"I will no longer tolerate your insolence," thundered the woman from the elevated seat.
Page locked eyes with her, a spark of defiance flashing in her gaze. "Dark Hand isn't just some criminal organization.
"The underground of this country is nothing more than the hidden side of the same coin. And we—we're merely its guardians. Safeguards meant to regulate the activities within this place.
"But why seven? One would've been enough. All it needed was enough power. Why seven? It's obvious—it's to maintain control. A pack of tigers is easier to tame than a lone one."
"These things, everyone here knows them, Page," Emrys interjected, just as puzzled about where Page was going with this.
Page stared at him, her eyes unfathomable. "Dark Hand is targeting the nobility," she replied simply. "Who do you think has the most to lose in this? Us, the seven families? Or the very ones who established us?"
Riane straightened, her face pale and taut with anger. "That's absurd!" she exclaimed, her voice trembling with rage. "Dark Hand is a criminal organization, not a revolutionary army! Where does this nonsense about attacking the nobility come from?"
Page fixed her with an icy stare. "I thought you were far wiser than that, Lady Riane."
Falgoss leapt to his feet. "Enough! We're tired of your evasions! Tell us plainly what's going on!"
Page regarded him with a mocking smile. "My evasions, you say?" she repeated in a taunting tone. "Or is it that you're not sharp enough to grasp what I'm saying, Falgoss?"
Falgoss clenched his fists, his face flushing red with anger. "Don't push me, Page!"
Page burst into laughter. "Oh, Falgoss, it seems my long absence has truly made you forget who you're dealing with," she said, looking down at him with disdain. "Shall I refresh your memory?"
A surge of power erupted from Falgoss as veins bulged across his body, amplifying his rage. "Refresh my memory?" he echoed, his voice booming like a roar. "How about I shut that insolent mouth of yours right here and now?"
Page smiled—a cruel, cutting smile.
Falgoss moved to act, but before he could follow through on his impulsive gesture, a firm hand clamped onto his arm, holding him back like a vice.
That hand belonged to the broad-shouldered man with a weathered face, seated to his left.
"Falgoss, stop this instant! Have you lost your mind?" he barked in a deep, authoritative voice.
Shaken by the sudden intervention, Falgoss struggled against his colleague's grip, his muscles taut like steel cables. His face, red with anger and frustration, twisted into a menacing grimace.
"Let me go!" he roared, his voice echoing through the room, his glare still fixed on Page, whose smile only fueled his irritation further. Unfazed by the outburst, his colleague maintained his iron grip and replied in a calm but firm tone, "You damned fool! Have you forgotten where you are? Who you're in the presence of?"
Those words hit Falgoss like a thunderclap. The aura that had threatened to tear the room apart dissipated abruptly, leaving behind a heavy silence. His body, once thrumming with rage, went slack, and a sudden pallor washed over his face. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, streaking down his taut skin.
He slowly turned his gaze away from Page, his body trembling faintly as the weight of his mistake sank in. He shifted his head toward the woman on the elevated seat, her serene and impassive face meeting his eyes.
He swallowed hard, realizing the gravity of his error.
His colleague finally released his arm, but his eyes settled on Page.
*That vixen…*
"I… I'm sorry," Falgoss stammered, his voice quaking.
The woman, still seated in her elevated position, observed him in silence.
Page laughed. "Looks like you've been well-trained, my dear."
"You say this Dark Hand is targeting the nobility," the weathered-faced man cut in, his tone dripping with contempt. "Are we dealing with revolutionaries?"
Page fixed him with a haughty look. "Revolutionaries? No, my dear. Is that the conclusion you all jump to?" She turned toward the body on the table. "Let me ask you again: Who has the most to lose in this?"
"It's obvious it'd be the nobility," Emrys replied. "Like you said earlier, the seven families are just the guardians of the underground. We enable the nobility to handle their clandestine affairs."
"All this commotion harms their business more than ours, indeed," Riane added.
"That still doesn't tell us what they want, Page," the weathered-faced man pressed.
Page smiled—a sly, knowing smile. "What they want… The new imperial policy, though unspoken, aims to centralize power, gradually stripping the nobility of their influence…"
"Some families are already showing signs of discontent," Emrys interjected.
Page smiled and nodded, approving of Emrys's words. "Exactly. The nobility is threatened by the ongoing political shifts." She turned to the body on the table, her eyes glinting with a dark intensity. "Everything Dark Hand does is a façade. They only want to draw the nobility's attention."
"But why?" Riane asked. "Why would the nobility turn to them instead of us to maintain their power this way?"
Page smiled—an enigmatic smile. "'Would you be willing to wage war against the Empire?" she countered in a grave tone.
"You're going a bit far, Page," the weathered-faced man said. "A war? The nobility has nothing to gain. It'd be counterproductive to reclaim their authority by directly attacking the one who grants it."
Page tilted her head slightly. "It's been a month since the Fjords were wiped out, hasn't it?"
She let her words hang in the air, savoring their impact.
"And then, all of a sudden," she continued in a low voice, "they stop going on the offensive."
The council members exchanged confused glances.
"What are you talking about?" asked a member—a woman with a wrinkled face.
Page turned to her, locking eyes. "When does a mosquito abandon its host?"
"When it's full?" the wrinkled woman replied, mildly annoyed. "I don't see where—"
She cut herself off, struck by a sudden realization.
Page smiled.
"That's impossible!" Falgoss exclaimed. "Why would they do that?"
Page looked at him with contempt. "Here comes the resident idiot again."
"What you're saying is nonsense!" he growled. "You're trying to deceive us."
Page met his gaze, a flash of anger crossing her eyes.
"Deceive you?" she said in a soft, menacing tone. "Are you serious?"
Falgoss opened his mouth to retort, but the weathered-faced man stopped him.
"Calm down," he said evenly. "I doubt Page is deceiving us."
Page smiled wryly. She turned to the woman on the elevated seat. "Should I show the damn mark etched on my back?" she said. "One of your little dogs doesn't seem convinced of my loyalty."
The woman on the elevated seat shifted her gaze to Falgoss, whose face paled instantly. "You seem far too agitated today," she declared. "Should I be concerned?"
Falgoss quickly bowed his head. "No, Mistress, please forgive me," he murmured, his voice betraying his embarrassment. "I'm not questioning Page's loyalty," he added hastily, "I'm just… perplexed."
"I understand your confusion, Falgoss," the wrinkled woman said. "These claims are unsettling, and it's natural to doubt. But you're well aware it's impossible for her to deceive us."
Falgoss clenched his fists and forced himself to calm down.
With that, the woman on the elevated seat turned back to Page, her piercing black eyes narrowing.
"As for you, I believe I told you to be silent," she commanded.
Page lifted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. "My silence would be more damning than my words," she replied with feigned deference. "Must I truly hold my tongue?"
The Mistress, perched on her elevated seat, crossed her arms, her dark gaze fixed on Page. "You've always had a knack for sowing doubt, Page," she said coldly. "If you have something to say, say it now. Otherwise, I won't tolerate any more interruptions."
Page took a deep breath, the smirk fading from her lips. She turned to the council members, adopting a more serious demeanor. "Very well," she said, her voice steady once more. "I'll be clear: the Fjords weren't annihilated as we thought. They were absorbed."