Libaax Akoma returned to the banquet hall not as a host, but as a predator walking into a pen of livestock.
He moved slowly, his steps silent. Beside him, Azure Oba was a wall of muscle and Red Aura, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. They reclaimed their seats on the dais.
Libaax did not sit. He stood before his throne, looking down at the High Table.
The conversation in the hall faltered. The guests sensed the shift in the air. The Ase in the room had sharpened. It felt thin, brittle, like glass about to shatter. This was the Passive Weapon Art of the Sword: Severity. The mere presence of the King now carried the cutting edge of a sword.
"Authority Davu," Libaax spoke.
Agyenim Davu looked up from his wine. The Yellow Hammer man ran a hand through his blonde, wavy hair, his Indigo Aura (Third Eye Chakra) pulsating softly around his temples.
"My Lord?" Agyenim smiled, the picture of relaxed elegance in his indigo Modi waistcoat. "Did the fish course disagree with you? Or perhaps the burden of the crown is heavy tonight?"
"The crown is light," Libaax said, his voice low but carrying to every corner of the silent room. "It is the dust on it that is heavy."
Agyenim's smile didn't waver, but his Indigo Aura flickered. As a Masani, his psionic senses were hyper-tuned. He could feel intentions, read micro-expressions, and sense danger before it arrived.
And right now, his Third Eye was screaming.
"Dust, My Lord?" Agyenim asked, swirling his wine. "A housekeeper's error, surely."
"Not house dust," Libaax corrected. He walked slowly around the table, trailing his hand along the back of Agyenim's chair. "I speak of the Brotherhood of Dust. The ash of burnt markets. The soot of insurrection."
Libaax stopped directly behind Agyenim. He leaned down, his mouth inches from the Authority's ear.
"We found the ledger, Agyenim."
Agyenim froze.
He tried to use his Telepathy to probe Libaax's mind, to see if he was bluffing. He pushed his Dapabie toward the King's, seeking a crack in the mental armor.
Thwack.
Agyenim gasped, recoiling physically. He hadn't hit a mental wall; he had hit a razor. The Severity of the King's spirit severed the telepathic probe instantly.
"Do not look inside my head," Libaax whispered, his voice cold enough to freeze the wine in the glass. "You will only find the blade."
Agyenim's heart hammered against his ribs. The ledger. The ivory case. He had paid a fortune to the Mufarikha to create the narrative of the 'Tyrant King'. He had orchestrated the riots to force Libaax back into line, to make him dependent on the Propaganda Ministry to fix his image.
"It... must be a forgery," Agyenim stammered, his composure cracking. "Propaganda is a messy business, My Lord. Enemies often plant false evidence to sow discord among allies."
"Allies," Libaax repeated, tasting the word.
He straightened up and looked at the crowded hall.
"A toast!" Libaax roared, raising his empty hand.
The guests scrambled to raise their goblets, terrified.
"To Truth," Libaax frowned, his Blue Aura flaring. "It is the only thing that cannot be bought. It cannot be spun. And it cannot be rewritten."
He looked down at Agyenim.
"And to Loyalty. Because when a man buys a snake, he must ensure he is not the first thing it bites."
Libaax slammed his hand onto Agyenim's shoulder. It wasn't an attack—not legally. It was a friendly gesture. But the Severity of the contact sent a shockwave through Agyenim's body. The chair legs groaned under the sudden, crushing weight of the King's intent.
"Enjoy the feast, Authority Davu," Libaax said softly. "Eat well. It may be a long time before you taste such fine things again."
Libaax walked away, returning to his throne.
Agyenim sat paralyzed. He stared at his reflection in the wine. His face was pale. He realized with dawning horror that the King wasn't going to arrest him tonight. Libaax was going to let him sweat. He was going to let him wait for the axe to fall.
At the lower table, Ahia watched the exchange. She didn't hear the whisper, but she saw the result. She saw the confident, slippery Propaganda Master turn into a statue of fear.
She looked at Libaax. He sat on his throne, radiating a terrifying calm. He had turned the banquet into a hunting ground.
He knows, Ahia realized. He knows who the traitor is.
But as she looked at Agyenim's shaking hands, she noticed something else. Agyenim wasn't just scared; he was desperate. And a desperate Masani, with the power to warp minds and move objects with a thought, was a dangerous animal to corner.
Agyenim's eyes darted around the room. They landed on Ahia.
His Indigo Aura flared—not with fear this time, but with malice. If he was going down, he was going to destroy the King's weakness first.
Ahia felt a sudden pressure in her temples. A psychic itch.
You, Agyenim's voice slithered into her mind, bypassing her ears. You are the reason the sky is falling.
Ahia gripped her fork. She remembered Vhuthu's lesson. Posture. She straightened her back and stared right back at him.
Then let it fall, she projected back, channeling her stubborn Green Huenergy. I have survived the Dildillaac storm. I can survive a cold wind.
Agyenim blinked, surprised by her mental resistance. He broke the connection.
Ahia exhaled shakily. She had won the stare-down. But she knew the war had just begun.