Aira stood slightly aside, concealed in the shadows of a colossal marble pillar in the Assembly Hall Lobby. Her keen eyes observed a reflection in the frosted glass near the main entrance, where a small performance was underway.

  She saw an old man—Ratautan.

  In the glass, Aira watched thin, knobby yet nimble fingers buttoning a wool vest. His movements were full of precision, adjusting the tie knot to sit exactly in the center of the stiff shirt collar. From the movement of his mumbling lips, Aira could guess the old man was praising himself. "Perfect," was likely what he said.

  Aira raised an eyebrow when she saw him snatch a thick dark brown fur coat.

  Excessive, Aira thought.

  The coat did protect against Carta’s anomalous cold, but to Aira’s eyes, it looked more like a stage costume. The old man wore it to hide his scrawny frame, creating an illusion of volume that made him look twice as large and intimidating.

  As Ratautan turned, Aira followed his gaze sweeping the lobby area.

  There, clustered dozens of young journalists looking like chicks who lost their hen. They held cameras awkwardly and cheap notebooks, their faces filled with anxiety waiting for news crumbs.

  Aira saw a cynical smirk form on Ratautan’s face. She didn't need to read minds to know the old journalist was looking down on his juniors. His body language screamed superiority—as if he were a steel rooster in the middle of a broiler coop.

  Ratautan began to stride through the crowd. Aira watched how his aura of seniority worked like a repelling spell; the young journalists stepped aside on their own without being asked.

  He headed for the polished mahogany reception desk. Aira heard a clink as a silver-framed invitation was placed with dramatic flair.

  "Welcome, Mr. Ratautan," the receptionist girl's voice reached Aira’s ears, sweet yet full of practiced falseness. Her eyes sparkled with sycophancy. "Master of all news kings and media in our homeland... Please, your place is prepared."

  Aira held back a small laugh seeing the corner of Ratautan’s lip lift. The old man ate up the flattery raw.

  "Hahahaha! HAHAHAHA!"

  Suddenly the laughter exploded. Aira winced slightly. The laughter was unnatural. The volume was deliberately raised several decibels above normal. It was territorial laughter. His voice was raspy, bouncing wildly off the cavernous walls of the cold lobby, slapping the ears of anyone hearing it due to the absence of sound-dampening carpets.

  In this vast room with white marble floors and a faded fresco dome ceiling, Ratautan’s laughter sounded like the decree of a petty king showing off his crown before commoners.

  Aira shifted her gaze, following Ratautan’s predatory stare sweeping the room.

  There were scattered Carta’s media elites—TV directors, newspaper bosses, radio tycoons. People considered giants out there, but under Ratautan’s gaze, Aira saw them shrink. Their shoulders dropped, eyes looking away. They whispered anxiously in small clusters, exactly like a herd of beavers panicking while waiting for a flash flood.

  They are afraid of him, Aira concluded internally. They are guessing what poison the old man brought today.

  Then, another living fossil appeared.

  A white-haired old man with hard facial lines approached Ratautan. Sharpwords. Aira recognized the eternal rival. They shook hands, but Aira saw it looked more like a bone-crushing contest than a friendly greeting.

  They began to converse. Aira sharpened her hearing. Ratautan didn't whisper; he deliberately spoke with a loud, punchy tone, as if wanting the entire lobby to witness his conversation.

  "Ironseat is heating up, Friend!" Ratautan exclaimed loudly, his voice echoing off the pillar where Aira leaned. "The Palace, Nobles, and political Seats are starting to feel like a barbecue grill. There is a sense of crowded festivity."

  Aira saw Sharpwords nod, eyes glinting.

  "Troop mobilization is highly unnatural," Ratautan continued, eyes glancing around, ensuring his audience was listening. "Division Three pulled from the Southern border, Division One on full alert in the Capital. This is not a parade exercise."

  He snorted roughly. "I've ordered my men to tear apart the city library archives. Old records give no clues. This movement pattern exists in no civil war history."

  Silence swept the lobby. Aira saw other media directors now openly staring at the two old men, holding their breath.

  Ratautan leaned in, but his voice grew heavier and clearer. Aira focused all her attention on the next sentence.

  "Several troop divisions are being gathered at one point..." Ratautan gave an annoying dramatic pause. "...Mirror Canyon."

  Mirror Canyon. Aira noted the name in her mind.

  The information worked like black magic. Aira witnessed a drastic change on the faces of the media elites. Their fear turned into fanatical hunger. Their doubt vanished, replaced by blind awe.

  They moved in unison. One step. Two steps. Then they jogged to swarm Ratautan. Tight and dense.

  "Mr. Ratautan! Mirror Canyon is not on the map!" exclaimed a morning daily owner with a pale face.

  "In the middle of the Iron Mountain range, right? Access is totally closed!" another chimed in.

  "The entrance from the South is heavily guarded!"

  A cable TV news director almost rammed his recorder into Ratautan’s nose. "Why are three elite troop divisions sent there? Is this just extreme terrain training? Or an invasion?"

  "Training is impossible!" cut in another hysterical voice. "Iron Mountains are strictly isolated by Ironseat! Ten-mile radius! That's Class 1 Restricted Area since the era of King Agrapana!"

  Amidst the storm of questions, Aira saw Ratautan just stand still.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. From where she stood, Aira could see an expression of almost sensual satisfaction on the wrinkled face. The old man didn't look dizzy from the noise; he looked like he was enjoying a rain shower after a long drought.

  His thirst for relevance, for recognition, and information power seemed satisfied.

  He enjoys it, Aira thought, staring at Ratautan’s figure swarmed by the masses. He feels like a prophet just descended bringing revelation.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Aira slipped like a shadow, following Ratautan’s steps into the main hall. Her movements were light, making almost no sound amidst the thud of eager journalists' footsteps.

  She took a seat in the back row, somewhat separated, in a strategic corner where she could see Ratautan’s back clearly.

  From her position, she saw the old journalist throw his back against the sheepskin-covered chair rest. Aira observed how comfortable the chair looked, as if designed to pamper the old bones of the elite.

  Beside him, Sharpwords leaned in, whispering something. Aira sharpened her hearing, trying to catch sound waves amidst the room's hum.

  "Chaos in Mirror Canyon..." Aira could hear the low hiss of Sharpwords’ voice. "Very covered up. The information blockade is too neat..."

  Ratautan nodded slowly. Aira saw the old man’s wrinkled hand clench slowly on the armrest.

  "Maybe only we... noses of old dogs..."

  Aira frowned. How arrogant, she thought.

  "Give me a few days... ah, no," Ratautan corrected himself. "Hours. I will expose it..."

  SCREEEEECH...

  A microphone feedback squeal painful to the ears made Aira wince while covering her ears. She saw Ratautan turn to the main stage, and her gaze followed.

  Lady Reine Blackmere was already standing at the podium.

  Aira observed the female Prime Minister. Elegant, cold, and radiating absolute authority. Her robes were flawlessly neat, and her face showed no emotion whatsoever.

  Aira glanced back at Ratautan. The old man seemed to be scanning the room, staring at the young journalists around him with a familiar disdainful look. She saw an expression of disgust on Ratautan’s face seeing his juniors admiring the room’s luxury with gaping mouths.

  Grumpy old grandpa, Aira thought, amused.

  However, a second later, the amusement vanished.

  Aira saw a drastic change in Ratautan’s body language. His relaxed back suddenly tensed. His eyes bulged wide, focused entirely on the stage.

  Aira looked back at the podium. And she was stunned.

  Beside Lady Reine, stood a hunched old man in simple indigo robes.

  "Theodore Rhegalia?" Aira wondered, a bit incredulous. "The Grand Advisor?"

  Whispers exploded throughout the room. Aira heard panicked murmurs around her.

  "Ghost of Ironseat..."

  "He never appears..."

  "Is the King dead?"

  Aira could feel the tension in the air thickening instantly. Theodore’s presence changed this press conference into something far more serious. This was no longer just news; it was a danger warning.

  Lady Reine began to speak. Her voice sliced the room coldly.

  "Media colleagues," she said flatly. "What you will hear today, will not leave this room without written permission from the Iron Crown."

  Aira saw Ratautan’s shoulders tense.

  "The King asks you... to take an Oath of Secrecy."

  THUMP.

  Aira’s heart beat fast hearing that sentence. Oath of Secrecy? For journalists? That was an insane order.

  Suddenly, Aira saw Ratautan move awkwardly. The old man pulled his shoulders and took off his prized thick fur coat just like that. Thud. The expensive coat fell to the marble floor, left lying like trash.

  He's panicking, Aira concluded, seeing Ratautan’s breath shorten.

  Aira scanned around. The view was terrifying. Media tycoons trembling, faces deathly pale. Even Sharpwords, Ratautan’s eternal rival, looked like a fool with jaw dropped and eyes bulging.

  The room was totally silent. Gripping.

  Then, Theodore Rhegalia stepped forward. His movements were slow but dominating. He raised his right hand, palm open facing the audience. The gesture of an old prophet bringing absolute decree.

  Rustle.

  Aira saw Ratautan stand straight. Followed by Sharpwords.

  Then the whole room moved in unison. Three hundred people stood, including Aira who reflexively rose from her seat in the back.

  Aira saw Ratautan place his right hand on his left chest. The old man looked shaken.

  "SWEAR TO KING LAVIN THE 135TH!" Theodore’s voice boomed.

  Aira saw Ratautan’s mouth move, his hoarse voice joining the mass choir breaking the silence. Aira mumbled the oath along, feeling a strange vibration in the air.

  "SWEAR TO THE GREAT BANNER OF HESHAWARA!"

  The voices of hundreds of people trembled. Aira could hear it—it wasn't spirit, it was fear.

  "SWEAR TO THE IRON CROWN OF LEON..."

  The last oath was spoken with held breath.

  After the echo faded, Theodore stepped back.

  THUDDD!

  Without command, everyone fell back into their seats. The sound of bodies hitting foam chairs sounded heavy and dull.

  Aira saw Ratautan gasping, staring blankly at the stage. His lips moved soundlessly.

  "What is this..." Aira could read the old man’s lip movement from afar.

  Ratautan turned sideways, locking eyes with Sharpwords. Aira saw a rare moment between the two rivals—a look of mutual understanding in shared confusion.

  Aira leaned her back against the rear wall, eyes narrowing sharply staring at the stage. She felt cold crawling up her neck.

  What news is worth the lives of these three hundred people? Aira thought, her grip on the notebook in her hand tightening.

  Lady Reine’s voice sliced the hall silence again, this time colder and sharper than before.

  "Starting this second..." Reine gave a chilling pause. "...all Laws regarding Journalism and Freedom of the Press in the Kingdom of Carta, ARE FROZEN."

  BOOM!

  Aira saw Ratautan’s thin body jerk violently, as if struck by invisible lightning in his seat. His wrinkled hand gripped the armrest until his knuckles turned white, seemingly trying to crush the mahogany wood.

  From her seat in the back, Aira could feel the frustration radiating from that hunched back. Aira knew what this meant for someone like Ratautan. Career, power, and ego built over fifty years, just decapitated before his eyes.

  He will explode, Aira predicted.

  Sure enough. Ratautan’s pale face turned crimson. His breath hunted roughly, audible to Aira’s sharp ears.

  SLAM!

  Ratautan stomped his foot and stood abruptly. His chair was shoved back roughly. Amidst the sea of humans bowing in fear, Ratautan’s thin figure stood towering alone, challenging the podium.

  "OBJECTION!"

  The hoarse scream echoed to every corner of the hall. Aira saw Ratautan pointing straight at Reine and Theodore with a finger trembling in rage.

  "This is a constitutional violation!" he roared. "You cannot silence us! We are pillars of truth! Without us, the people are blind! Without us, this kingdom is mute!"

  Aira observed around. She heard long sighs from hundreds of people in the room. Wheewww...

  It wasn't a sound of fatigue. Aira realized, it was a sound of relief. They—those cowardly journalists—felt represented. Ratautan was becoming a martyr for them.

  "What right do you have to freeze our pens?! What are you hiding?! If you kill the press, you kill the truth! I, Ratautan, will not bow to this tyranny of silence!"

  Ratautan stood panting, chest heaving, staring at the podium with chin raised. Waiting for reaction. Waiting for resistance.

  However, Aira saw a different reaction on stage. Theodore looked at Ratautan with weary old eyes—not anger, but the look of a grandfather watching his grandson whine for candy while the house was on fire. Reine remained ice cold.

  No shouting back. No arrest order. Only strange pity.

  Clack... clack... clack...

  The sound of wheels meeting marble diverted Aira’s attention. Side doors opened. Dozens of servants in black uniforms entered pushing iron trolleys, distributing thick black document bundles at lightning speed.

  Aira accepted a bundle offered to her. Heavy.

  She saw Ratautan accept his, throw his butt back into the chair, and open it roughly.

  Aira opened the first page of the document in her hand. Her eyes read fast.

  CYCLE PERIOD ONCE EVERY 500 YEARS.

  She turned the page again.

  IMPACT ESTIMATE: TOTAL COLLAPSE.

  Permanent barren land... global crop failure...

  Aira glanced at Ratautan’s back. The old man seemed frozen. His previously rough movements now stopped.

  Aira turned to page 5.

  SOCIAL PREDICTION: PUBLIC CANNIBALISM.

  "Horrifying," Aira hissed softly.

  She turned to the last page. Topographical map of Mirror Canyon and sketches of alien living creatures.

  MIRROR CANYON: ANOMALY SOURCE.

  FROZEN DARKNESS.

  DEMONS CRAWLING FROM ITS DEPTHS.

  OPENING: DECEMBER 13 13:13:13

  Aira closed the document slowly. Her hands trembled slightly, but she quickly mastered herself.

  She focused back on Ratautan. The red anger that had burned the old man seemed totally extinguished, doused by the ice water of reality. His shoulders slumped. He looked to shrink in his chair, becoming very small in the middle of this grand hall.

  His Journalist Prophet ego crumbled to dust.

  Aira could feel the room atmosphere change drastically.

  Hhhk... hhhkk...

  Suppressed sobbing sounds came from the front row. Someone was crying, trying to muffle it with a hand over their mouth. The crying was contagious, cracking the mentality of people around.

  Aira saw a pathetic sight. Shoulders previously wrapped in expensive suits now collapsed. Faces bowed deep, staring at the marble floor or documents on laps with blank stares, as if their souls had just been extracted.

  Chairs creaked softly due to bodies shivering violently uncontrollably.

  Aira smelled it. A sharp acidic smell displacing the scent of expensive perfume.

  The smell of pure fear.

  She saw cold sweat pouring from the temples of directors in front of her, soaking their stiff shirt collars. Under the crystal lights, those pale foreheads glistened wet.

  They were no longer media elites. They were just a group of humans who just realized their species was waiting for its turn to go extinct.

  Aira took a deep breath, staring at Ratautan’s back now bowed in resignation, thin hands struggling desperately to hold the paper from falling from trembling fingers.

  "The world you knew has ended, Old Man," Aira whispered softly, eyes staring bleakly ahead.