Lord Regent Valerius stood before a polished mirror, adjusting the folds of his ceremonial cloak. The fabric shimmered with threads of imbued silver, a sign of absolute authority.
Behind him, his spymaster waited in silence.
"They're calling me a bastard," Valerius said calmly. "Whispers in my court. My city."
The spymaster inclined his head. "We've detained the printers. Burned the scrolls."
"And the boy?"
"Still too cautious. He plays at rebellion but hasn't struck."
Valerius smiled faintly. "He thinks he's clever."
The mirror's reflection held no warmth. Just a man shaped by survival and sculpted by fear.
"They forget," Valerius murmured, "that I bled for this throne. While nobles drank wine, I hunted traitors in alley shadows."
His voice dropped. "The Weave bent for me once. It will again."
Elsewhere in the palace, Lysander studied court records with Elara. He pointed to an old census, fingers tapping dates with precision.
"Here," he said. "The Regent's listed as 'Valen,' born of no house. Reappears years later under a new name."
Elara narrowed his eyes. "You're certain?"
"No one hides that well without reason."
"But why now? Why hide a name?"
"Because names are keys," Lysander said. "To lineage. To power. To lies."
That evening, they released a new document—unofficial, unattributed, but deliberate. It contained side-by-side records of Valerius and Valen, matching ages, identical signatures. Enough to suggest doubt. Not enough to prove.
Let the court whisper. Let doubt ferment.
The next day, the Prophet responded.
He claimed victory, said the false regent's lies were exposed by divine will. He declared that the Veiled Healer had fled the capital, frightened by the approaching purge.
"Perfect," Lysander said. "He's overreaching."
Elara paced. "We can't keep up this shadow war."
"We don't need to," Lysander replied. "We just need to break his alliance with the outer provinces."
The prince looked up. "You think he has military backing?"
"He doesn't," Lysander said. "But he thinks he does. And that makes him reckless."
Later that night, the Regent called for the prince.
They met in the blackstone chamber, flanked by silent guards.
"You walk dangerous paths, nephew," Valerius said.
Elara met his gaze. "Only toward the truth."
The Regent smiled coldly. "Truth is a blade, boy. And you're not the one holding it."
But in the shadows behind Elara, Lysander watched. Not a blade.
A scalpel.