The night in Valeria had more whispers than it did people.
Maxim Sylmaris walked alone through the lesser quarter, his dark cloak pressed close against the ribs of the city.
He was not the kind of man who craved recognition—indeed, his power was strongest when his name never left another's lips. To most, he was simply another noble son grown pale and bookish, better suited to libraries than the games of court. But within the shadows, the truth of him was a spider's web—each silken thread pulled, binding mouths and ears, hearts and ambitions.
Tonight, the web quivered.
In a low-beamed tavern where smoke clung to the rafters, his agents had already begun their play. The place was a common haunt of caravan masters and minor officials—men who served as the bloodstream of the empire, carrying messages, wares, and gossip alike.
Maxim leaned in the doorway, watching.
