A breeze swept through.
The empty old house grew a little colder.
The storytellers gathered there shivered as one, an inexplicable fear welling up in their hearts.
Then they came to their senses and looked toward the young man seated at the head of the room.
The smile had vanished from his face. Somehow, that clean, guileless face now held an indescribable terror that made their spirits tremble.
But the feeling passed in an instant.
The young man smiled again. "There's no need to worry, gentlemen. You'll receive every last bit of what's yours. What's more, an opportunity has arisen for you to gain even more."
With that smile, the chill left the room. The storytellers relaxed and began asking questions.
"It still concerns the conflict in the Northern Lands. Only the ending we settled on must change."
"Change the ending?"
Several storytellers exchanged looks. One asked, "My lord, hadn't we agreed that after the chaos, everything would end in feathers strewn across the ground? No one would win, and all sides would lose something. That ending leaves room for interpretation and holds a deeper truth. Why change it?"
"Exactly. We've laid the trail like a snake winding through grass, its tracks hidden in ash. Neither opposing side is quite what it seems, so both sides suffering losses would follow naturally."
"How does my lord intend to change it?"
"There's no rush." The young man smiled faintly at them. "First, gather the fruits of today's work. As for the changes, we can wait. We must wait for..."
As he spoke, he flicked a finger. Black threads shot out and pierced several storytellers between the brows.
Their faces turned rapt, and they collapsed one after another.
Then wisps of indistinct smoke drifted from their ears, slowly taking shape as illusory scenes