Chapter 666

The air in the chamber grew thick, almost tangible with tension. A cold, suffocating stillness settled over the room, raising the hairs on more than a few arms. In that atmosphere of expectation—where everyone was anticipating a dramatic confrontation—the Faceless Man did not disappoint.

He spoke, as always, in his detached and impassive tone.

"The House of Black and White and Braavos share a mutually beneficial relationship based on equal cooperation. We are not your subordinates. Mr. Gallonier, your words are not only irrational but also border on blasphemy against the Many-Faced God. I request that you retract your statement and offer a formal apology."

"There was no intent to insult the Many-Faced God. I will retract that comparison."

Gordon Gallonier, having wielded power for decades, understood the importance of political correctness and maintaining the moral high ground. He withdrew the inflammatory analogy immediately—but only that. For a man who prided himself on never backing down, even this minor concession was rare.

"An apology, however…" His voice remained calm, but there was a razor-thin edge to it. "If the House of Black and White accepts this commission and completes the task, then I will set aside my pride and apologize publicly."

"An apology is a matter of principle, not a bargaining chip."

The Faceless Man was immune to Gallonier’s tactics. His voice remained as cold and flat as ever. "No one here denies that you have made great contributions to Braavos, but let me be perfectly clear: your face is not valuable enough to make the House of Black and White betray its own principles and assassinate the chosen agent of a true god."

Not a single inflection. Not a single insult. And yet his words were sharp enough to make even Gallonier feel as if his ribs had just taken a hard blow.

His expression slowly shifted from anger to something darker—more ominous.

If any of his old contemporaries had been present, they would have warned the younger Keepers immediately: when Gallonier ranted and raged, it was merely his way of seizing the advantage. But when his voice dropped, when his fury turned cold—that was when he was truly dangerous.

And this was a man who had once come close to becoming the King of Braavos.

Gordon leaned back, a slow smirk forming on his lips. "You have a sharp tongue, boy." His voice was no longer harsh, but rather unsettlingly mild. "But I’m not here to argue whether my face is worth convincing the House of Black and White to kill a man. The Keepers' Council has made a request of you. So let me ask plainly—if we pass this proposal, will the Faceless Men carry out the job?"

The Faceless Man sighed, as if deeply reluctant. Then, with slow deliberation, he answered.

"If Mr. Gallonier does not understand the phrase ‘we cannot accept this commission’, then allow me to phrase it in simpler terms—we will not do it."

Silence.

If the tension before had been suffocating, now the air was frozen solid.

Dozens of eyes turned to Gallonier, watching, waiting—wondering how he would respond to such an outright rejection. The more calculating among them were already speculating: would this nameless Faceless Man walk out of here alive? And how many days would Gallonier himself have left to live after daring to call the House of Black and White watchdogs?

The two men locked eyes across the massive round table, expressionless, unwavering. Though only seconds passed, the weight of that silent stare-down stretched into eternity.

Then, at last, Gallonier spoke again.

"Everyone knows that Braavos, from the moment of its founding, welcomed all gods and gave all religions a place here. But in the Keepers' Council today, only two temples hold a permanent seat—the Temple of the Moonsingers and the House of Black and White. The others—the Red Temple, the shrines of foreign deities—no matter their size, have no representation here. Why is that?"

His gaze never wavered from the Faceless Man. And yet, it was a question meant for the entire chamber.

"The answer is simple. Because only the Moonsingers and the Faceless Men played a role in the founding of Braavos and continue to contribute to its governance. Only these two temples are masters. The others are merely guests."

There was a brief pause, just enough to let the weight of his words settle over the room.

"With power comes responsibility. Or, to put it bluntly—with rights come obligations."

His lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer.

"And now, the House of Black and White has suddenly decided to abandon its obligations. Am I then to assume that you are also willing to surrender the rights that come with them? In other words—if the Faceless Men refuse to carry out the duties expected of them, should we also consider their seat in the Keepers' Council vacant?"
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Brutal.

The realization struck the room like a hammer.

For a moment, many had assumed that Gallonier was cornered—that his pride would force him into an emotional blunder. Instead, he had seized upon his opponent’s greatest weakness with surgical precision.

The Keepers' seats were nearly impossible to gain—and once lost, they were nearly impossible to restore. In the history of Braavos, not once had an institution willingly given up its seat.

A woman in a flowing white robe let out a quiet sigh and finally broke her silence.

"If the House of Black and White continues to defy the Keepers' Council’s decision, then I will have no choice but to formally propose the removal of their permanent seat."

The speaker was the representative of the Moonsingers’ Temple.

She had spoken not out of hostility, but out of obligation. Gallonier, for all his lingering influence, was no longer a sitting member of the Keepers' Council. By procedural rules, he could not make such a proposal.

The Moonsingers owed him a massive debt.

And so, even if they had to grit their teeth to do it, they would act in his stead.

The Faceless Men were feared. That much was undeniable.

But fear was not enough to grant them immunity.

Those gathered here were not common men. They were Braavos’ ruling class—men and women who understood the true limits of the Faceless Men’s power.

Yes, they were assassins feared throughout the world.

But they were not divine beings.

A full third of their reputation came from Braavos' own propaganda machine, which had spent centuries inflating their mystique. Another third came from the Iron Bank, whose vast resources had created opportunities for their assassinations to succeed.

Only the final third came from their actual skills and accomplishments—and even then, many of their supposed "kills" were nothing more than natural deaths conveniently attributed to them.

They were not invincible.

And they certainly were not beyond consequences.

Once again, all eyes turned to the Faceless Man.

But this time, rather than escalating the conflict, he did something unexpected.

He stood.

Slowly. Calmly.

Adjusting the folds of his robe, he inclined his head to the assembled Keepers in what almost resembled a bow.

"I offer my apologies," he said, his tone eerily polite. "But as the matter of our seat has been raised, I no longer have the authority to make a unilateral decision. In light of that, I shall take the Moonsinger’s advice—I will withdraw for now and report the full contents of this meeting to the priesthood of the House of Black and White. They will issue an official response."

And with that, he turned and strode toward the exit.

The meeting was far from over.

But for now—he was gone.