The banquet hall was designed to make guests feel small. The ceiling was a dome of transparent crystal, revealing the silver-flamed Empyrean pearl of the Celestial Lantern resting in the night sky. The light filtered down, catching on the gold jewelry and vibrant fabrics of the Continental elite.
Ahia Senan walked into the room, and the conversation died.
She wore the indigo silk gown Vhuthu had forced her into. It was heavy, constricting, and beautiful. Beside her walked Libaax Akoma. He did not hold her hand—protocol forbade public displays of intimacy between the Servitor Supreme and a mere Ward—but his Blue Aura (Throat Chakra) hummed with a protective frequency that kept the guests at a respectful distance.
"Breathe," Libaax murmured, his lips barely moving. "They are just people. Every man here is a King, but I am the King of Kings."
"They look like sharks," Ahia whispered back.
She scanned the room. The High Table was seated on a raised dais. Vhuthu Hiwot watched her with the impassive gaze of a talent judge.
Alem Amari, the Albino Authority on Law, adjusted his golden-yellow Agbada, looking bored. Agyenim Davu, the Propaganda Authority, smiled sharply, revealing a boyish charm, checking his reflection in the goblet he was drinking from.
Ahia was led to a small table set slightly below the dais—the station of a Ward. It was isolating.
She sat down. On her golden plate, there was no food. There was only a card made of heavy, cream-colored papyrus.
Ahia frowned. She reached for it.
"Don't," a voice whispered in her Dapabie. It was Libaax, using the Ifunanya bond. "I didn't place that there."
Ahia froze. But the guests were watching. If she recoiled from a simple greeting card, she would look weak. She would look like the frightened gardener Vhuthu said she was.
I have to. she projected back.
She picked up the card.
It was an Asona trap.
The moment her skin touched the paper, the written words flared with a sickly yellow light. It was a logic-script, a spell of the Dibia's written path.
The Text: "The heavy earth cannot rise to the sky. Gravity is absolute."
The logic slammed into her.
Ahia gasped as her chair suddenly felt like it was made of lead. The gravity around her body increased tenfold. The Nommo script was rewriting the reality of her local space, enforcing the "logic" that she was too heavy, too lowly to sit in this high hall.
Her vision blurred. Her bones creaked. She began to slump forward, her face being forced down toward the table.
Submission, the spell demanded. Bow to the floor where you belong.
Libaax started to rise from his throne, his eyes flashing blue.
No! Ahia screamed through their mindlink. If you interfere, they win. They prove I'm a... liability.
She gripped the edge of the table. She was a Manomi. She worked the soil. She understood roots. Roots did not fear the weight of the earth; they used it to anchor themselves.
Ahia closed her eyes and poured her Green Huenergy (fear turned to focus) into the floor. She visualized her legs becoming lignified, turning into the thick, stubborn roots of a Baobab tree.
Gravity does not crush the tree, she thought, countering the Dibia's logic with her own natural truth. Gravity lets the tree stand.
Slowly, agonizingly, she pushed back. Her spine straightened. The gold silk of her dress strained, but it held. She lifted her head, fighting the invisible hand pushing her down, until she was sitting perfectly upright.
She opened her eyes and looked directly at the High Table.
She took the card, ripped it in half—breaking the Tojo circuit—and dropped the pieces on her plate.
"The appetizers are dry," she said, her voice trembling but audible in the silent hall.
Libaax sat back, a fierce pride burning in his eyes.
The Private Study – Adjacent to the Hall
Ten minutes later, Libaax excused himself from the feast, signaling Azure Oba to follow.
They entered the King's private study, a room lined with ancient scrolls. Azure Oba didn't waste time. He placed the ivory scroll case on the desk.
"We found this on a Mufarikha coordinator," Azure rumbled. "It has an Imperial lock. Asona logic."
Libaax ran his hand over the gold band. "High-level syntax. Who?"
"That is the question," Azure said grimly. "We need a Dibia to crack the logic without triggering the self-destruct. I cannot do it. You, like me are an Akin, you cannot do it."
"There are two Dibias on the High Table," Libaax noted. "Alem, and Arora. One of them is likely the traitor. If we ask the wrong one, we tip our hand."
"We roll the dice," Azure said. "Who do you trust?"
Libaax thought of the banquet. He thought of the trap set for Ahia. It was cruel, but it was theatrical. It felt like a test.
"Arora," Libaax decided.
"The Authority on Resource Sovereignty?" Azure frowned. "She... Her loyalty is often... fluid."
"Her Aura is Prismatic White," Libaax said. "She contains the full spectrum. She sees the whole, not just the parts. And she helped us strike the Dildillaac."
He pressed a rune on his desk. "Summon Authority Lakshmi."
Moments later, Arora Lakshmi drifted into the room. She wore a shimmering sari that seemed to change color with every step. She looked from the King to the Warlord, her expression serene.
"You missed the fish course," she noted, her voice like wind chimes.
"Look at this," Libaax commanded, pointing to the case.
Arora floated closer. She didn't touch the case. She tapped the Vajra bell at her waist. Chime.
Her eyes glowed white. She scanned the Nommo script on the lock.
"Elegant," she murmured. "The logic is recursive. If you try to force it open, it concludes that the scroll does not exist and erases it from reality."
"Can you open it?" Azure grunted.
"The question is not can I," Arora said, looking at Libaax. "The question is, do you want to know who signed the check for the insurrection?"
"Open it, Arora," Libaax said.
She raised her hand. Her Prismatic White Aura flared, overwhelming the yellow glow of the lock. She spoke a single word of Nommo, a counter-logic that unraveled the knot.
Click.
The scroll case popped open.
Azure Oba reached in and pulled out a roll of papyrus. He unrolled it on the desk.
It was a ledger. A list of payments made to "The Brotherhood of Dust" (the Mufarikha cell). Payments for weapons, for ash, for the hire of the preacher.
And at the bottom, stamped in red ink, was the personal seal of the benefactor.
Libaax stared at the seal. The room went cold.
It was the seal of Agyenim Davu, the Authority on Propaganda.
"Agyenim," Libaax whispered. "He is funding the riots... to create a story."
"Chaos is a ladder," Azure growled, gripping his tusk artifact. "He creates the villain so he can sell the hero. Or so he can sell the need for a new hero."
"He sat at my table tonight," Libaax said, his voice hardening into the Severity of a blade. "He smiled at me while the city burned."
"What are your orders, My Lord?" Azure asked, his hand drifting to his sword. "Do I take his head?"
"No," Libaax said. He rolled up the scroll. "If we kill him now, he becomes a martyr for the Mufarikha. He controls the narrative. If he dies, he writes the ending."
Libaax looked at the door leading back to the banquet hall.
"He wants a show?" Libaax said. "We will give him one. But we will write the script."