The great chamber of the Iron Bank of Braavos was a monument to power, wealth, and patience. The long obsidian table shimmered in the dim light of crystal chandeliers, its surface reflecting the opulence of those gathered around it. Each keyholder wore the finest silk robes, draped in gold and jeweled accessories, their faces cold masks of calculation.
They had every reason to feel satisfied—Eden's market crash had turned their vaults into a bottomless reservoir of wealth. Farms, industries, real estate, and luxury assets had been seized in exchange for unpaid loans. Some of the most powerful figures in Eden were now destitute, their wealth drained into Braavos' coffers to settle impossible debts.
The Dome Baby Incident, though strange and absurd, had shattered the political balance in Eden. In the chaos, the Iron Bank swooped in. Land, hotels, and estates that once belonged to Eden's elite were now part of the Bank's empire. Entire districts were rebranded under Braavosi ownership, and every field and orchard acquired would churn profits back to the Iron Bank, making Braavos richer than ever.
And yet, as the keyholders reviewed the fruits of their scheming, unease lingered at the edge of their triumph.
---
"The Edenite Internal Revenue Service has stalled our transactions," one keyholder announced, his voice sharp with frustration. "The Inquisitors are watching everything."
"Every deal is buried under layers of bureaucracy. Approvals that took hours now drag on for weeks," another keyholder added bitterly, tapping the table with his jeweled ring. "It's deliberate. The Edenites know exactly what we're doing—and they intend to make it painful."
"They won't forget what we took from them," the head keyholder said gravely. "The Supreme Leader's wrath is nothing to trifle with. We gambled with Eden's downfall, and we won—but now we must tread carefully."
The others nodded, though their expressions remained arrogant. They were the Iron Bank, after all. They had weathered tyrants, revolutions, and wars. Eden, no matter how controlling its new regime had become, would eventually bend like the rest.
One of the older keyholders chuckled. "Let them seethe. Debt is power. They'll come crawling back to us when they need something they can't print or steal."
The room filled with murmurs of agreement, but the tension remained. The Inquisitors were not ordinary men, and everyone knew that those who crossed them rarely survived. Even the most powerful in Eden had disappeared without a trace, swallowed by the Supreme Leader's ruthless new regime.
The head keyholder cleared his throat. "In any case, we move forward cautiously. The Iron Bank's influence must remain subtle. Eden is dangerous now—far more than it was before the crash."
He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. "We'll take what's owed to us, but we won't provoke them further. Not until—"
---
The words froze on his lips. The door to the chamber opened silently, and figures slipped into the room. They moved like shadows—silent, deliberate, and deadly.
In a matter of heartbeats, knives flashed in the low light. No warnings were given, no time to react. Each keyholder was met with a blade to the throat, the metal slicing through skin and muscle with surgical precision. The only sounds were the faint gurgles of dying men as blood pooled across the black stone floor.
The head keyholder grasped at his throat, choking on the blood pouring from the deep gash. His eyes bulged in disbelief as he slumped forward, the life draining from his body. The others fell just as silently, slumped over the table like toppled statues of arrogance.
Amid the carnage, one of the assassins removed his mask, revealing the sharp, cold features of Orin Lantrun. The High Inquisitor of Eden smiled, his expression calm, almost serene, as he surveyed the scene.
"No one stands against Eden," he whispered, his voice barely audible above the faint drip of blood onto the floor.
---
The shadows moved again. The bodies were dragged away, their lifeless forms disappearing into the darkness. More figures stepped from the shadows—doppelgängers with identical faces to the keyholders they replaced. They wore the same robes, the same expressions, and even mimicked the arrogant mannerisms of the men they had killed. The transformation was flawless.
Orin walked slowly around the table, his boots clicking against the stone. He stopped behind the chair where the head keyholder's replacement now sat. "Well, gentlemen," he said, placing a hand on the back of the chair, "it looks like this meeting is over."
The doppelgängers nodded in unison, their movements eerily synchronized. They would carry out the work of the original keyholders, but under Eden's command. Every coin stolen from Eden would be funneled back through these impostors, ensuring Braavos became nothing more than a silent puppet.
---
Beyond the walls of the Iron Bank, a sudden explosion tore through the night. The Temple of Black and White, an ancient monument to death and secrecy, erupted into flames, the blast sending a shockwave through the city.
The streets of Braavos trembled as the temple's stone walls crumbled, devoured by fire. Thick smoke billowed into the night sky, casting an eerie glow over the canals and alleyways. Onlookers stared in horror as the sacred temple—the home of the Faceless Men—was reduced to rubble and ash.
Inside the chamber, Orin tilted his head slightly, listening to the distant rumble of the explosion. A rare flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. The Iron Bank and the Faceless Men, two of the most powerful institutions in Braavos, had been struck down in a single night.
As the fire continued to rage outside, Orin adjusted the cuff of his black coat and turned toward the exit. His work here was done. Braavos had been broken, and no one would ever know the truth. The Iron Bank belonged to Eden now. Every loan, every asset, every secret—all of it was theirs.
Orin glanced back at the doppelgängers seated around the table. "Welcome to Eden's service," he said with a cold smile.
The impostors bowed their heads slightly, their expressions devoid of emotion. They would continue the charade, manipulating Braavos from within, until every coin flowed back to Eden's coffers.
As Orin strode through the darkened hallways of the Iron Bank, the flames of the temple reflected in his cold eyes.
The message was clear—no one, not kings, not gods, and certainly not bankers, could stand against Eden.