Aira held her breath, her body pressed stiffly against the back of her seat in the rear row. She saw Theodore Rhegalia on stage no longer as a hunched old advisor, but as the manifestation of the Angel of Death itself.

  Theodore’s voice sliced the already fractured air, cold and absolute.

  "Walk alongside the grand fluttering of the Banner of Heshawara..."

  The sentence hung for a moment in the air, a false offer of salvation that trapped the listener. Aira saw Ratautan’s shoulders tense, waiting for the executioner’s axe to fall. And the axe fell with the very next sentence.

  "...or King Lavin will send an iron tray to your doorstep."

  Aira saw Ratautan’s head snap up. Pure horror radiated from his rigid posture.

  "To take your head," Theodore continued without blinking, his eyes sweeping the room like a lighthouse beam searching for shipwreck victims. "And the heads of your entire family line. Wife, children, grandchildren... even the dogs and pet cats in your house. Nothing shall breathe."

  BOOM!

  Though there was no physical lightning, Aira could feel the strike hit Ratautan. The old man’s back curved forward as if struck by an invisible sledgehammer.

  It wasn't a political threat. It was a promise of massacre.

  Aira observed the trembling in Ratautan’s body intensify. His bones seemed to rattle beneath his expensive suit. From a distance, Aira could see how the logic of the 'News King' collapsed totally. No critical journalist remained there. What was left in that chair was merely an old beast cornered, willing to do anything for one more breath tomorrow.

  "Perform the Blood Oath."

  The command fell like a death sentence.

  Aira saw Ratautan’s right hand rummage in his inner jacket pocket with chaotic, panicked movements. The old man pulled out a gold pen—the object that had been his command baton to ruin politicians' careers.

  Now, the pen trembled violently in the air, stripped of all authority.

  Ratautan slammed the black document onto his thin thighs. Aira saw his shoulders heave rapidly, his wheezing breath faintly audible amidst the deadly silence of the room.

  The pen touched the paper.

  Scritch... scratch...

  Aira imagined the broken chicken-scratch strokes there. The great name "Ratautan" was being carved onto his own tombstone.

  But ink was not enough. Theodore demanded a sacrifice.

  Aira’s eyes widened as she saw Ratautan raise his left index finger. Without a shred of hesitation, without a remnant of dignity, the old man thrust the finger into his own mouth.

  His jaw clamped down.

  CRUNCH!

  Aira winced in horror. She could imagine the salty taste of iron flooding the old man’s tongue as his skin tore.

  Ratautan pulled his finger out. Aira saw a dark red stain bead at the tip. Fresh blood.

  With gasping breath, Ratautan pressed the bleeding fingertip right over his signature.

  Drip...

  The red liquid fell, seeping into the paper fibers, binding Ratautan’s soul to a devil’s contract to save his neck.

  Aira’s nostrils flared. She smelled a drastic change in the air.

  The scent of lavender, musk, and expensive perfume that filled the room vanished instantly.

  Replaced by a single piercing, primitive aroma.

  The scent of iron.

  The smell of warm blood wafted sharply. It was the scent born from hundreds of fingertips bitten simultaneously, mixed with the cold sweat of fear. Aira felt nauseous. This luxurious marble-pillared hall now smelled like a slaughterhouse.

  In front of her, Ratautan squeezed his eyes shut tight, covering his ears with trembling shoulders.

  Aira knew why. The sounds began.

  Huuuhhh... Hic... Aaaaargh...

  Stifled cries. Painful sobs. Short breaths choked with saliva.

  The sounds echoed, bouncing off high walls, creating a symphony of despair that deafened the soul. Aira listened to the "liturgy of destruction" with a sinking heart. Three hundred adults, the masters of public opinion, were crying like babies. Weeping for their lives, and weeping for the freedom that had just died at their bloody fingertips.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Amidst the choir of tears, Lady Reine’s voice returned.

  Flat. Emotionless. Like an automated machine reading burial instructions.

  "Starting today..." Reine’s voice floated above the mass sobbing, "...all news narratives, editorials, and public information will be fully controlled by the Minister of Information."

  Aira saw Ratautan clutch his stomach, as if just punched. Minister of Information? That authoritarian ghost of the past was being resurrected?

  "You do not need to think," Reine continued, her sentence the final nail in the coffin of Carta journalism. "You do not need to analyze. Material will be sent every morning to your editorial desks."

  "You simply print it, broadcast it, and obey it. Be good mouthpieces, and your families will continue to breathe."

  Aira stared at Ratautan’s back. The old man slowly opened his wet eyes.

  From Ratautan’s blank stare sweeping around, Aira knew what he saw. The old man no longer saw colleagues or rivals.

  He saw a line of living corpses holding bloody pens, ready to become slaves of narrative to survive.

  The briefing ended not with applause, but with the sound of shuffling feet in sorrow.

  Aira stood silent in the shadowed corner of a pillar, witnessing the pathetic scene. The crowd of journalists usually noisy, aggressive, and full of questions now dispersed like a procession of mourners at a mass funeral.

  No one spoke. No one made eye contact.

  They walked out with heads bowed deep, hugging the black document bundles to their chests as if they were the only lifebuoys in a stormy sea. Their footsteps were heavy, dragging, and aimless.

  Aira’s eyes fixed on Ratautan’s figure.

  The "Journalist Prophet" now looked like a lost old man in a nursing home. His back, which had stood straight defiantly moments ago, was now severely hunched. He walked alongside Sharpwords, but there was no longer an aura of rivalry or solidarity between them.

  Sharpwords seemed to support his body against the wall as he walked, face completely blank. While Ratautan continuously wiped his still-bleeding left index finger on his expensive suit, a repetitive motion born of trauma.

  "Pity..." Aira hissed softly, heart sinking.

  Even though she knew how arrogant those old men were before, seeing someone’s spirit broken so brutally still left a sting. They entered as kings of opinion, and left as slaves of narrative.

  One by one, the despairing backs disappeared behind the giant double doors of the Assembly Hall.

  Security officers closed the main doors. SLAM.

  The sound echoed, locking the silence inside the massive room.

  Now, the hall was empty again. Leaving only messy empty chairs, the fading smell of blood, and one figure still standing tall on the stage.

  The Minister of Information. Lady Reine Blackmere.

  The woman didn't move. She stood behind the podium, her hands in black silk gloves busy tidying speech sheets with terrifying calm, as if she had just read a dinner menu, not a death sentence for the press.

  Aira exhaled a long breath, expelling the remaining tension in her chest.

  She stepped out from her hiding place.

  The sound of her light footsteps, tap... tap... tap..., broke the marble silence, sounding in contrast to the dragging steps of the journalists earlier. Aira’s steps were alive, rhythmic, and bold.

  She descended the steps of the seating rows, walking straight through the empty hall toward the main stage. No fear in her eyes, only curiosity mixed with a strange familiarity.

  As the distance closed, Aira could see Lady Reine’s shoulders relax slightly, realizing her audience was now down to one.

  Aira stopped right in front of the podium, looking up at the iron woman with a thin, meaningful smile.

  Without preamble or stiff respect, Aira quickened her pace upon reaching the edge of the high stage. She didn't bother looking for side stairs.

  With a light push of her feet, the girl leaped up.

  "Hup!"

  Her body floated briefly past the podium edge, then landed smoothly on the stage floor, right in front of the feared Prime Minister. And without giving a second, Aira threw herself at the woman.

  Aira felt Reine Blackmere’s arms—arms that had just signed the death of press freedom—open wide to welcome her.

  No stiffness. No deadly cold.

  Reine caught Aira’s body with a gentle jerk, hugging her tight, burying her face in the girl’s shoulder. Aira could feel sincere warmth flowing from the woman’s body, a confusing contrast to the "Angel of Death" figure standing there minutes ago.

  The embrace felt urgent and full of longing, like two siblings separated by continents and oceans for a decade, just reunited at the dock.

  "Look at you..."

  Reine released her hug slightly, holding Aira’s shoulders with hands that now felt soft. Reine’s sharp eyes, which had stared at Ratautan blankly earlier, now sparkled, sweeping Aira’s face from forehead to chin with pure admiration.

  "You grew up to be a very beautiful girl, Aira," Reine praised, her voice sounding crisp and honest, her smile blooming wide until her eyes crinkled into crescents. "Truly stunning."

  Aira chuckled, cheeks flushing with pleasure. She returned the gaze with the same sparkle, touching the sleeve of Reine’s smooth silk shirt.

  "What are you saying, Sister?" Aira replied cheerfully, head tilted slightly in a playful manner. "Look at you... Sister Reine is still the most beautiful and elegant woman in all of Ironseat. Time seems afraid to touch your face."

  Reine laughed freely hearing the praise.

  "Hahahaha!"

  Aira laughed along.

  "Hihihihi..."

  Their laughter—one heavy and mature, the other clear and young—blended into an odd harmony. The laughter echoed in the giant empty hall, bouncing off the cold marble walls.

  Very ironic.

  Minutes ago, this room was filled with fearful sobs and the metallic smell of blood from injured fingers. Now, the same room was filled with cheerful laughter and the warm reunion of two beautiful women, as if the tragedy of Ratautan and his friends never happened.

  Aira tilted her head, looking at the woman who had just silenced a nation's press with a feigned pitiful look. Her lips pursed spoiledly, completely indifferent to the freezing room temperature.

  "Sister Reine doesn't want to treat me to ice cream?" she asked innocently.

  Reine blinked, as if the request was more nonsensical than the news of the apocalypse she had just delivered.

  "Huh?" Reine laughed shortly, her breath even forming thin white steam in the air due to the cold. "Even in weather this cold? When everyone outside is shivering?"

  Reine chuckled in amusement. Her shoulders shook gently. She shook her head repeatedly looking at Aira, as if baffled by the young girl’s priorities.

  "You really are..."

  However, the head shake wasn't a refusal. The next second, Reine snatched Aira’s wrist with a quick yet familiar movement.

  "Very well..."

  Without giving Aira a chance to cheer, Reine dragged her immediately. She pulled the young girl down from the stage of gloom, stepping quickly toward the private exit, leaving the remnants of journalistic tragedy behind their backs in search of a scoop of ice cream.