The palace gates were impenetrable to the poor, but Rayon wasn't poor anymore.
He didn't need armies. He didn't need permission. He had strings.
Step One: A Servant's Shadow
Hours before the feast began, Rayon's threads slithered unseen into the city's lower markets. His prey: a palace servant fetching spices.
The man never saw the faint shimmer that brushed his neck. A tug, a twitch, and Rayon's hollow perception seeped into the servant's senses.
When the man returned, he carried more than spices—he carried Rayon's threads inside his eyes.
Through him, Rayon walked into the palace unnoticed. Not physically—his strings rode him, controlling his steps, hearing through his ears, seeing through his sight.
It was his first foothold. A shadow inside their walls.
Step Two: The Web Expands
By dusk, four more servants bore invisible threads.
One carried wine. Another polished the silverware. Two more tended to the stables. None of them knew their wills weren't their own.
Rayon didn't need to storm the gates. He walked inside through a dozen bodies at once.
When a guard barked orders at a servant, Rayon memorized his tone. When a noble scoffed, he studied their mannerisms. When doors opened, he counted their hinges, the creak of wood.
Every detail was pulled into his mind, filed away.
The palace wasn't just a fortress. It was a puzzle. And Rayon was patient enough to play.
Step Three: The Feast of Fools
That night, the nobles gathered in the grand hall. Wine spilled, music swelled, laughter echoed.
And Rayon was already at their table.
Through the eyes of a servant pouring wine, he studied the queen's hand on the king's thigh. Through another servant's steps, he saw the princess glance toward the musicians.
And through himself—hidden in the cloak of a stablehand—he stood against the far wall, silent.
None of them noticed the hollow eyes watching from the shadows.
The first Sentinel appeared. Veyra, the Iron Saint, stood near the throne, a mountain of silver armor. Her gaze swept the hall, suspicious, never at ease.
Rayon tested her.
A thread slid across the hall, brushing against her vision. Just enough to nudge her focus toward the musicians.
Her head turned.
Rayon's lips curled faintly. Even saints look away.
But she snapped back too fast, eyes narrowing. She felt something.
Rayon let the thread vanish instantly, as if it never existed.
Patience. Not yet.
By midnight, Rayon had threads tied to twenty different servants. He could move them like a puppeteer, weaving subtle chaos. A spilled drink here, a misplaced tray there. Small distractions, piling like pebbles into avalanches.
Guards grew frustrated. Nobles grew impatient. The hall grew noisy, unbalanced.
And in that imbalance, Rayon's eyes found what he wanted most:
the stairway behind the throne, leading to the royal chambers.
The heart of power.
He stepped forward, still in the cloak of a stablehand. His hollow eyes didn't blink. Strings shimmered faintly at his fingertips.
Every detail had been memorized. Every move accounted for.
The plan wasn't just infiltration.
It was execution.