Lysander's chains were removed.
It was a quiet change—no ceremony, no decree. Elara simply ordered it one evening, citing strategic consultation as the reason. The guards hesitated but obeyed. A prince's word still held weight, even if borrowed.
With wrists free and parchment abundant, Lysander worked.
He mapped the castle first—its layout, blind spots, and structural weaknesses. Then came the nobles. Elara's intel grew sharper by the day, filtered through lessons Lysander taught him. Observation became instinct. The boy was learning.
They met nightly in the candlelit archive beneath the old chapel. Dusty scrolls lined the walls, untouched for generations. Here, they spoke freely.
"The Minister of Grain," Elara said, pointing to a name on a crude diagram, "embezzled funds meant for winter stores."
"And who knows?" Lysander asked.
"Just the clerk. I've already—"
"No. Don't silence him."
Elara blinked. "What?"
"Promote him. Quietly. Make the minister wonder why."
Elara frowned, then smiled. "He'll panic."
"He'll expose himself."
The prince chuckled. "You're terrifying."
"I'm efficient."
News of their subtle victories trickled in. A minor scandal here. A forced resignation there. The Regent remained unaware—or uninterested. His focus lay elsewhere, on war preparations in the east.
One evening, Lysander placed a small object on the table between them.
A chess piece. Obsidian. A knight.
Elara raised an eyebrow. "What's this?"
"A gift."
"Symbolic?"
"Always."
The prince studied it. "Why a knight?"
"Because it moves strangely," Lysander said. "Unpredictably. But with purpose."
"And what piece are you?"
Lysander smiled faintly. "I'm the board."
Outside, the bells of the lower quarter tolled midnight. The city breathed in uneasy sleep. Beneath its streets, a strategist plotted, a prince listened, and the first threads of rebellion stirred like wind through dry leaves.