"Absolutely not," Kaen said, staring in horror at the proposed outfit. "I look like a goth peacock. A very evil, very flammable goth peacock."
The robes laid out on the grand four-poster bed were a masterpiece of intimidating fashion. Woven from shadow-silk and embroidered with threads of pure, solidified magma, they seemed to drink the light from the room. The high, sharp collar was designed to frame the face, making one look both regal and perpetually ready to pass a sentence of death.
"Flammable is the point, darling," Mimic corrected him, hovering near the ceiling with a critical eye. "These robes are attuned to the Pyreth Thread. They resonate with passion, with willpower, with the burning rage of a thousand suns. When the Master wore them, the embroidery would literally smolder. It was a fantastic visual cue for 'don't ask me for a raise today.'"
"Right, well, the only thing I resonate with right now is a deep, passionate desire for a pizza and a nap," Kaen shot back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "And I have no magic. I'll just look like a man wearing very expensive, very stiff pajamas."
"That's where I come in," Mimic said, swooping down to drape itself over the robes. The cloak's own illusion magic seeped into the garment, causing the magmatic threads to glow with a faint, hypnotic inner light. It was a cheap trick, a parlor illusion compared to the real Rael's power, but in the dim lighting of the banquet hall, it might just be enough. "I will be your resonance. Now, put them on. We have a performance to attend."
Resigned to his fate, Kaen allowed the servants—who moved with the silent, terrified grace of people who had seen their predecessors vaporized for using too much starch—to dress him. The robes were heavy, the weight of a kingdom resting on his shoulders in more than just a metaphorical sense. As he looked in the mirror, he saw not himself, but the Archmage King. The illusion was disturbingly complete. The glowing threads, the severe cut of the cloth, the tired, anxious eyes that could be mistaken for cold, calculated ennui.
"One last thing," Mimic whispered, its voice a low thrum against his neck. "Tonight, you will meet the heads of the great houses. Notice their adornments. House Valerius wears sun-steel, resonant with the Thread of Light, Solenn. They are pious and transparent in their cruelty. House Krait, the spymasters, favor enchanted jade that resonates with the Vireth thread of flow and memory; they will remember every word you say tonight. And then… there is Lady Nyx Virelia."
"The ex-fiancée," Kaen said, his stomach tightening.
"The one and only. She is the living embodiment of the Nythex Thread—secrets, pain, and illusion," Mimic explained. "She will be wearing shadows and a smile like a beautiful razor. She is the most dangerous person in that room, not because she wants you dead, but because she's not sure what she wants. Be careful, little king. She doesn't just see through lies; she feeds on them."
Taking a deep breath that did nothing to calm his nerves, Kaen stepped out of his chambers. Commander Drevan Holt stood waiting, his own formal armor polished to a mirror shine, his steel arm gleaming. He gave Kaen a single, approving nod. "You look… as you should, my king."
Kaen just hoped he could live up to the costume.
The entrance to the Grand Convocation Hall was a spectacle of power. Twin obsidian doors thirty feet high swung open at his approach, revealing a cavernous room lit by floating spheres of captured moonlight. A long, central table, laden with exotic and frankly terrifying-looking food, stretched the length of the hall. Roasted raptor birds with jewel-like eyes, shimmering jellies that pulsed with a faint inner light, and fruits that seemed to have been grown in the depths of a nightmare.
Every noble, general, and courtier turned as he entered. The music, a haunting melody played on stringed instruments made from the bones of some great beast, faltered. The chatter ceased. A hundred pairs of eyes fixed on him, a mixture of awe, terror, and calculating ambition. He felt like a mouse that had just walked into a den of very well-dressed, very political vipers.
He forced himself to move, walking the length of the hall with a slow, deliberate pace he prayed looked regal and not like he was trying not to trip over his own magnificent robes. He took his seat at the head of the table, on a throne-like chair that was only slightly less intimidating than the one in the main hall.
The first to approach were his generals, a grim collection of the most effective killers on the continent. They bowed in unison, their movements sharp and precise. General Malakor, a hulking brute with a face like a bag of smashed rocks, spoke first.
"My king, your declaration was a stroke of unparalleled genius," he growled, his voice like grinding stones. "We have spent the afternoon dissecting its strategic implications. A war on the self! It is the ultimate psychological warfare. Our enemies in the coalition will be baffled, searching for meaning where there is none, wasting resources, turning on each other in their confusion. We believe this single act may have delayed their invasion by six months without us having to lift a single sword."
Kaen stared at him. He'd bought himself six months of not dying because he'd had a panic attack and said something stupid. This world was insane.
"That was… the primary intention," Kaen said, channeling the cold arrogance he'd read about in Rael's memories. "A war fought in the minds of your enemies costs nothing but breath."
Another general, a sharp-eyed woman named Ilyana whose command of the aerial legions was legendary, nodded in fervent agreement. "And your secondary point, about burning away impurities… we have taken it to heart. We have begun a full review of our supply lines, our strategies, our loyalties. We are purging the rot from within, just as you commanded. We have already found three spies and a dozen corrupt quartermasters. Your wisdom has strengthened the army immeasurably."
"Excellent," Kaen said, his mind reeling. He'd accidentally started a full-scale internal affairs investigation. "The rot must be… purged."
He made a vague gesture of dismissal, and the generals retreated, their faces glowing with renewed, terrifying purpose. He had somehow bluffed his way into becoming a military and philosophical genius. The pressure was immense. He took a sip of wine from a goblet, praying it wasn't poisoned. It tasted like plums and lightning.
As he set the goblet down, a shadow seemed to detach itself from the wall and glide toward him. A woman emerged from the gloom, her presence silencing all nearby conversation. She was impossibly beautiful, with dark curls that tumbled over one shoulder and a dress that seemed woven from twilight itself. Shadows clung to her, shifting and dancing in a way that defied the moonlight. It was Lady Nyx Virelia.
"My king," she purred, her voice a seductive melody with an undertone of pure steel. She gave a shallow, almost mocking curtsy. Her eyes, the colour of dark amethysts, seemed to see right through his skin, his bones, and the terrified, unremarkable man cowering inside. "You have been causing such a stir. A war on the self. It's a bold new chapter for us. I must confess, I didn't think you had it in you to be so… introspective."
Every word was a test. She knew.
"Change is the only constant in this world, my lady," Kaen replied, his heart hammering against his ribs. He met her gaze, forcing himself not to look away. "Even for kings. Especially for kings."
"Is it?" she tilted her head, her smile widening. It was a beautiful, dangerous thing. "I wonder. You seem different since your… revelation. Less concerned with the grand design. Tell me, do you still dream of the Hollow Spindle?"
It was a dagger of a question, aimed at a secret only she and Rael would know. Kaen's mind went blank. The Hollow Spindle. He'd seen the name in the documents, but Rael's memories were a fragmented mess. There was nothing there. He was caught.
"The place where he was born from whispers," Mimic hissed in his mind, a frantic, life-saving whisper. "Where he planned to unmake the gods' first thread. He hated it. He feared it. Lie with contempt."
Kaen let a cold sneer grace his lips, an expression he copied directly from a memory of Rael dismissing a foolish courtier. "The Spindle is a relic of a failed past, Lady Nyx. A monument to a goal born of flawed understanding. My dreams are fixed on the future, not on dusty ruins and childish obsessions."
Nyx's eyes widened, just for a fraction of a second. It was the right answer—or rather, the right kind of wrong answer. It was a denial so complete, so contemptuous, it could only come from someone who knew exactly what she was talking about. She had expected him to be confused, to bluff. She hadn't expected him to completely rewrite his own history.
She let out a low, throaty laugh. "Oh, you have changed," she said, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "But I can't decide if I like it more or less. This new you… you're confusing." She leaned closer, her scent a heady mix of night-blooming flowers and ozone. "Tell me, little king—how far will you lie for love?"
Before Kaen could process the question, she had already straightened up, giving him another mocking smile before melting back into the shadows of the court. He felt like he'd just survived a hurricane. His hands were shaking.
He was so focused on calming his breathing that he didn't notice the other presence at his side until she spoke.
"That was quite a performance."
It was Seris Dawnveil. She stood there not in her battle-worn armor, but in a simple, deep red gown that made her fiery hair seem even more vibrant. She looked awkward, out of place amongst the vipers and their courtly games. Her arms were crossed, her stance defensive, but her eyes held a spark of genuine curiosity.
"Heroine," Kaen greeted her, his voice hoarse. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"A temporary truce was called for the banquet. A custom, I'm told," she said, her gaze flicking from him to the retreating form of Nyx. "She is a dangerous woman."
"So I've gathered."
"She preys on weakness," Seris stated, her eyes locking back onto his. "And you… you talk of purging impurities and conquering the self, but you surround yourself with venom. How can you claim to seek change when you swim in the same poison?"
It was a fair question. It was the question he'd been asking himself. He didn't have a clever, Rael-inspired answer. He only had the truth.
"Maybe you have to swim in poison to build an immunity," he said, the words tired and honest. "Or maybe… maybe I'm just trying not to drown."
The honesty of it surprised them both. It wasn't a bluff. It wasn't a tactic. It was just a moment of pure, unadulterated fear and exhaustion. And Seris saw it. For the first time, behind the face of the tyrant, she saw the flicker of a man who looked scared and overwhelmed. It resonated with her own doubts, her own fears about her unyielding prophecy.
"I've spent my whole life training to kill you," she said softly, almost to herself. "So why… why do I want to protect you now?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She gave him a final, conflicted look before turning and walking away, leaving Kaen utterly alone at the head of a table filled with monsters and schemers.
He had survived the banquet. He had fooled the generals, out-maneuvered the schemer, and confused the hero. He had played the part of the Archmage King so well that even he was starting to get lost in the role.
As he finally retreated to the cold solace of his chambers hours later, the weight of it all came crashing down. This wasn't a single performance. This was his life now. A constant, unending opera of lies, with a cast of characters who either wanted to worship him, kill him, or unravel him thread by thread.
"Well," Mimic's voice said from his shoulders, offering a final, theatrical review of the evening. "Your delivery was a bit shaky, and your timing needs work. But the raw emotion? Darling, it was breathtaking."