veiled menace toward the killers standing as statues behind the guests.
"Of course, gentlemen, you have complete freedom of choice. We are not tyrants," he said with veiled sarcasm. "Signing the covenant means the continued prosperity of your commerce and the full protection of your clans under my shadow and my rule. As for refusal, and failing to perform one's duty in this critical time, it means... well..."
Sylvester paused and took a sip of his wine, then said with terrifying coldness: "The land in the west is vast indeed and accommodates many, many graves. And this night may be very cold and harsh for those who choose to leave this great palace without the cloak of loyalty."
This was extortion, public, crude, and brazen to the utmost degree. Sylvester had converted this "diplomatic banquet" into a perfectly sealed and lethal trap. The heavy bronze doors of the hall had been locked from the outside, the clan leaders' personal guards had been disarmed and detained at the main gate under the pretext of security protocols, and now they sat here, isolated and defenseless, besieged by human beasts waiting for nothing more than a gesture from Sylvester's finger to begin the beheading.
Lord Kaylen, chieftain of the merchant clan, the portly man who loved life and money, looked at the blood-red ink, then glanced sideways at the dead-eyed killer standing like a statue directly behind him, and swallowed with a pronounced difficulty that produced an audible sound in the hall.
He knew in his heart of hearts that Sylvester was not bluffing, and was not practicing politics. This man, who had possessed the audacity to kill his own heroic brother and his nephew in cold blood, what truly prevented him from slaughtering a handful of merchants and blacksmiths and replacing them with others come morning?