Tension became texture.
It wove itself into the palace walls, into the creak of doors and the rustle of parchment. Even the wind sounded different—carrying whispers instead of cold.
Lysander stood beneath the oldest tree in the royal gardens, a twisted thing with bark like scarred flesh. It had survived five wars, two fires, and an assassination attempt that scorched its roots.
"A fitting place," he murmured.
Elara approached, still in formal robes from court. "For what?"
"To breathe."
They sat in silence for a while.
Then Lysander said, "The Regent will strike within the week."
Elara nodded. "I feel it too."
"We need to decide how loud we want the fall to be."
Elara looked up sharply. "You're not planning subtlety?"
"I was," Lysander said. "But the people don't respond to whispers anymore. They need thunder."
That evening, Lysander distributed the final piece of misinformation—an intercepted letter, forged, hinting that the Prophet and the Regent planned to merge their factions under a new faith. Outrage swept through the court like wildfire.
"Too much?" Elara asked.
"No," Lysander replied. "Just enough to break the dam."
The next day, an explosion rocked the temple district. No casualties, just destruction. Enough to draw attention. Enough to frame.
Guards rounded up suspected Prophet followers by the dozens. But even among them, confusion reigned.
"We didn't do this," one wept. "It wasn't us!"
And in the chaos, Lysander slipped a different narrative into the hands of the city's scribes.
That it had been a false-flag attack—staged by the Regent to justify martial law.
By sundown, both sides accused each other.
And the city teetered.
That night, Lysander returned to the archive. He stared at the Weave-shard.
Then at the chessboard.
The black king lay on its side.
He hadn't moved it.
Elara joined him, placing a hand on the table. "You look tired."
"I remember too much," Lysander said.
"About the woman?"
"About what comes next."
Elara didn't ask for details.
Sometimes, silence was the only answer that made sense.