Chapter 24 - "The Crescent Table"

The interior room was sterile. No windows. No decoration. Just a black crystal circular table and four chairs in a semicircle around the table. The overhead lighting was a pale disk—a halo that invited you to speak the truth under it.

Shimmering walls of obsidian and mirrored glass curved into the ceiling to form a reflective dome that cast weird silhouettes of all the people inside. A crescent table filled the room—constructed of some exotic mineral that seemed to breathe in the faint blue light. Symbols were etched along its rim, softly glowing.

Three of the chairs were occupied.

Each of the world giants in turn had taken their seat.

At the head of the long obsidian table sat Julius Treign, clad in a precision-cut graphite suit lined with silver neural threads—no tie, no excess. All his details seemed calculated, engineered, almost mechanical. His eyes did not judge or roam—his eyes calculated. Even his breathing seemed synchronized with some intangible algorithm, as if air itself curved to his sense of mastery.

To his right, in a sweeping black silk outfit cinched with asymmetrical gold plating, reclined Thalassa Wynne as if she did not merely possess the room, but the very idea of ownership. A single click of her heels on the gleaming floor as she moved, one gloved hand pushing the data lens into place mere inches in front of her right eye. She was not queen-like—she transcended royalty. She was currency, weaponized.

Across from her, quiet as silence, was Rovan Dusk. A high-collared coat of obsidian bound him like darkness embroidered from lies. His boots didn't creak. His existence didn't introduce itself. Even in the unforgiving council lighting, the man appeared blur-edged, difficult to pin down, like reality itself didn't care to recall him. No ID. No insignia. Just a gaze frigid enough to initiate survival reflexes.

And beside him, his stance regal but unreadable, sat Sorin Veltre—Sentinel's Branch Leader. Arms crossed. Face expressionless. He was no longer Phantom's friend here.

He was just another judge.

Standing in the middle of the room, the only one standing—

Was Phantom.

His cloak was missing. His stance stiff. Hands behind his back. Chest slightly puffed out. Eyes straight ahead.

But the silence in the room… was heavy.

No words were exchanged.

They were all staring at him.

No, assessing him.

As though they were trying to look beneath the mask—to gauge what kind of tempest seethed behind that serenity. Phantom didn't shift, but inside—

"They're not people. They're the scales that weigh nations. And I'm the variable."

Just as the tension neared its limit, the grand doors at the back of the room clicked—

—and opened slowly.

The air grew cold.

Echoes of steps—gracious, slow, yet unmistakably masterful.

A man stepped in, wearing an obsidian coat trimmed with gold threading that sparkled like stardust. His hair lay slicked back with a regal gloss. His eyes? They blazed with something darker than judgment—purpose.

Zyphorion's Second-in-Command.

Mavran Valchev.

And the room… shifted.

The GMU chairwoman stiffened her back.

The GAA leader exhaled like he hadn't breathed in minutes.

Even Sorin's gaze sharpened—subtle, but unmistakable.

Phantom, for the first time… felt the edge of fear.

"That presence—"

"It's not just charisma… it's surgical dominance."

"He doesn't need to prove anything. Because everything here already belongs to him."

Mavran didn't glance at anyone as he strode.

Until his eyes locked with Phantom's.

He smiled.

And it wasn't a nice smile.

Phantom's eyes rested on the man now sitting at the table—Mavran Valchev. Even as silence descended upon the chamber, his presence lingered, like an echo that refused to fade.

The shadows danced on the wall—distorted silhouettes of the world's dominant powers, all coming together in one room, at one time.

And at the center of it… him.

"There's no chaos here. No blood. No broken bones. But somehow… this is more deadly than any battlefield I've ever set foot on."

He could feel it in his stomach—that primitive, instinctive sense of vulnerability.

Here, masks weren't removed.

They were peeled.

And behind every smile sat a blade aimed at someone's future.

Sorin had said not a single word since the session started. Neither had the rest.

So this is what it feels like to be counted as being among the upper echelon. To not act. But to wait. To weigh."

Phantom flexed his fingers behind his back—unseen.

A brief pulse of thought triggered the holo-circuit in his cuff, and information whispered in his ear. Names. Titles. Briefs. Speech patterns.

He remembered them all.

But data couldn't account for aura. Or intent.

"Information sharpens the mind… But intuition—that's what keeps you alive in rooms like these."

He sensed a cold stare cutting through the gloom.

Sorin?

No. Mavran again.

Still observing him.

Phantom didn't blink. Instead, he smiled in return.

Just a little.

Not so much defiance.

But as a signal—"I'm not the sheep you're used to."

A pause settled over the room like a dust-laden curtain. No one moved. No one spoke.

Except one.

The Second-in-Command—Mavran Valchev—shifted his head slightly, his keen eyes scanning the table to Sorin.

"And where is Raven?"

Voice: calm.

Tone: deliberate.

Intention: unknown.

Every eye turned, curiosity barely contained.

Sorin did not bat an eye. He merely rested a single hand on the lip of the table, his other continuing to grasp a datapad.

"He's been informed," Sorin replied calmly. "He'll be here."

But Phantom—Raven—knew.

He hadn't been informed.

Not yet.

This was a test.

A trap within the calm.

"You actually want to bet now, old fox? Bold of you."

Phantom did not move. Did not blink. His stance was relaxed, like that of a soldier standing in waiting.

Mavran's gaze lingered. No words followed.

"He's watching… seeing if I break character. But I won't."

Nonetheless, Sorin sent a message out on his device. One short ping.

No text. No name.

Just a ping.

And after few seconds—

THUD.

The chamber door opened creaking like the beginning phrase of a battle song.

Every head turned.

Bootsteps resonated, slow and deliberate.

A man entered.

Dressed in black tactical robes with silver threading sewn through, asymmetrical and sharp, like blades sewn into fabric. Off his mask—showing smooth pale skin, emotionless grey eyes, and slick raven-black hair swept back with clinical precision.

It was Raven.

In his right hand—A sword.

Dripping with blood.

The stain was fresh, still warm.

He paused.

Then raised his left arm.

And swiped the bloody blade across the bend of his elbow—

SHHHK—

A clean sweep.

The blood wiped clean.

Before it could drop to the floor.

He sheathed the weapon with a soft click that sounded louder than thunder in the silence of that room.

Everyone—

Rovan. Thalassa. Julius.

All flinched.

They did not think Raven and Phantom would be in the same room at the same time.

Just a flicker.

But Mavran Valchev… he remained still.

Their eyes met.

The oppressive silence that had lingered since Raven's arrival hadn't yet dissipated.

His sword—clean now—rested sheathed against his back. His footsteps were slow, yet carried a resonance that demanded attention. As he passed each council member, their eyes instinctively followed—some curious, others wary, none dismissive.

Julius swallowed hard. Thalassa shifted her cuffs, pushing her chair back from the stranger. Rovan didn't flinch, but even his jaw had clenched. Only Phantom was still as stone.

Raven stopped just short of Mavran.

Both men stood toe to toe.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Two opposing forces.

One born of dominance, the other of restraint.

Their auras clashed like invisible tempests crashing against the boundaries of their flesh.

Aura against aura.

Weight against weight.

For a second, it felt like the room had sunk into the ground.

Then Mavran smiled warmly.

Not mocking.

Not amused.

Just… entertained.

He offered a hand, elegant and unflinching. "Mavran Valchev," he replied, voice as smooth as aged wine, "Second-in-command of Zyphorion."

Raven shook it with the same calm intensity. "Raven. Mercenary of Sentinel."

The room held its breath.

Their grip locked for a breath too long before releasing.

Mavran turned toward the others, walking toward the head of the table with graceful command. He placed both palms lightly on the surface—his eyes scanning across Sentinel, GAA, GMU, and Security Division alike.

And then, with a faint tilt of his head, he spoke.

"Shall we begin the meeting now?"