Sleep offered no escape. Kaen tossed and turned in the obscenely comfortable bed, his dreams a chaotic slideshow of the previous night's events: Nyx's predatory smile, Seris's wounded eyes, the ghostly pulse of the moonlight flower. He awoke to the cold, oppressive silence of the Archmage's chambers, the dread of the new day already a lead weight in his stomach. He hadn't just survived another day; he had set a trap, and now he had to live in the viper's nest while he waited to see what he'd caught.
"You look dreadful, darling," Mimic commented, detaching itself from the bedpost where it had been masquerading as a decorative drape. "Like a ghost who's seen a ghost. Was it the raptor bird at the banquet? I told you not to make eye contact."
"I set a man up, Mimic," Kaen muttered, sitting up and rubbing his face. He felt a phantom guilt, a hangover from a crime he'd only committed in theory. "What if I catch someone innocent?"
"In this court?" Mimic scoffed, its tone dripping with cynicism. "There are no innocents. There are only the guilty and the better liars. You didn't lay a trap for a man; you laid a trap for a secret. Now, you must play the part of the patient spider."
The spider felt more like a fly who had accidentally built a web. Before he could wallow further, a firm knock announced the arrival of Commander Drevan Holt, his face grim and his steel arm gleaming with the morning light. He carried a heavy portfolio bound in black leather.
"Your Majesty," Drevan began. "The morning report. And developments regarding your… 'test'."
"Proceed," Kaen said, forcing himself into a regal posture.
"The court is in a state of controlled panic," Drevan reported. "The flower is now on display. However, one house has reacted… poorly. House Ferros. Their patriarch, Lord Korvin, has sealed himself inside his manor."
Kaen's heart gave a lurch. "A guilty conscience is a heavy burden. We will let Lord Korvin sweat."
"As you command." Drevan turned the page. "News from the outer provinces. The unrest in the Ashglass Wastes has escalated. A local woman, a 'prophet,' is rallying the populace against you."
A flicker of cold, dismissive arrogance—Rael's arrogance—surged in Kaen's chest. Burn them. An example must be made. He flinched, physically recoiling from the thought as if from a hot flame. His own voice felt like a stranger's when he spoke.
"No. The people are hungry. They follow her because she promises them a full meal." He fought to keep his voice steady, pushing down the chilling echo. "Double the grain shipments. Send healers, not soldiers. A rebellion fueled by hunger dies in a well-stocked kitchen."
Drevan stared, his mind clearly struggling to reconcile the order with the man he had once known. "A brilliant stratagem, my king. To pacify them with kindness." He scribbled furiously. "Furthermore, Saint Aurelia has condemned your 'war on the self' as heresy. She claims you are a glitch in the divine weave."
"Let the Saint preach," Kaen said, the words tasting like ash. He was afraid to think, because he no longer knew which of his thoughts were truly his own.
As Drevan continued, a dizzying wave of vertigo struck Kaen. The room swam, the edges of his vision blurring. A memory, sharp and unwanted, tore through his mind.
He was standing in a dimly lit study. Rael's study. Before him stood a trembling Lord Korvin Ferros.
"The resonance dampener is in place?" Rael's voice asked, emerging from Kaen's own throat. It was cold, precise.
"Y-yes, Your Majesty," Korvin stammered. "The High Temple's relic will be inert."
Rael stepped closer. "You hesitated, Korvin. Do you regret helping me correct the gods' arrogance?" He didn't sound angry; he sounded like a physician diagnosing a symptom.
"The Temple of Vaelor… they took my grandfather's lands on a false charge of heresy!" Korvin burst out, a lifetime of resentment in his voice. "But to betray a god…"
"I am not asking you to betray a god," Rael said, his voice deceptively gentle. "I am asking you to secure justice for your family. The gods are flawed, Korvin. They weave our fates for their own amusement. By helping me, you are not committing heresy; you are taking back control. You are rectifying a wrong they committed against your bloodline." A cold, manipulative satisfaction bloomed in Rael's chest—and Kaen felt it too, a sickening, vicarious pleasure in the man's perfect corruption. Rael hadn't just used blackmail; he had twisted Korvin's pain into a weapon and convinced him it was his own idea.
Kaen gasped, stumbling back against a chair, the memory fading. He felt filthy. He hadn't just stumbled upon a secret; he had stumbled into the wreckage of a soul Rael had meticulously disassembled for his own purposes. His 'loyalty test' wasn't a shot in the dark; it was a salt rock thrown into a festering wound Rael himself had carved.
Mimic, sensing his distress, was suddenly silent, its usual flair gone.
Just then, the doors to his chamber burst open. Commander Drevan stood there, his face ashen.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice strained. "It's Lord Korvin. He… he has confessed."
Kaen's blood ran cold. "To what?"
"Everything," Drevan said, his voice low with shock. "Sending the flower. Conspiring to dampen the power of the High Temple. It was all in a letter to the court." Drevan took a shaky breath. "After writing the confession, he took his own life. The note said he could no longer bear the weight of your… your 'discerning gaze'."
Drevan bowed and retreated, leaving Kaen in the sudden, deafening silence. The words echoed. Took his own life. A man was dead. A man whose deepest wounds he had carelessly, ignorantly, fatally prodded.
The sound in the room seemed to rush out, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. The floor felt like it was tilting beneath his feet. He reached out for a table to steady himself, but his hand was numb, clumsy, and he knocked a heavy silver goblet to the floor. It clattered with a deafening, final sound.
He stared at his hand. Was it his? Or was it Rael's? The hand that had gestured, that had pointed, that had sealed a man's fate. A wave of nausea and terror washed over him. He was becoming him. The thoughts, the confidence, the casual cruelty—it was all a poison seeping into his veins. He wasn't just playing a role; the role was consuming him.
He staggered back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The walls of the luxurious chamber felt like they were closing in, a tomb he had willingly walked into. He was a murderer. A fraud and a murderer.
Mimic drifted from the wall. It didn't speak. In a gesture utterly devoid of its usual drama, it wrapped itself around Kaen's trembling shoulders, its weight a strange, grounding comfort. The fabric was cool against his skin, a silent anchor in the storm of his unraveling mind. He sank to the floor, the cloak enveloping him as he shook, the horror too vast for words, for tears, for anything but a crushing, silent breakdown.
He had won. His bluff had succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. And as he sat there, trembling on the floor of a dead man's room, he realized that this victory felt exactly like death.