He calls Maren into his private office. The room is dimmer than usual—shadows heavy, words weighed down by suspicion.
"You've heard the name, haven't you?" he asks, pouring himself a drink he doesn't finish.
Maren watches him carefully. "Caelum Dross," she says. No hesitation.
He flinches. Not visibly. But you would've noticed it.
He leans in. "Tell me what you know."
She lies.
She crafts a version with leaks and activists, distant fires and underground cells. She leaves your face out. Your history. Your name.
But you're already listening.
Through a planted charm in the lamp—a spell woven into the circuitry by one of your allies. You hear every breath he takes, every half-word he chokes on.
"I want this ghost traced. Found. Erased."
Later that night, Maren sends you a message. No encryption this time.
"He's scared. I've never seen him scared."
You reply for the first time.
"He should be."
Across the city, your final piece moves into place—a speech leaked in his name, filled with dangerous inconsistencies. Protesters gather. Donors pause. An investigation is launched.
And in his dreams that night, the devil visits him.
Whispers your name.
Not your old one.
The one made of vengeance.
"Caelum is coming."