Venice, 16th century. The city glittered with masked revelers, but beneath the surface, the true masters of the night gathered in silence. In a candlelit chamber above a forgotten canal, twelve figures sat in a circle—each the head of a criminal empire, each a seat at the High Table13
4. Their faces were hidden behind gilded masks; their words, few but absolute.
Tonight, the Table convened to settle disputes, to reaffirm the rules that governed the underworld: oaths, coins, blood, and silence. Their power was legend, their word law. Even the most ruthless assassins and syndicates bowed to their authority, knowing that to defy the Table was to invite annihilation13
.
Sagar entered without invitation, his presence a ripple through the room. He wore no mask, no insignia, only a bemused smile and eyes that seemed to see through every secret. The guards stiffened, hands on hidden blades, but the council's leader—the Elder, a figure so rarely seen that some doubted his existence—raised a hand for silence4.
"You are not of us," the Elder intoned, his voice echoing with centuries of command.
Sagar bowed with exaggerated flourish. "No. But I find your rituals fascinating. So many rules, so much order—yet all it takes is a single storm to scatter the pieces."
A murmur ran through the council. One of the Table's adjudicators, draped in black, spoke coldly: "This is sacred ground. State your business, or face judgment."
Sagar's grin widened. "Curiosity, mostly. I've watched empires rise and fall, but your little club endures. I wanted to see if the legends were true."
The Elder's gaze was sharp. "Legends are built on discipline. On secrets kept, debts paid, and blood spilled. What do you offer the Table?"
Sagar shrugged, producing a gold coin—ancient, but unlike any in their vaults. He spun it across the table, where it landed upright, defying gravity. "A reminder: no order lasts forever. Not even yours."
For a moment, the air crackled with tension. The Table's enforcers—adjudicators, harbingers, and silent killers—waited for a command23
. But the Elder only nodded, a glint of respect—or perhaps warning—in his eyes.
"You walk a dangerous path, stranger. The Table does not forget."
Sagar winked. "Neither do I. But I never play the same game twice."
He turned and vanished into the Venetian night, leaving the council in uneasy silence. The coin remained, spinning long after he'd gone—a token of chaos in a room built on order.
And so, the High Table marked the arrival of a new player—one who answered to no law, no oath, and no fear. The legend of Sagar Jadhav had entered the underworld, and the rules would never be quite the same.