The mayor’s office was filled with a silence too heavy to be comfortable.
Strax sat in the central chair, the sa one that until a few hours ago had belonged to the most powerful man in Athenion. He occupied the seat with irritating ease, his elbow resting on the carved armrest, his posture relaxed, as if he were in a routine eting and not at the epicenter of a political rupture.
Sitting on his lap, Rogue seed completely oblivious to the tension around her.
The tanned woman playfully ran her finger across his chest, drawing lazy circles on the fabric of his coat, her face illuminated by a smile too satisfied for soone who should be worried. Her legs were crossed to the side, her body nestled against his as if that position were not only comfortable but correct. There was sothing almost provocative in the way she settled there—not sexual, but intimate, possessive, a silent declaration of belonging.
Around the long table, important n and won exchanged cautious glances.
Main route rchants, leaders of smaller guilds, caravan chiefs, representatives of rchant banks, old rchants with too many rings on their fingers. Among them, so veteran rcenaries, recognizable by their visible scars and ever-alert posture, accustod to reading rooms before drawing blades.
No one spoke.
No one smiled.
Everyone was thinking the sa thing: what, exactly, is happening here?
An older rchant was the first to break the silence.
"Where is the mayor?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
There was a low murmur of agreent around the table.
Strax slowly raised his hand, a calm, almost lazy gesture, asking for silence. Rogue followed the movent with her eyes, still drawing circles on his chest, curious to see his reaction.
"He’s not coming," Strax said simply.
Their gazes narrowed.
"Is this so kind of extraordinary eting?" "Or are we being coerced into sothing that hasn’t been explained yet?" asked a guild leader suspiciously.
Strax tilted his head slightly, as if appreciating the frankness.
"Neither," he replied. "This is a transition."
The word fell like a blade on the table.
"Transition?" soone repeated.
"Yes," Strax confird. "I’m going to take the city."
The effect was imdiate.
Chairs creaked as so moved back. Hands touched magic rings, amulets, hidden weapons. One of the rcenaries uncrossed his arms, too attentive. A rchant visibly paled.
"Is that a threat?" asked a short-bearded man, trying to sound indignant.
Strax just smiled slightly.
"No," he said. "It’s a warning."
Rogue chuckled softly, resting his chin on his shoulder.
"You all make funny faces," she comnted, amused.
No one answered.
Strax observed the faces around the table for a few seconds, letting the discomfort simr. He knew exactly what he was doing. Pure fear breeds chaos. Fear with direction breeds obedience.
"I know what you’re thinking," he continued. "Coup. Usurpation. Civil war. Economic ruin."
He made a vague gesture with his hand.
"Breathe. None of those things are necessary."
One of the rchants, younger, ventured:
"So... what do you want?"
Strax raised his hand again.
"Five percent."
The silence was imdiate and absolute.
"Five percent... of what?" soone asked, too cautiously.
Strax smiled a little more.
"Taxes."
For a second, no one reacted.
Then faces paled.
"What?" said a banker, almost choking. "That’s impossible. The city can’t sustain itself on—"
"I’m not finished," interrupted Strax, without raising his voice.
The man’s mouth shut instantly.
"Five percent on formal comrcial transactions," explained Strax. "Nothing on basic production, nothing on essential foodstuffs, nothing on small local rchants. Only on major routes, relevant contracts, high-volu operations."
So exchanged confused glances.
"That’s... less than half of what we pay now," soone murmured.
"I know," replied Strax.
Rogue leaned forward, smiling.
"He knows everything," she said proudly. "It’s kind of annoying, actually."
Strax ignored the comnt, continuing:
"I don’t care much about money. Gold is useful, but replaceable. What interests is loyalty."
He rested both elbows on the table.
"Support this ’coup,’ as so of you are already silently calling it," he said, without even looking at who had thought of it, "and I guarantee stability, real route protection, an end to arbitrary fees, and sothing you haven’t had for a long ti."
"What?" asked a rchant woman with a firm voice.
"Predictability."
There was a stifled murmur.
"The mayor wasn’t killed," Strax continued. "I let him go."
Eyes widened.
"Go where?" soone asked.
"Crawling to the Monarch of the White Flas," he replied. "My target from the start."
The na fell like a muffled thunderclap.
"That’s madness," murmured a guild leader. "Getting involved with him is suicide."
Strax leaned back, relaxed.
"Perhaps," he conceded. "But not for you."
Rogue fiddled with his necklace now, distracted.
"The city doesn’t need to suffer," Strax continued. "It doesn’t need to burn, it doesn’t need to bleed, it doesn’t need to lose routes or population. I promise you that."
He scanned the table with his gaze. "Things will be better. Simpler. Cheaper. Safer."
A rcenary cleared his throat.
"And whoever objects?"
Strax didn’t smile this ti.
"They won’t be rembered."
Silence returned, heavier.
"You have bills to pay," he said, now in an almost didactic tone. "Families to support. Employees who depend on the decisions you make sitting at this table."
He stood up slightly, just enough for Rogue to settle into his lap without getting up.
"I’m not asking you to love ," he concluded. "I’m offering you a better deal than any you’ll ever get."
Rogue leaned in and whispered in his ear, loud enough for so to hear:
"They’re already convinced. They’re just afraid to admit it."
Strax smiled slightly.
One by one, the bigwigs began to realize the obvious.
Five percent. Safe routes.
Real protection.
A clear external enemy.
And a man too powerful to be ignored, sitting exactly where he should be.
The first to lower his head was a veteran rchant.
"If... if this holds," he said slowly, "my guild supports it."
Another nodded soon after.
"Mine too."
The rcenaries exchanged glances, calculating future contracts.
Strax observed everything in silence.
The city hadn’t been taken by fire.
It had been bought with logic.
The murmur of agreent still hung in the air when a voice rose from the back of the table, harsh, laden with barely disguised contempt.
"This is madness."
All eyes turned.
He was a thin man, his clothes too rich to hide the insecurity in his body, magical rings shimring on his fingers like fragile shields. One of the great ore rchants, known for making high-stakes bets when he believed he was protected.
He stood up, resting his hands on the table.
"Who do you think you are?" he snapped, his voice gaining strength as he spoke. "Here, the law is that of the strongest. It always has been. And the strongest in this region is not you."
Silence thickened again.
Rogue stopped toying with Strax’s chest. Cassandra and Daniela, leaning further back, exchanged a slow, almost... tired look. They had seen this movie before.
"The Monarch of the White Flas," the man continued, pointing an accusing finger, "will crush you. Will reduce this city to ashes just to make an example. You’re playing with sothing you don’t understand."
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
Then Strax began to laugh.
At first, it was low. A deep, almost restrained sound, vibrating in his chest like distant thunder. So thought it was nervousness. Others, disbelief.
They were wrong.
The laughter grew.
The walls of the room trembled slightly, as if a seismic tremor had passed beneath the building. Wine glasses clinked. A crystal chandelier swayed from the ceiling.
"Hah... hahahah..."
Rogue slid off his lap unhurriedly, standing beside him, his eyes gleaming with expectation. Cassandra crossed her arms. Daniela smiled broadly.
Strax’s laughter had beco sothing... wrong.
It wasn’t human. It wasn’t natural.
The sound seed to occupy too much space, pressing against their ears, vibrating in their bones. So of the bigwigs unconsciously clutched their chests, their hearts racing in instinctive panic.
The man who had spoken took a step back.
"W-what...?"
Crack.
A dry sound echoed.
Then another.
Horns began to erge from Strax’s head, tearing through the air like living obsidian, curved, black, marked by incandescent veins that pulsed with ancient energy. They grew slowly, deliberately, as if his own body were reminding the world what he was.
The aura exploded.
There was no blinding light. There was no visible explosion.
There was pressure.
The air beca too heavy to breathe properly. So fell to their knees without understanding why. Others felt nauseous, dizzy, a primal urge to flee, to hide, to beco small.
Strax’s presence expanded, dominating, overwhelming—draconic.
Carpets began to tear slightly at the edges. The candle flas curved away from him, trembling like living creatures trying to escape.
The opposing man stumbled backward, his face completely pale, sweat dripping freely.
"S-stop..."
Strax stood up.
When he stood fully upright, he seed larger. Not physically—but existentially. As if the room had been made too small to contain him.
He walked slowly toward the man, each step making the floor creak under an invisible force.
The laughter ceased.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Strax stopped a few steps from him and tilted his head slightly, observing him like a curious predator observes prey that dared to growl.
"The Monarch of the White Flas..." he repeated, with a crooked smile. "A worm with borrowed power."
He took another step closer.
The man fell seated, unable to stand.
"I am a fucking Dragon," said Strax, his voice now deep, reverberating straight into the bones of everyone there. "Do you really think I should be afraid of sothing I was going to kill anyway?"
Fear exploded.
Not as emotion. As instinct.
So of those present vomited. Others wept silently. A veteran rcenary—a man who had survived wars—trembled like a child.
Strax looked around the table.
"Here, the law is that of the strongest," he agreed. "It always has been."
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