Hours later, long after the artificial sun had set on the Imperial Gardens, Valerius Solarius was in his true element. Not a throne room, not a council chamber, but a small, private study in the deepest, most secure wing of the Imperial Palace. The room was circular, windowless, and contained only a desk, a chair, and a single, tall candle whose flame burned with a cold, white light that cast no shadows. The walls were lined not with books, but with maps—maps of the continent, star charts of the known universe, and intricate diagrams of political alliances that resembled spiderwebs.
He stood before a large, circular table in the center of the room. On it was a board, but it was not the simple chessboard he had used with Seraphina. This was a *shatra*, the game of emperors. Its surface was a three-dimensional representation of Aethelgard, with pieces representing not just armies, but Great Houses, key individuals, economic resources, and even abstract concepts like "popular opinion" and "religious fervor." It was a game of total strategy, and Valerius was its undisputed master.
He moved pieces around the board, his long fingers plucking them from their positions and setting them down with quiet, deliberate clicks. Each movement represented a potential future, a gambit played out in the silent theater of his mind.
He picked up the piece representing Isabella Pyralis—a roaring dragon carved from crimson jade. *Fire-affinity, battle-craving, politically useful if properly aimed.* He moved the piece closer to the one representing the Imperial Throne. A potential weapon against the other Houses. But then he moved it again, placing it in opposition. A potential rebel if her House's ambition was not sated. Her piece was a cannon, as he'd told Seraphina. Powerful, but with a tendency to explode if mishandled. He left it, for now, in a neutral but threatening position.
Next, his fingers brushed against the Elara Glaciem piece—a perfect, multi-faceted crystal that refracted the candlelight into a thousand tiny rainbows. *Cold, brilliant, likely to remain neutral unless given overwhelming reason not to.* He tried moving her piece into an alliance with the throne. It felt wrong, improbable. He tried moving it into an alliance with the Scorched Alliance. Equally unlikely. House Glaciem served only one master: statistical probability. He placed her piece on the edge of the board, an observer, a silent judge. A fortress, indeed.
He moved the Roselle Terranova piece—a simple, unadorned stone, warm to the touch. *Kind, grounded, beloved by her House and its allies.* He placed her firmly beside the throne piece. A steadfast ally. But then he considered another angle. He moved a black, jagged piece representing an "assassin" next to her. *Her kindness makes her a target. Her connections make her a valuable hostage. A potential weakness in the Loyalist bloc if pressure is applied correctly.* He sighed. Even virtues were liabilities in this game.
His gaze swept over the dozens of other pieces representing the incoming students, each one a dossier he had memorized, a life he had quantified. He moved them, tested them in theoretical conflicts, calculated their probable loyalties and breaking points. It was a familiar, comforting ritual, the imposition of order onto the chaos of human ambition.
And then his eyes fell upon one piece he had yet to touch. It sat in the territory of House Mournblade, a small, unassuming shard of polished obsidian. It was almost lost in the shadow of the larger, more ornate piece representing Marcus Mournblade. The piece for the second son. Damon.
He picked it up. It was cool and smooth in his hand. He accessed the mental file he had on the boy. The dossier was insultingly thin. Unremarkable grades at his family's private tutelage. No notable political connections. No recorded achievements. Affinity for Death rated as "adequate but unremarkable." A non-entity. A spare. A piece so insignificant it barely warranted a place on the board.
And yet…
Valerius's instincts, honed over two decades of surviving the vipers' nest of the Imperial court, whispered to him. A single, quiet note of discord in the symphony of his calculations. *This one is wrong.*
He closed his eyes, calling up the official portrait from the Academy's admission files. It was a standard, formal portrait. A pale young man with black hair and grey eyes, staring directly at the artist. But Valerius, who had studied the faces of thousands of allies and enemies, saw what the artist had missed. He saw the stillness. It wasn't the shyness of a withdrawn youth or the arrogance of a sullen noble. It was the absolute, profound stillness of something that does not need to move. The stillness of a predator waiting patiently in the tall grass. The stillness of a trap that has been set.
And the eyes. They weren't just looking at the artist. They seemed to be looking *through* him. Through the canvas, through the room, through the very fabric of the world, at something far beyond. It was the gaze of a man looking at a chessboard, not as a piece, but as a player.
Valerius opened his eyes, his heart beating a little faster. It was nothing. A trick of the light. An overactive imagination fueled by his unease about the Vex'Arak. A second son of a second-rate Loyalist House could not be a threat. It was illogical.
But Valerius had not survived this long by ignoring his instincts. His logic was a powerful tool, but his intuition was his sharpest weapon. It had saved his life on three separate occasions.
He set the obsidian piece down, not back in the shadows of its brother, but in the center of the board, isolated and exposed. A question mark. An unknown variable.
He walked to his desk and, using a small, enchanted quill, made a note on a piece of parchment. It was a single addition to his personal schedule for the upcoming Academy examinations.
*Observe personally: Damon Mournblade.*
He had sent Seraphina to be his eyes, but some things, he decided, a prince needed to see for himself. The board was set. The players were in place. But a new, unknown piece had just been declared, and Valerius would not be caught by surprise. He would watch. He would wait. And if this unremarkable second son proved to be anything more than he seemed, Valerius would have him removed from the board. Permanently.