The silence after Raphael's question hung heavier than the piano's last note.
Hermes sat rigid in the chair, arms crossed so tight his muscles ached, his pulse still pounding from the way Eirwyn's name had detonated in the air.
He wanted to demand answers immediately, to shake them out of Raphael if he had to. But the golden boy didn't rush. He only leaned back in his seat, posture flawless, like a professor about to deliver a lecture.
And deliver he did.
"The Thirteen Stripes," Raphael began, voice low but steady, "is not a myth. They're real, Hermes. A body of power users carefully positioned throughout the world. In governments. In courts. In industries where visibility makes them untouchable."
