The great hall of the Obsidian Web estate had survived the battle, though its walls bore scorch marks and splintered panels. Lanterns were lit, throwing a warm glow across the polished tables. Wine flowed in dark rivers, and food—rich, decadent, and far too extravagant for the grim battlefield outside—was laid out in abundance. Soldiers, lieutenants, and trusted allies gathered, nervously at first, then with growing laughter, drawn in by the rare sight of their leaders relaxed, smiling, even joking.
Rayon reclined at the head of the table, the very image of dangerous elegance. A goblet of red liquid in hand, he surveyed the room with a look that could be mistaken for amusement, but beneath it was absolute control. "To think," he said, voice smooth, almost teasing, "we survived the might of the Sanctum… and here you all are, still breathing. Miracles do happen, I suppose."
Cairo leaned back in his chair beside him, one boot resting on the edge of the table. "Miracles?" he said, smirking. "No. Just talent. Precision. And maybe a touch of cruelty." He stabbed a roasted pheasant with a fork, tearing it apart in a single motion. "Anyone who doubts us at this table is probably dead already—or will be soon enough."
Severin lounged across from them, a glass of dark wine held loosely in one hand. His grin was slow, predatory. "You lot have no idea what it's like to fight the two of them," he said, eyes glinting with amusement as he gestured toward Rayon and Cairo. "I mean, really—every day a war, every night a mess of corpses, and yet somehow, here we sit. Drinking. Laughing. The world is deliciously ignorant."
The room erupted in quiet laughter. Even the most cautious soldiers couldn't help but be drawn into their leaders' energy—an intoxicating blend of arrogance, confidence, and the terrifying magnetism of absolute power.
Rayon leaned forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, though everyone at the table felt it: "Tonight is ours. Tomorrow… we vanish. The Web ends, and the world won't know what hit it. So drink, laugh, and enjoy the illusion of safety while you can."
Cairo's smile was sharp, almost wicked. "I say we make it memorable. The more noise we make now, the longer it echoes after we're gone." He raised his goblet high, and many followed, though some glanced nervously at the dark streaks of blood still smeared on the floor from yesterday's battle.
Severin slammed his hand against the table with a grin. "To chaos," he said simply. "To the blood we've spilled, the nightmares we've caused, and the future we'll haunt as we see fit."
Rayon laughed, long and low, the sound rich and predatory. "Perfect. Let's carve this memory into their minds before we disappear. They'll speak of this night… and us… for decades, whether in fear or awe."
The trio spent hours at the banquet, moving from group to group, chatting, teasing, laughing at the soldiers' awkward attempts to impress them. No one dared challenge them, and even if they had, no one would have survived. It was the final slice of life, indulgent and decadent, for three men who had just turned the world on its head and now planned to leave it trembling in the shadows.
Finally, as the night deepened and the laughter faded into the soft hum of conversation, Rayon stood, sweeping his cloak around him. Cairo and Severin followed, leaning casually on their chairs before straightening.
Rayon's gaze swept over the room, cold and predatory beneath the faint smile that never reached his eyes. "Remember this," he said, voice quiet but cutting. "This isn't farewell. This is… a promise. Enjoy your lives while you can."
And with that, they left the great hall, stepping into the night, leaving laughter, wine, and firelight behind them. The Obsidian Web would stand, for now, but the men who had made it feared nothing and no one—and the world would soon learn that the true storm had only just begun.