Ahia stood in the center of the room, her feet aching. She was no longer wearing her comfortable green Djellaba. She was encased in a stiff, structured gown of gold and indigo silk, the fabric woven with micro-threads of Ase that shimmered when she moved.
It was beautiful. It was a prison.
"Posture," Vhuthu Hiwot commanded from the shadows.
The Authority on Political Influence circled Ahia like a shark circling a swimmer. Vhuthu's Orange Aura was retracted, tight against her skin, but her presence filled the room.
"You stand like a gardener," Vhuthu criticized, tapping Ahia's shoulder with a fan made of ostrich feathers. "Shoulders back. Chin up. You are a Ward of the Continental House now. You do not look at the ground; the ground exists to hold you up."
Ahia straightened her spine, suppressing a wince. "I am trying, Authority Hiwot."
"Do not try. Be." Vhuthu walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the city. "Come here."
Ahia walked to the window. The view was breathtaking—the sprawling geometry of Akogwa, the glittering canals, the hum of the Celestial Lantern above.
But Vhuthu didn't point at the beauty. She pointed at the plumes of black smoke rising from the 4th District.
"Do you know what that is?" Vhuthu asked softly.
"The riots," Ahia whispered. "From the market."
"No," Vhuthu corrected. "That is Ubuntu dying."
She turned to face Ahia, her expression devoid of malice, which made her words cut deeper.
"Our world is built on a web, Ahia. Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu—a person is a person through other people. We exist because we are connected. The Home-King bows to the Village-King, the Village-King to the Town-King. It is a chain of respect that holds back the chaos of Iku."
Vhuthu gestured to the smoke.
"The King broke the chain for you. He reached down past the Village, past the Town, past the Home, and snatched you up. And because he did that... those people down there believe the chain is broken. They are fighting because they are scared. They are hurting each other because the structure that protected them has been violated."
Ahia felt a cold knot form in her stomach. "I didn't ask for this."
"It does not matter what you asked for," Vhuthu said coldly. "It matters what you cost. Every scream down there, every broken stall, every drop of blood spilled by the Booliska today... that is the price."
Ahia looked at the smoke. She thought of Libaax, of the warmth of his hand. But Vhuthu's logic was terrifyingly sound. In a world of collective existence, being the "exception" was a crime.
"Why are you telling me this?" Ahia asked, tears pricking her eyes.
"Because the King is blinded by the Ifunanya," Vhuthu said, leaning close. "He sees only you. He does not see the fire. If you truly love him, little root... you will not let him burn his kingdom down just to keep you warm."
Vhuthu stepped back, her lesson delivered.
"Now," she said, her voice snapping back to professional detachment. "Lift your chin. We have a banquet tonight. And you must look like you are worth a civil war."
The Dungeon of Silence – Beneath the Palace
Far below the silk and the guilt, the air smelled of damp stone and dried blood.
Azure Oba, the Authority on Military Might, stood in the center of the interrogation cell. He had removed his mighty masquerade armor, stripping down to his waist. His red clay skin rippled with muscle as he cleaned his hands with a rag.
In the corner, shackled to the wall by cuffs made of Aura-suppressing iron, was the Mufarikha preacher from the market.
The man was beaten like there was no tomorrow, one eye swollen shut, but he was still smiling.
"You cannot break nothing," the preacher wheezed. "I am Utupu. I am the void."
"You are a loudmouth with a dagger," Azure rumbled, tossing the bloody rag aside. "And you are a liar."
Azure walked to the small table in the center of the room. On it lay the items confiscated from the preacher: a rusted knife, a pouch of ash, and a small, cylindrical object wrapped in cloth.
Azure unwrapped the object. It was a scroll case. But it wasn't made of wood or leather. It was made of Ivory and banded with Gold.
"Street preachers do not carry Imperial-grade scroll cases," Azure said, picking it up. "This ivory comes from the personal reserves of the Continental Capital. And the lock..."
Azure tapped the gold band. It didn't open with a key. It hummed with a faint Yellow Aura.
"It opens with Nommo logic," Azure said, his eyes narrowing. "Formal logic. Specifically, the syntax used by the Administrative Wing."
The preacher's smile faltered.
"Who gave this to you?" Azure demanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Who is funding the chaos?"
The preacher spat a glob of blood onto the floor. "The Asuras are beasts. The Kifofirists are ghosts. We serve a higher purpose."
"A higher purpose?" Azure stepped closer, his Red Aura flaring, heating the ceiling and the four corners of the room.
"You look for enemies outside the walls, Authority Oba," the preacher whispered. "But the rot is in the foundation. The King breaks the Law of Lineage... so the Law comes for the King."
Azure grabbed the man suspended by chains off the wall, dangling him over the ground with one hand.
"Name!" Azure roared.
The preacher choked, his face turning purple. "The... Quill... of... the... Archives."
Azure dropped him. The preacher collapsed, gasping for air.
Azure picked up the scroll case again. He examined the gold band closely. Etched into the metal, microscopic but visible to an Akin's sharp eyes, was a symbol.
It wasn't the symbol of a Mufarikha. It was the stylized quill of the Asona Path—the path of the written word used by Dibias.
"Tojos" Azure muttered.
He turned to the guard at the door.
"Keep him alive," Azure ordered. "If he dies, thirty strokes."
He stormed out of the cell, the scroll case clutched in his hand.
The insurrection wasn't just a reaction to the King's actions. It was an organized coup. And the funding was coming from someone who had access to the highest levels of the Nommo system. Someone who could write reality—or rewrite it.
Azure marched down the corridor, his mind racing. Who on the High Table or the Administrative Wing had the power to access the Imperial Archives and the motive to arm the Mufarikha?
He thought of Alem Amari, the Authority on Legal Law. He thought of Agyenim Davu, the Authority on Propaganda. He thought of Arora Lakshmi, the Dibia of Resources.
The enemy was already in the House.