The grand hall stretched wide and austere, its walls lined with banners of crimson and steel, its floor polished to a cold, reflective sheen. At the far end, on the obsidian throne, sat Nwadiebube.

His posture was regal, but his expression was sharp with irritation. One hand rested lazily on the throne's armrest, but his fingers tapped against it in a slow, deliberate rhythm, a drumbeat of his mood.

The envoys entered with practiced grace. As they stepped forward, they began the motion of a bow, but Nwadiebube raised his hand.

"Stop."

The word rang across the hall like a commandment. The envoys froze mid-motion, the silence heavy enough to suffocate.

With a bored expression and a tone that cut like iron, Nwadiebube's gaze slid past the human envoys and fell squarely upon the five monsters wearing human skins.

"I have no time for games." His hand moved in a languid gesture, dismissive, toward the others in the group. "These puppets that call themselves envoys… I have no need of them."

The words struck like a hammer.

The five monsters stiffened, hearts tightening in their chests. For a split second, panic coursed through them. Does he know? The thought screamed in unison across their minds. Had their disguises already been pierced? Had their every move been under watch since they set foot in Omadi?

But then came his next words, and their tension eased.

"I know false weight when I see it," Nwadiebube continued, his voice cold and steady. "Those others are nothing more than dead cargo, leeches clinging to your side. I have no patience to waste on them."

The monsters exhaled inwardly, relief disguised as silence. He had not seen through their true forms, only judged the uselessness of their human companions. Yet even so, a sliver of unease remained. His eyes were too sharp, his tone too dismissive, as though he had already peeled back a layer of their deception without knowing how deep it ran.

The seven envoys who had been branded "puppets" exchanged looks of bewilderment. Their faces tightened with indignation, unable to make sense of what was unfolding before them.

Finally, one of them stepped forward, his voice loud and resolute.

"Your Highness, you dishonor our king's authority by calling his envoys mere puppets. Each of us was chosen to tread into your lands, to establish contact, to extend our king's hand of diplomacy. You will do well to respect both us and the crown we serve."

The words rang through the chamber, but Nwadiebube did not so much as flick his gaze toward the speaker. His eyes remained locked, unblinking, upon the five who stood with their heads bowed. His fingers drummed once more against the throne's armrest slow, deliberate, like a predator measuring the distance to its prey.

The silence dragged until the female mage exhaled softly. With a flick of her wrist, a gray mist curled across the hall, dissolving almost as quickly as it had appeared. One by one, the seven protesting envoys slumped to the ground, breathing steadily in unnatural sleep.

The monsters stepped forward, their human disguises still intact, but their composure was faltering under the weight of Nwadiebube's gaze. Kneeling, they pressed their heads lower.

"It was not our intention to deceive you, Your Grace," the female mage said, her voice low and measured. "Our Master willed this test, to measure the sharpness of your insight… to see if your vision truly matches your reputation."

The court was silent, the soldiers lining the walls watching without expression.

"And if I had not passed?" Nwadiebube asked at last.

His words were quiet, but the air shifted with them, heavy and suffocating. The envoys felt it in their bones, a weight pressing down as though the throne itself had become a living beast, its fangs bared, its eyes boring into them.

Their bodies trembled despite themselves, each one shrinking further into submission. None dared to answer at first, their silence betraying the fear that answering wrongly would cost them their lives before their Master's plan could even begin.

"If you had not passed," the burly man with the scar finally rumbled, forcing the words through the weight of the king's presence, "then our identity would have remained hidden from your sight. We would have sought another… someone with vision that stretched farther than yours. At most, you would have secured a superficial treaty with our current king, nothing more."

The air in the hall shifted. The oppressive pressure melted away as Nwadiebube leaned back against his throne, his expression relaxing into something almost casual.

"I take it, then," he said in a lighter tone, "that your Master differs from your king?"

There was a pause, just long enough to measure risk. Then the female mage bowed her head deeper.

"Indeed. But our Master's existence is no secret to the king. On the contrary, it is well known. After all…" her voice lowered, careful, reverent, "…the king is our Master's son."

A ripple of unease flickered through the five as they dared raise their heads slightly, gauging his reaction.

Nwadiebube's lips curved faintly. "I see. That will suffice. Please, take your seats."

The envoys obeyed, rising slowly. Their gazes fell to the unconscious forms of their seven companions, sprawled like discarded dolls on the polished floor. They hesitated for only a moment before stepping past them, each movement cautious, measured, before finding seats at the long table reserved for honored guests.

From the shadows of the great pillars flanking the throne, masked figures emerged silently. They bore the limp bodies of the seven slumbering envoys away with unnerving efficiency, their movements fluid, precise, almost inhuman. Within moments, the pillars swallowed them again, and the court looked untouched, as though the "puppets" had never existed at all.

The five monsters exchanged uneasy glances, faint beads of sweat glistening at their brows.

They had underestimated this king. His eyes were sharper than they had believed, his reach deeper than they had accounted for. What was meant to be a test had turned into a revelation, one not for him, but for them.

"Who is your Master?" Nwadiebube asked, his voice calm, almost conversational.

The envoys exchanged quick glances, but their answer came as one. They shook their heads.

"The Master's name will be known to you only when he wills it. Not before."

Nwadiebube merely nodded. He had expected no less. Having dealt with godlings, creatures who thrived on riddles, half-truths, and labyrinthine schemes, he found nothing surprising in the evasiveness of these five.

"I see." His fingers tapped once against the armrest, then stilled. His eyes narrowed, studying them as one might study a blade.

"I take it, then… that your Master is of the same existence as Osita."

The words fell like stones into a still lake. And then the silence deepened.

No, it was more than silence. It was as though the very sound in the hall had been stolen away. The banners no longer whispered against the walls. Breath itself seemed suspended.

The five envoys lifted their heads, their eyes glowing with an unnatural light, burning in hues not meant for men. Their stares were fixed on Nwadiebube, heavy with malice and danger.

But they did not find hesitation or fear in return.

On the throne, Nwadiebube's gaze flared, golden light spilling from his eyes like molten fire. It was not simply a glow but a blaze, bright enough to cast their shadows long across the marble floor. His expression was one of cold amusement, his lips curved ever so slightly in mockery.

The message in his gaze was unmistakable.

I know what you are. I know what you guard. And I am daring you to bare your fangs here, before me.

The air grew heavy, thick with power barely restrained. The envoys felt it in their very marrow, that if they so much as bit, if they yielded to the provocation smoldering in those golden eyes, the throne room would become their grave.

They swallowed their rage, their glowing eyes dimming ever so slightly, and bowed their heads once more.

Nwadiebube's gaze lingered on them a heartbeat longer before he leaned back, the mocking fire still alive in his eyes.

The tension in the hall lingered like a storm that refused to break. Finally, the female mage lifted her head, a small smile curving her lips.

"We have indeed underestimated you, Your Grace," she said softly, her tone respectful but tinged with something else, acknowledgment. With a graceful bow, she added, "Few mortals would dare to speak such words in our presence without flinching."

Nwadiebube said nothing, his golden gaze still burning into them. His silence was not dismissal, but a demand for more.

The mage straightened, her eyes glimmering faintly as she continued.

"Our Master is not the same as Osita. But…" her words slowed, deliberate, "they share the same origin. Osita's existence came as a result of our Master's being. He is not a rival, nor a creation, but rather… a reflection born of inevitability."

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