Lord Valerius's offer, sweet as poison and just as tempting, floated in the air of the Grand Hall like a promise of power. Kaelen did not respond immediately. His amethyst eyes, dull and deep, locked onto Valerius's, trying to pierce the enigma of his purple gaze. He could feel the invisible threads the Counselor was weaving, not only in the court but across the entire city. It was a web of ambition and secrets, a symphony of whispers and betrayals.
Join. Or be crushed. The web is vast.
It was Seraphina who broke the silence. Her demented smile, which rarely reached her ice-blue eyes, widened.
"'Pacification' sounds... fascinating, my Lord," her voice was a seductive murmur that echoed strangely in the opulent hall. "Kaelen and I have always appreciated 'order'. In our own way, of course."
Valerius nodded slowly, his purple eyes gleaming with subtle amusement.
"I can imagine. Order, at its core, is the imposition of will. And yours, Ghost, is... singular.
I do not demand blind loyalty. I demand... efficiency. And discretion. There are certain problems in Grisel that cannot be solved with the Guard's sword, nor with the Golden Anvil's hammer. Problems that require... a more... precise touch."
Kaelen felt the weight of his words. Valerius was speaking of the brutality he embodied, though hidden beneath the thin veil of palace diplomacy.
---
In the days that followed, Kaelen and his "associates"—Seraphina, Darian, and Zoltan—were housed in a discreet wing of the palace. Not as prisoners, but as high-risk guests. The opulence of the Royal Palace was a jarring contrast to the filth of the Nest. Silks, Persian rugs, exquisite food that Kaelen barely tasted—his senses still attuned to scarcity.
Zoltan, however, flourished. He moved with the ease of a serpent among minor nobles and servants, his onyx eyes absorbing every piece of information, every whisper. He discovered that Valerius was much more than a counselor; he controlled most of Grisel's spy trade, manipulated maritime and land routes, and his agents were infiltrated in every guild, every faction. Even within the Great Church of Solarian, it was rumored he had informants.
Darian, for his part, felt like a caged animal. The spark in his sky-blue eyes was dimmer in the marble halls. He longed for the forge, the sound of hammer on metal, the fury of direct battle. He felt useless in this game of words and shadows.
Seraphina, on the other hand, was in her element. She observed the court's intrigues with the delight of a child in a macabre toy store. Her melodious laughter echoed through the corridors, often at the most inopportune moments, while she whispered to Kaelen about the "rot" and the "hypocrisy" of the nobility.
"So deliciously broken, don't you think, Kaelen?" she would whisper. "They believe their gold protects them, but their souls are as fragile as any beggar's."
---
King Theron II, unaware of the webs being spun around him, received them in sporadic audiences. Always with Valerius at his side. The King spoke of peace, of order. Valerius spoke of the need to "eliminate internal threats" to ensure the "stability of the realm." And those threats, Kaelen soon discovered, weren't just remnants of the Nest—but anyone Valerius considered an obstacle to his absolute control.
The first "mission" Valerius entrusted them with wasn't an assassination. It was a demonstration of power.
A minor noble, Lord Cedric, had been gathering support in court to oppose one of Valerius's new policies. He wasn't a man of strength, but of influence, with persuasive oratory that threatened to destabilize the Counselor's plans.
Valerius didn't want blood in the court. He wanted terror. An unforgettable lesson.
"Lord Cedric is... a noisy obstacle," Valerius explained one afternoon, his voice soft, his purple eyes fixed on Kaelen. "We need him to understand the... seriousness of the situation. No visible violence. Not a single cut."
Kaelen nodded. He understood the message.
---
The night of the "visit" to Lord Cedric was a dance of shadows.
Lyra had joined them in secret, her golden amber eyes glowing in the dark, guiding them through hidden passages in the palace. Her skill in stealth was unmatched.
Seraphina picked the lock to Lord Cedric's chamber with a hairpin and a smile. The noble's sitting room was a sanctuary of luxury. Silks, sculptures, fine wine in a crystal jug.
Lord Cedric slept peacefully in his bed, unaware of his fate.
Let him feel the fear. Let him breathe it. Without a touch.
Kaelen approached the bed. He didn't touch the noble. Instead, he reached out toward a small ivory statue on the nightstand—a personal amulet of Lord Cedric. With a slow and deliberate touch of his Touch of Putrefaction, the statue began to darken, to rot, its fine details dissolving into a viscous, foul-smelling substance. The stench of decay quickly filled the room.
The noble stirred in his sleep, moaning. Kaelen extended his hand toward the wine in the jug. The exquisite drink turned into a black, bubbling liquid, its essence pure rot. The air became nearly unbreathable.
But it wasn't just the smell. Kaelen activated his Echo of Torment.
The images of the horrors from the Valley of the Serene, of the madness he had cultivated, of the pain he had inflicted, began to seep into the sleeping noble's mind. They weren't just visions, but sensations of pure fear and crushing despair—Lord Cedric's mind being flooded by Kaelen's abyss.
The noble awoke with a strangled scream. His eyes opened in terror—not because of what he saw (the room was still dark)—but because of what he felt and breathed. He shot up, stumbling amidst the stench and the horror invading his mind. He clutched his head, desperately trying to expel the images.
He dropped to his knees, vomiting on the floor, his body shaking uncontrollably, his mind already shredded by the attack. He hadn't suffered a single cut. But he was more than broken.
The message is sent. The mind is the cruelest weapon.
---
The next day, Lord Cedric, haggard and with empty eyes, announced his unconditional support for Lord Valerius's policies. His oratory, once persuasive, was now a babble of incoherent justifications and terror. The court watched him with a mix of pity and fear. Valerius's shadow stretched further, and with it, the silent reputation of the "Ghost of the Alleys."
Valerius, in the privacy of his chambers, received Kaelen. His smile was small and cold.
"Excellent work, Ghost. A touch... of an artist. Lord Cedric will no longer be a 'noisy obstacle.'
I wonder what else you might create with your... talent."
His purple eyes met Kaelen's.
Kaelen felt that Valerius wasn't just seeing his abilities, but the very essence of his madness—the capacity to transform reality into horror. The golden cage was closing, but inside it, the threads of power became clearer.
The puppeteer's dance had begun, and Kaelen, the Ghost of the Alleys, was now a piece on Lord Valerius's chessboard—his brutality and madness now at the service of an ambition he could not yet fully comprehend. The true void of power, Kaelen was beginning to feel, did not lie in its loss—but in the cold omnipotence of his new master.
---