Lan watched them eat.
The cloaked men tore into the hearts with a reverent hunger—sinew stretching, blood coating pale lips, teeth biting through raw muscle. The masked women stood in silence nearby, still as statues, their heads bowed as if in worship.
Thread sat at the head of the table, chewing slowly. A string of crimson clung to his chin, which he wiped away with a handkerchief embroidered with a red candle.
Lan said nothing for a moment. His fingers twitched, his gaze steady.
He had seen barbarism before. He had unleashed it himself. But this was different —ritualistic, disgusting.
"I've seen enough," Lan finally said. His voice was quiet, but the tension in the air snapped like a string pulled. "So. Will you submit… or will you die?"
The red cloaked figures paused mid-bite. A few slowly turned their masked faces toward Thread.
The transmission rune stone pulsed violently in Lan's inner coat, each flash more insistent than the last.
Still, he didn't reach for it.
