The outer districts of the capital whispered of miracles.
A man had arisen in the slums, calling himself the Prophet of the Weave. He spoke with fire in his eyes and certainty on his tongue. He healed the sick, cursed the corrupt, and foretold tremors in the balance of magic. His followers grew by the day—beggars, merchants, even low-ranking soldiers. They said he walked between realms. That his blood burned with divine truth.
Lysander, upon hearing the rumors from Elara, simply nodded.
"Fabricated," he said.
"You think he's lying?"
"I think he's a tool."
Elara frowned. "Of whom?"
"Not whom. What."
The prince paced the dungeon corridor, voice low. "We've confirmed it. He's using Soul Weave manipulation—fragments, maybe. Raw, unstable magic."
"Unstable magic that the people worship," Lysander murmured. "Which makes him dangerous."
Elara crossed his arms. "You want to eliminate him."
"No," Lysander said. "I want to observe him."
The next day, Elara arranged a meeting. Under the guise of charity, the prince visited the lower wards. His convoy moved through alleys thick with incense and prayer-chants. Children held talismans carved with crude spirals—the mark of the so-called Prophet.
In the center of a ruined temple stood the man himself. Robes of black and gold. Eyes glowing faintly. The crowd knelt as he raised his hands.
"The Weave trembles," the Prophet intoned. "Because the age of liars ends. The blind shall see. The shackled shall rise."
Lysander, hooded and hidden among the guards, leaned close to Elara.
"He believes his own nonsense."
"He's delusional?"
"Worse. He's inspired."
After the sermon, they approached him. Elara offered royal protection in exchange for cooperation.
The Prophet smiled, a too-wide grin. "I do not answer to princes."
"No," Lysander said, pulling back his hood. "You answer to patterns."
The Prophet flinched. For a heartbeat, something ancient flickered behind his eyes—recognition, maybe. Or fear.
"You," he whispered.
Lysander stepped forward. "The weave does not speak through you. It leaks. Like blood from a broken vessel."
The Prophet's voice cracked. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you," Lysander said. "Yet here we are."
The Prophet turned and vanished into the crowd, robes billowing like smoke.
Elara exhaled slowly. "What just happened?"
"We found our fracture point," Lysander said. "And now, we wait for the crack to widen."