The sun had not yet pierced the heavy morning mist draped across the royal palace of Ilvandor. Within its towering marble walls, silence reigned—deceptive, deliberate. Behind every curtain, every ornate pillar, every courteous servant's smile, danger lurked like a coiled serpent. Kaelian knew that all too well.
He had awoken in a body too small and a life too precarious, but his mind—sharpened by betrayal and reborn from death—remained that of a brilliant strategist. And a strategist knew: survival was never accidental.
Not here.
Not in the palace of the Lion Throne.
He could not trust anyone among the royals. Not the Queen, who already saw him as a stain. Not his half-brother Théor, who coveted the throne with a cruelty born of entitlement. And certainly not the nobles, who saw his illegitimacy as a target painted across his back.
No—Kaelian would not find allies in gold and silk.
He would find them among ash and sweat.
It began in the kitchens.
Steam, shouting, and the clang of iron against stone filled the massive underground halls like a battlefront of its own. Amidst barrels of flour, crates of salted meat, and the stench of smoke and grease, Kaelian moved like a ghost. No one noticed the quiet child. One more bastard roaming the halls, too curious for his own good.
That suited him perfectly.
He watched. He listened. He remembered.
The head cook—Garm, a stout man with an explosive temper—was bribed with wine and flattery. He controlled who ate well and who starved. The linen mistress—Sila—was discreetly sleeping with a palace guard, smuggling letters for coin. A mute servant boy named Rok moved unnoticed between wings, carrying keys he shouldn't possess.
Every whisper was a seed. Kaelian would grow them into vines that strangled kingdoms.
On the fifth day, he encountered his first real opportunity.
In a dim storage cellar, tucked behind a stack of dusty wine casks, he found Lyssa. The young servant girl rummaged through jars of herbs and ointments, her hands trembling as she wrapped a small vial in cloth.
"Stealing from the royal stores?" Kaelian asked softly, stepping into the lantern light.
She startled, almost dropping the vial.
"You!" she hissed. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same," he said, calm as ice. "But that's not why I'm here."
She glared at him, defensive. "If you tell anyone…"
"I won't," Kaelian cut in. "On one condition."
Her brow furrowed. "A condition?"
"I need your help."
"Why would I help a noble bastard?"
Kaelian tilted his head. "Because I know the Queen suspects me. Because I need someone who knows potions and antidotes. Because I can offer you protection."
"From what? The Queen's wrath? You think you can protect me?"
He smiled, razor-thin. "I know about the steward's affair with a certain noblewoman. I also know he's been embezzling funds meant for the guard barracks. If I whispered those truths into the wrong ears, who do you think he'd blame to save himself?"
Lyssa swallowed. Then nodded, slowly.
"You're dangerous."
"No," Kaelian said. "I'm useful. There's a difference."
The next recruit came more reluctantly.
Jarek, the one-eyed stablemaster, was gruff, filthy, and perpetually drunk. Kaelian approached him with quiet confidence, tossing him a dried strip of jerky one morning before the changing of the guard.
"You're not allowed in the stables," Jarek growled.
"And you're not allowed to hide contraband rum behind the hay bales," Kaelian replied. "But here we are."
Jarek stiffened, then laughed harshly. "Brat. What do you want?"
"I want information. What the guards talk about when they come here. Who they trust. Who they hate."
"And what do I get in return?"
"Your son. He was conscripted to the salt mines in the north. I can get him reassigned. Somewhere safer."
Jarek's face darkened. "You think you have that kind of pull?"
Kaelian shrugged. "Not yet. But Sila does. And Sila owes me a favor."
A long silence. Then Jarek spat on the ground and muttered, "Fine. But if you cross me, you won't see your next moon."
"Understood," Kaelian said, not flinching.
Piece by piece, his network grew.
He observed the way Rok, the mute servant, vanished through walls and trapdoors like a shadow. Kaelian left him food. Then notes. Then maps—carefully drawn blueprints of palace wings and secret stairwells. Rok responded in kind: silent nods, delivered messages, and finally, a key ring.
By the end of the week, Kaelian had limited but effective control over five key servants in three wings of the palace.
No one suspected the quiet boy with dark hair and a thoughtful stare.
They should have.
He gathered his new allies one night, deep in an unused servants' passage lit only by flickering candlelight.
"We need to stay ahead of the Queen," he began. "She's planning a search of the bastard quarters tomorrow."
"How do you know that?" Lyssa asked.
Kaelian gave her a look. "I don't ask how you get your vials. Don't ask how I get mine."
Jarek snorted. "You want us to cover your tracks?"
"No. I want her to believe exactly what she wants to believe: that I'm a harmless child with no allies and no ambitions."
"What about Rok?" Lyssa asked. "He'll be discovered."
"He'll be hidden beneath the floorboards. There's a trapdoor. Sila gave me the map. The Queen will see what I want her to see. Nothing more."
Kaelian stood and looked at them—his first real pieces on the board. Not pawns.
Tools.
Weapons.
The Queen arrived the next morning, flanked by two palace mages. Kaelian greeted her with the wide-eyed confusion of a child torn from his sleep. His room was clean. His papers in order. His astronomy books neatly stacked. A telescope pointed toward the window.
"What do you expect to find?" he asked softly. "I barely leave this room."
Queen Virella said nothing. Her gaze swept every corner, every shelf.
She found nothing.
Because there was nothing to find.
Because Kaelian had planned for everything.
That night, Kaelian sat by candlelight, scribbling on a scrap of parchment when he noticed something beneath his pillow.
A note.
No name. No seal.
Just one line:
"You're not the only one playing the game."
End of Chapter 6
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