The weight of the silence in the great hall had surpassed the limits of human endurance, it had become a material silence, suffocating and viscous, as though the very air had been entirely sucked from the room and replaced with a toxic gas wringing the lungs.
The terrified eyes of the clan leaders moved in involuntary and feverish motions between the Pledge of Allegiance crafted from parchment leather, which now appeared as a document of collective execution, and Sylvester's coldly smiling face, then returned to steal fearful glances at the dead eyes of the masked killers standing as statues of death behind their chairs.
They searched in one another's faces for an exit, a gap in this airtight trap, a miracle descending from the sky, or even a lost courage befitting leaders who governed the fate of an entire province. But there was only helplessness.
And while the leaders hesitated, their trembling fingers tapping with tension on the surface of the polished black oak table, while cold sweat droplets gathered on their foreheads only to fall on the golden plates that had lost all their luster in their eyes, that terrible silence was shattered by a rough and sudden sound.
It was the sound of a heavy wooden chair being pushed back with force, sharp friction screaming across the marble floor, the echo reverberating through the hall like a cannon shot.
Elder Orgon stood.
Orgon was the oldest clan leader by age and the most venerable by prestige, he was the chief of the retired warriors clan and the old border guards, the men who had formed the first impenetrable wall protecting Seiron for decades.
He was a man who had passed his eightieth year, his hair and beard white as snow from the northern mountain peaks, and his massive body, despite its slight bow from the weight of years, still carried the dignity of an unmovable mountain.
His hands, face, and neck bore maps of deep scars, scars from bloody wars he had fought in his youth alongside the Williams family's great-grandfather, then continued to fight ferociously alongside the Lion Marcus. His deep-set eyes, despite his advanced age and weakening sight, still blazed with the fire of old pride, the fire of the honor of chivalry unsullied by political deals.
Orgon looked at Sylvester with pure and open contempt, contempt he did not trouble himself to conceal or beautify. He gazed at the crimson velvet robe and the stolen Lion medal on Sylvester's chest with a look resembling a spit in his face.
Then he opened his mouth and spoke in a booming, rough, and deep voice that resonated in the arches of the vaulted hall, cutting through the cowardly silence that had swallowed the rest of the leaders:
"I have served this family and this palace for three consecutive generations, Sylvester," Orgon began, and he did not say "my lord" or "Your Grace."
"I have seen men born in this hall, and I have seen heroes die with their chests open to the enemy. I have seen honor embodied in sword strokes, and I have seen glory written in the blood of Seiron's loyal sons. But I have never, in all my eighty years, witnessed in the halls of this palace a shame and a vileness such as what I witness tonight."
Orgon raised his gnarled hand, the hand that had once borne the heaviest war axes, and brought it down with tremendous force on the table's surface. The crystal goblets shook, and some red wine scattered like drops of blood on the white tablecloth.
"Marcus Williams has not yet died! And even if the gods take him tonight, the storied Williams family and the entire western province are led by blood and valor, led by those who possess the courage to grip the sword on the front lines of confrontation, not by those who hide in the palace's vaults to hold poison in the darkness, forging suspicious and cowardly deals with hired killers and mercenaries who know no honor!" Orgon pointed with his anger-trembling finger toward the cursed document.
"You want my signature on this nonsense? You want me to put my seal on your treachery? I swear by the gods of war and the ancestors, I will cut off this right hand of mine and feed it to the dogs before I touch that feather to sign a document that sells my city and my men to a traitor and a coward like you."
An absolute stunned silence reigned. Breathing stopped in throats. No one present, not even Sylvester himself, had expected anyone, however great their age, to dare speak the naked truth with this screaming clarity in the face of certain death.
Sylvester's sadistic smile dissolved with extreme slowness, and all expressions of elation were wiped from his face, replaced by a cold, hard mask entirely devoid of any human feeling. He did not shout in anger, did not strike the table, and did not debate Elder Orgon's accusations, debating with the dead is a waste of time. He simply raised his index finger with a barely visible, quiet motion, and gestured lightly toward the killer standing behind Orgon.
In a thousandth of a second, at a speed surpassing the blink of an eye, everyone heard a faint sound. Shink. The sound of a dagger drawn from an oil-greased leather scabbard designed to prevent any friction.
Then, surreally, a very thin and fine red thread appeared, precise as a pencil line, extending horizontally across Elder Orgon's wrinkled neck. It was followed immediately by a soft, muffled sound as the killer returned his dagger to its scabbard at the same speed.
The wound was not deep enough to sever the carotid artery or separate the head, there was no fountain of blood. But the true weapon was not the blade itself, it was what coated it. The concentrated poison extracted from rare Shadow Serpents was terrifyingly fast-acting, designed specifically for assassinating nobles without creating chaos.
Orgon gasped a short, strangled gasp, his eyes widening in shock at the pain, and his massive body convulsed immediately as though lightning had struck him. The veins of his neck and face turned a deep, dead black within counted seconds, emerging from beneath his skin like black worms writhing. The elder dropped to his knees under his own heavy weight, trying to grip the table's edge, yet his fingers failed him.
Then his body collapsed entirely, and his face struck the cold marble floor with violence, and white foam mixed with blood began pouring from his mouth while his limbs trembled in the rapid convulsions of death.
A woman from the weavers' clan representative let out a sharp scream of terror that tore the eardrums, and the rest of the leaders lurched in their seats from terror and the instinct to flee, but at the same moment, the killers behind them moved in terrifying unison, placing their cold, poisoned blades directly against the necks of the remaining leaders, pressing with just enough gentleness to produce a warning prick, forcing them to freeze and sit forcibly back in their chairs.
"What a tremendous pity," Sylvester said, raising his goblet and sipping his wine with complete calm, savoring the taste of victory, as though nothing had happened, as though a great man had not just been killed before him.
"It appears that Elder Orgon has suffered a sudden health episode, perhaps a cardiac arrest due to his advanced age and his excessive agitation, which I had repeatedly warned him about. His heart could no longer bear complex political debates. I genuinely hope this agitation is not contagious among the rest of those present."
Sylvester looked over his goblet at the terrified faces, the eyes brimming with tears and anguish, his own eyes gleaming with a sadistic cruelty relishing the breaking of wills. "And now, honored gentlemen, is there another objector who has a fine speech about honor and glory he wishes to deliver before departing our company? Or shall we proceed directly and in a civilized manner to the signing ceremony to secure the future of our city?"
This savage and bloody scene compelled the rest of the leaders into complete submission. Their will had shattered before this insane display of cruelty. With hearts dripping blood and anguish, and hands trembling so violently that some nearly dropped the feather, they advanced one by one toward the center of the table.
They dipped the black feather in the blood-red ink and signed the names of their clans on the Pledge of Allegiance. They signed, feeling in the depths of their souls that they were not signing a political document, but stamping a document that sold their souls, their history, and their honor to the devil himself.
Yet amid this terror, they did not know that a third eye had been watching every whisper, every movement, and every drop of blood that had fallen in that hall.
In the high dark balcony of the hall, behind the heavy velvet curtains hanging from the soaring ceiling, and under the protection of the Absolute Void Veil that Lumia had woven with consummate skill, which concealed their scent, their sounds, and even the fluctuations of their mana, Dex stood.
His right hand was pressing against the carved stone balustrade with an immense and inhuman force, a force that caused the hard stone to crack silently and crumble slowly, turning to white dust falling between his rigid fingers.
His blue eyes blazed with a terrifying flash, the flash of celestial fury that nearly pierced the void veil. In that moment when he saw Orgon fall dead in that degrading manner, the legendary phoenix flames within his core convulsed and snarled in his veins, demanding release, wanting to erupt and consume the entire hall, to turn Sylvester and his killers to ash scattered by the winds.
His body was shaking from the force of restraint, and he was on the verge of leaping from the balcony to end this travesty.
"Dex, not now," Lumia whispered in a voice carrying the cold of outer space, drawing close and placing her small, very cold hand directly on his blazing chest. Void energy seeped from her hand to coil around his core, reining in the phoenix flames and returning reason to its place. "Look at him, look at his left hand."
Dex looked, and saw Sylvester's hand resting over his chest, precisely above the crimson necklace hidden beneath his robes.
"If you attack now and shatter the veil, he will panic," Lumia continued in her rational whisper. "He will immediately activate the necklace and the Destruction Protocol. He will kill those hostage leaders, and will turn half the city to ash over our heads. Your fury is justified, but right now it is suicide for everyone. We must wait for the moment we strip him of every weapon he possesses."
Dex closed his eyes with force and drew a deep, agonized breath, forcing himself with every ounce of willpower he possessed to swallow his burning rage. He opened his eyes again to behold the worst nightmare any commander could witness: he saw the body of the heroic Elder Orgon being dragged by his feet like garbage by two guards, to be discarded in the vaults, and he saw the clan leaders, the pillars of Seiron, leaving the hall with bowed heads, dragging their steps in a humiliation and brokenness they had never known in all their history.
"Sylvester..." Dex murmured in a barely audible voice, yet it resembled the snarl of a wounded beast chained in a cage. "You have dug your grave with your own hands tonight, and deeper than I had imagined. Enjoy your small victory, and drink your wine, for tomorrow... tomorrow I will make you plead for death. I will make you wish that dagger had lodged in your own neck."