It began with letters. Not pigeons. Not messengers in livery. Just envelopes—five of them—delivered to the estate within the span of a single morning.
Each one bore a different house seal: Glaiven, Velire, Orwind, Halburn, and Kent. Minor houses, yes—but old, land-stable, and careful with which names they said aloud.
Each letter was addressed not to the Queen.
Not to Cedric.
To Prince Percival.
Thalric opened them in his study, one after the other.
"Your presence at the winter markets would honor our booth…"
"We understand your recent recovery has been extraordinary. Might we inquire about a future visit…"
"We'd like to request clarification on a small estate bond tied to the Worthing name in East Halburn—"
The letters weren't invitations.
They were feelers. Sent because someone had noticed that Thalric had stopped merely occupying space and begun influencing it.
None of the offers were bold. None of them demanded allegiance. But every one of them said the same thing, in the elegant sidelong way nobles prefer:
You are no longer being ignored.
By midafternoon, the steward confirmed that four house correspondents had requested audience slots within the next week.
"Shall I prepare the East Chamber?" he asked. "Something modest, but formal."
"No," Thalric said. "Decline them all. Kindly."
The steward hesitated. "You don't wish to entertain them?"
"I don't need to," Thalric replied. "I only needed them to realize they're already late."
He walked then—slowly—through the west corridor where the portraits of Worthing's lords lined the walls. All of them stared forward, brushed in stern oils, gazes pinned to imagined futures they never reached.
Let them think he was recovering.
Let them believe some deeper revelation had stirred him to political purpose.
They didn't need to know that all he truly had was strategy—and the audacity to let them project belief onto it.
Solen caught up with him outside the observatory stairwell, holding a folded note.
"House Glaiven is offering a gift," she said. "A chess set. Handmade. Allegedly carved from cedarwood traded during the Third Accord."
"Why now?"
She shrugged. "The court's reading your silence like it's scripture."
He smiled faintly.
"Good. Let them write parables."