The city held its breath.
Rumors spread like wildfire—of heretics, impostors, and ancient secrets hidden beneath palace stones. Nobles canceled dinners. Merchants kept ledgers close. Even the street performers toned down their songs.
Prince Elara felt it in every corridor, every side-glance from guards who once ignored him. He was no longer invisible.
He was dangerous.
In the archive chamber, Lysander moved pieces on a handcrafted chessboard. Each one carved from bone, obsidian, or quartz. The Regent was a black king. The Prophet, a white bishop. Elara, a silver knight.
"There will be casualties," Lysander said.
"There already are," Elara replied.
Lysander nodded. "Then we proceed."
Their next move wasn't political. It was personal.
Lady Virelle, a noble with close ties to the Regent, was known for hosting quiet gatherings—nights of wine, flattery, and whispered alliances. Lysander sent Elara there, not to plead, but to watch.
"She'll test you," Lysander warned. "Smile. Deflect. And listen more than you speak."
Elara did as instructed. He watched as Lady Virelle laughed too easily, as minor lords feigned drunkenness while slipping folded notes to her attendants. He noted every name, every glance, every sudden silence when his gaze passed.
Later, he returned with a list.
"These," he said, "are the ones who fear me."
Lysander smiled. "Good. Because fear leaves tracks."
While Elara worked the court, Lysander made contact with the underground.
He met with smugglers who remembered the old kingdom. With broken mages whose Weave-gift had flickered out during the last collapse. He spoke their language—not of gold, but of order. Of survival through design.
One evening, he returned with blood on his sleeve.
"What happened?" Elara asked.
"I made a mistake," Lysander said.
"You?"
"I misjudged a man's price."
"Is he…?"
"He won't speak again."
Silence.
Lysander sat, eyes tired. "We're nearing the line, Elara. The one we can't uncross."
"Then let's step carefully."
Lysander looked at him—really looked—and saw not a boy, but a prince shaped by tension, by pressure, by fire.
"You're changing."
"So are you."
Lysander chuckled softly. "No. I'm remembering."
Outside, the bells tolled midnight again. This time, they rang for a nobleman found dead in his estate. Poisoned wine. No witnesses.
The game had begun.
And pawns were falling.