The first attempt on Kael's life was almost polite.
It came in the form of a gift basket.
Seris eyed it with open suspicion as it sat on the long table in the strategy room—woven reed, imported fruit, a bottle of amber liquor sealed with wax. "No sender," she said. "No crest."
Michael crouched beside it, sniffed once, then stood. "Not poison."
Aurelian frowned. "How can you be sure?"
"Because poison would be efficient," Michael replied. "This isn't."
Kael regarded the basket thoughtfully. He could feel the system's touch on it—not direct, not hostile, but curious. Like a probe brushing against unfamiliar material.
"Open it," Kael said.
Seris shot him a look. "That's an order I don't like."
"Then stand ready," Kael said calmly.
The basket contained fruit, as promised—and beneath it, a folded letter and a small mirror no larger than Kael's palm. The mirror's surface was dark, almost liquid, refusing to reflect the room.
Aurelian inhaled sharply. "A Witness Glass."
Michael groaned. "Oh, that's not subtle at all."
Kael picked up the letter and read aloud.
To Kael of Virell,
The Star sees you. So do we.
If you wish to continue uninterrupted, speak into the glass at midnight. Alone.
Seris swore under her breath. "They're escalating fast."
"They're bypassing intermediaries," Aurelian said. "That mirror is not a threat. It's an invitation."
Michael leaned against the wall. "And a trap. Conversations like that never end neutral."
Kael turned the mirror in his hand. The warmth inside him recoiled slightly—then steadied. Not rejection. Caution.
"I'll do it," Kael said.
Seris's head snapped up. "No."
"Yes," Michael said at the same time.
They stared at each other.
"He can't avoid contact forever," Michael continued. "The system already knows he's off-script. This is it trying to reassert narrative control."
"And if it succeeds?" Seris demanded.
Michael met her gaze. "Then we learn exactly how it works."
Midnight came quietly.
Kael dismissed the guards and stood alone in the chamber, the city dark beyond the windows. He placed the mirror on the table and waited.
When the hour struck, the surface rippled.
A face formed—not masked, not human, not singular. Many features overlapped, like reflections seen through water.
"Kael," the voice said, layered and smooth. "Deviation confirmed."
Kael felt the pressure surge—but he held his ground. "You wanted to speak."
"Yes," the Star replied. "You are destabilizing a proven structure."
"I'm improving it," Kael said.
The many-eyed face tilted. "Improvement is not within your parameters."
Kael smiled faintly. "Then your parameters are flawed."
There was a pause—longer than any before. He felt it then: the system recalculating, drawing on futures that no longer aligned cleanly.
"You will exhaust yourself," the Star said. "Without consolidation, power disperses. Without hierarchy, bonds decay."
"Or they evolve," Kael said. "You wouldn't know. You reset before that stage."
Silence.
Then, softly: "You are not meant to understand me."
"No," Kael agreed. "I'm meant to outgrow you."
The mirror went dark.
When Kael exhaled, he realized his hands were steady.
Outside the chamber, Michael waited, arms crossed.
"Well?" he asked.
Kael set the mirror down. "It's afraid."
Michael's eyebrows rose. "Of you?"
"Of what happens if others follow," Kael said.
Michael smiled slowly. "Yeah. That'll do it."
Far above, the Veiled Star dimmed—just slightly—as if something essential had been taken out of alignment.
And for the first time, the price of Kael's attention was paid not in blood or obedience—
—but in uncertainty, the one thing systems were never built to survive.