Prince Elara paced the stone hallway outside the dungeon, his fingers twitching at his sides. The encounter with Lysander had left a mark—an unsettling mix of fear and fascination. The man was dangerous, no doubt. But he was also brilliant.
The Regent, Lord Valerius, had grown increasingly paranoid in recent months. Whispers of rebellion stirred in the outer provinces, and the Soul Weave—once stable—showed signs of fracture. Threads of fate flickered where they once flowed, and ancient temples reported anomalies in their rituals.
Elara knew he was being watched. Every step, every word was measured against a standard set not by his father, but by the cruel uncle who held the regency in iron grip. And yet, in that dark cell, he had seen something he hadn't in months—hope.
He returned to the cell before dawn, a satchel in hand. The guard raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The prince was still royal blood, even if his power was ceremonial.
Lysander was awake, cross-legged on the floor, eyes closed in meditation.
"You came back," he said without opening his eyes.
"I brought parchment. Ink. Food."
Lysander opened one eye. "Not a sword?"
"I thought about it."
A smile. "Good instincts."
Elara knelt, placing the satchel between them. "Tell me how to begin."
Lysander took the parchment, unfurling it carefully. "Tell me about your enemies."
"Elaborate."
"Names. Positions. Weaknesses. Who the Regent trusts. Who fears him. Who profits from his reign."
Elara hesitated. "If I tell you these things…"
"You give me pieces. I'll show you the board."
And so, they began.
By torchlight, the two plotted. Names turned to profiles. Profiles to patterns. Lysander asked questions no tutor had ever thought to ask. "What does this general drink when he's nervous?" "What songs do the servants hum near the Regent's chamber?" "Who eats with their left hand?"
Elara gave what he could. At first, he answered stiffly, cautiously. But Lysander's rhythm was infectious. The strategist didn't demand information; he drew it out with the precision of a master craftsman.
After hours, Lysander leaned back. "The Regent keeps you close but starved of influence. He surrounds you with loyalists he controls. He expects you to rebel—eventually—but not yet."
"Why not yet?"
"Because he thinks you're a child playing dress-up."
Elara's jaw tightened.
"Good," Lysander said. "Anger is fuel. Just don't let it blind you."
The prince narrowed his eyes. "Why help me?"
Lysander met his gaze. "Because I hate tyrants. Because this world is broken. And because I don't like losing."
"And when you've helped me win?"
"I want access to the Soul Archives beneath the palace."
Elara blinked. "Those are sealed. Even the Regent—"
"Then you'll need to become someone who can unseal them."