Sir Kaelen's face, which has been a mask of cold iron, does not change. He does not smile. He does not frown. He does not so much as flinch. But for the first time, you see something flicker in the depths of those cold, grey eyes. It is not shock. It is the sudden, sharp, predatory glint of a wolf that, while hunting a rabbit, has just stumbled upon a dragon.
The passive pressure of his aura vanishes, replaced by something far more intense. It is a focused, suffocating attention. He is no longer testing you, no longer interrogating you. He is studying you, trying to see the shape of the soul behind the suicidal words you just spoke. He knows, with the absolute certainty of a man whose life is a study in power and betrayal, that these are the most dangerous words ever spoken in this room.
They are the words that start civil wars. The words that build dynasties or topple them into bloody ruin. He takes a single, slow, deliberate step back, putting a fraction more distance between you. It is not a retreat. It is the movement of a duelist creating the space he needs to draw his blade. The silence stretches, becoming a weapon in his hand.
He is giving you the space to hang yourself, to reveal yourself as a madman, a fool, or a foreign agent sent to sow dissent. He says nothing. He simply waits, his entire being a single, silent, lethal question.
You meet Sir Kaelen's silent, predatory stare, a man whose entire being is a coiled spring of lethal inquiry. You anticipate his move. The instant he begins to shift, your will reaches out. It is not an overt display, but a subtle, unseen command of the very air molecules around him. Your conceptual kinesis molds the aether, weaving an invisible field of resistance that clamps down on his space.
"What?" you ask, your voice calm, even challenge in the tense silence.
"Wanna fight?"
Sir Kaelen's eyes narrow. The words, so brazen, slice through the last vestiges of diplomatic pretense. He does not reply. His right hand, which had been resting casually at his side, flashes to the pommel of his longsword. It is a practiced, lethal motion, the drawing of steel a fluid extension of his will.
But something is wrong.
The movement, usually effortless, feels... thick.
His hand meets unexpected resistance as he tries to pull the blade from its sheath.
It is as if he is trying to draw a sword from a scabbard filled with viscous oil.
The smooth, deadly hiss of metal on leather is muffled, struggling against an unseen force.
He frowns, a barely perceptible tightening of his lips, his grip on the hilt intensifying. He forces the blade free with a grunt of exertion, pulling it into a guard position, but the air still clings to it, dragging at the gleaming steel.
His eyes, now colder than ever, bore into you, searching for the source of this inexplicable impediment. He is ready. He is wary. The duel has begun.
[About 10:02 AM on Day 23]
Sir Kaelen stands before you, his black-lacquered armor gleaming faintly in the dim office light. His longsword is drawn, held in a classic dueling stance, but the air around it continues to drag, making its movements feel heavy, unnatural. His cold, grey eyes are locked onto yours, searching for the source of this invisible defiance. He tests the resistance with a subtle shift of his weight, a brief, silent struggle against the unseen.
Then, without a word, he lunges.
It is a blindingly fast strike, a thrust aimed directly at your chest, designed to end the confrontation in a single, decisive motion.
The blade whistles through the air, but the whistle is distorted, muffled, as if cutting through thick cloth.
The resistance you imposed shifts. At first, it feels like viscous oil. But as his will forces the blade forward, the air around it solidifies further, becoming granular, like a sudden, invisible wall of dense sand.
Sir Kaelen's thrust, usually a lightning-fast blur, slows perceptibly. The sword, accustomed to slicing through empty air, grinds against the thickened aether, its speed reduced, its power blunted.
A flicker of frustration, quickly suppressed, crosses his face. He is powerful, but you have fundamentally altered the conditions of the fight.
He recovers instantly, pulling his blade back with an effort, his eyes now alight with a cold, analytical fury. He understands now that this is not a trick of light or a momentary weakness. You are actively wielding power, reshaping his environment in a way he has never encountered.
The duel has truly begun. He is Silver-Tier, a master of combat, and he now knows he faces a conceptual mage of profound ability.
[About 10:03 AM on Day 23]
You stand before Sir Kaelen, his drawn longsword still struggling against the invisible, viscous resistance you've imposed upon the air. His initial lunge, powerful enough to fell a lesser man, was blunted by your conceptual kinesis.
He holds his ground, blade poised, his cold grey eyes scrutinizing you, trying to unravel the mystery of your power. You meet his gaze, an unnerving calm in your own eyes.
"I have set up three layers of kinesis barriers knowing that you will test me," you state, your voice flat, almost academic.
The words are a direct challenge, a reveal of your cards.
"I believe this is enough to show that I have some substance to back up what I say, no?"
Sir Kaelen does not move. He does not lower his sword. The blade still feels heavy, thick with the unseen resistance of your magic. He processes your words, weighing them against the undeniable evidence of his own senses. His gaze, sharp and analytical, flickers from your face to the air around his sword, then back.
The implications are clear: you foresaw his actions, prepared for them, and executed your defense with a chilling precision he has rarely encountered. A muscle in his jaw tightens, a single, tell-tale tic. He is not impressed by your power alone; he is assessing your strategic mind. He acknowledges the display without ceding ground.
"Substance," he echoes, his voice a low, gravelly sound, "is in what you do with that power, 'Braisechant,' not in how you display it."
His eyes bore into you, demanding more than a simple demonstration.
"If you wish to convince me of your intentions, speak them without further games."
The duel of wills continues, suspended on a razor's edge. He waits for your next move, sword held firm, the air around it still thick with your unseen command.
You meet Sir Kaelen's unwavering gaze, the air around his drawn longsword still thick with the invisible resistance of your conceptual kinesis. You offer him no further magical display, no more games. You simply state your purpose, the words resonating with a cold conviction that cuts through the tension in the room.
"I believe that Duke Charles is the future of Francia, and I would like to enter his service."
Sir Kaelen's expression remains utterly unreadable. His eyes, however, betray a subtle, sharp shift. He does not lower his sword, still fighting the unseen viscosity of the air. He is a master of assessing intent, and your declaration, while audacious, rings with a sincerity that chills him more than any magical attack. He takes in your face—the face of a disgraced Aquitanian noble—and registers the full, dangerous weight of your words.
This is not casual treason; this is a calculated realignment of loyalty, backed by undeniable power. He slowly, deliberately, pulls his sword back, bringing it to rest against his side, pointing down. The resistance you've woven around him remains a constant, irritating pressure. He doesn't dismiss it, nor does he challenge it further. He acknowledges it as a part of you, a part of the package. His gaze is now entirely focused, drilling into your soul.
"Many speak of their beliefs," Sir Kaelen says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble,
"but few can back them with the blood price of their former allegiance. And even fewer can and will do so with the power you display, 'Braisechant.'"
He pauses, his eyes narrowing to slits. "So, you wish to serve the Duke. Why should he accept you? What exactly do you offer, beyond a disgraced name and a talent for street brawls and invisible magic?" The sword is still drawn, the kinesis spell still active, but the true battlefield has shifted. He awaits your tangible offer.
You deliver your offer, your voice calm and precise, outlining a terrifying vision of systematic, patient destruction.
"I offer to be a self-sufficient agent of political destabilization,"
You casually state, as if discussing a travelling itinerary state
"one that will poison the Crown from the ground up. I want to do things like going to the king's allies, and annoy them and saying things like the king is a coward for not sending Gold-Tiers to defend his land in the south, then traveling to smaller baronies to enjoy new wines, then going past Orleans and up to the seas to fish. If I manage to chance upon the opportunity for a more permanent solution after messing with them, I will. All while putting my favorite person on the Throne, because it feels like he would at least send Gold-Ranks to defend his lands."
Sir Kaelen does not move. He does not so much as flinch. The air in the room, already heavy with your magic, seems to grow colder, denser. His expression is utterly unreadable, a perfect mask of disciplined, Silver-Tier control. Yet, within the depths of his eyes, a storm gathers. He processes every word: 'self-sufficient agent,' 'poison the Crown,' 'permanent solution,' 'favorite person on the Throne.' He understands the depth of your ambition, the cold, calculating ruthlessness that allows you to casually speak of assassinations and grand treason with the same detached interest as discussing a fishing trip. He recognizes the power of the vision you presented, a mirror of the Duke's own dark aspirations. He also recognizes the immense, almost suicidal risk inherent in your proposal.
You are offering to be a ghost, a poison, an untouchable blade in the King's own domain. This is not the work of a mercenary or a simple defector. This is the work of a zealot. The silence stretches, taut and dangerous. He finally takes a breath, a slow, deliberate intake of air that seems to cut through the resistance of your kinesis. He steps forward, not threateningly, but with the quiet, measured pace of a man who has made a decision. He stops directly before you, the tip of his longsword a mere inch from your knee.
"A simple agent, 'Braisechant,' would ask for gold. A desperate man would ask for a place to hide," Sir Kaelen states, his voice a low, chilling whisper.
"You ask for a kingdom. For my Duke." He leans closer, his cold gaze piercing yours.
"If you are to be a tool of such magnitude, I must first know how true your metal is. Before I take this offer to the Duke, I need to see the depths of your conviction. Tell me how you would begin this poisoning. Tell me your first step to show me the Crown is rotten."
The sword remains at your knee. The kinesis spell still clings to him. The Duke's Captain of the Guard awaits your next move, ready to judge your worth.
You deliver your plan with a confident smile, outlining a systematic, calculated strike against the Crown's support network.
"Excellent. The King has many friends. One of them, Baron Faucher, commands the fortress of Roche-sur-Yon to the west. He is a pompous fool, but his fortress controls a vital trade route that funds the King's coffers. The Baron is hosting a tourney in two weeks' time to celebrate his daughter's name day. It will be full of Royalist knights seeking glory and the King's favor. I want to be given a horse and a purse of gold. My short-term goal is to win his tournament, humiliate his champions, disrupt his trade, and make him a laughingstock in his own home."
Sir Kaelen does not move. The only sound in the room is the faint, almost imperceptible hum of the kinesis spell you've maintained around him. He absorbs every detail: the target, the method, the timeline, the requested resources. A slow, chilling awareness of the strategic brilliance of your proposal begins to dawn in his eyes. He recognizes the power of such a delicate, insidious attack—a thousand cuts that bleed a kingdom dry from within. He finally pulls his sword back a fraction, sheathing it with a soft shiiing that echoes in the quiet room.
The kinesis spell, now without an active target, dissipates with a faint, almost silent sigh. The air in the office returns to normal. He walks back behind his desk and leans against it, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze never leaving yours.
"A sound plan, 'Braisechant'," he states, his voice a low, gravelly acknowledgment.
"To humiliate a Royalist Baron, disrupt his revenue, and plant seeds of discontent... it is precisely the kind of poison that serves the Duke's ambition."
He pauses, his eyes narrowing to slits.
"However, I do not hand out Ducal gold and horses to any beggar who walks into my office claiming he can unmake a kingdom."
He straightens, his full attention focused on you, a challenge in his stance.
"The Duke needs certainty. He needs proof. He needs to know that the man who offers to be his knife is capable of holding the blade. And I, as Captain of the Guard, am charged with finding such proof."
"Tomorrow," he continues, his voice devoid of emotion, "I am sponsoring the Lion's Cage tournament. It is a pit fight for coin and glory. The winner earns gold and a direct audience with me. I see now that this was your intent from the beginning, was it not?"
He doesn't wait for an answer.
"You will enter the Lion's Cage tomorrow. Win it. And do so with a display of such overwhelming power and skill that it leaves no doubt in my mind, or the minds of any of the Duke's men who witness it."
He steps forward, resting his hands on the desk, leaning in close. His gaze is like flint and steel.
"If you win, and if you truly impress me, then we can discuss Baron Faucher. Fail, and you will be thrown into the same cell as the merchant you blackmailed, for as long as I decide. The Duke has no use for ambition without execution."
The threat of his challenge hanging heavy in the air. You accept his terms, but not without a practical caveat.
"That is exactly what I intended to do in my original plan," you state, your voice calm and assured.
"But I still require money to at least enter the Lion's Cage."
Sir Kaelen's lips thin almost imperceptibly.
He had just stated he doesn't hand out Ducal gold, and you are immediately asking for it casually. His cold eyes sweep over your simple robes, the attire of a pauper. He processes the implication: a Silver-Tier conceptual mage, offering to reshape kingdoms, is currently destitute.
A flicker of something akin to dry amusement, quickly masked, touches his features. He walks back to his desk, picks up a small, ornate silver whistle, and blows a sharp, piercing note. Almost instantly, the door bursts open, revealing Captain Renaud, looking even more haggard than before.
"Renaud," Sir Kaelen commands, his voice crisp.
"Release Guillaume Bassot. For now. Inform him that the Duke's Watch will be monitoring his prices and quality closely. Very closely. And then... take his purse. The large one. The one he keeps with his personal valuables."
He pauses, his gaze locking onto you.
"The entry fee for the Lion's Cage is five silver marks. Bring that to me. The rest... well, the city owes him some recompense for his 'poor' quality bread, don't you think?"
Captain Renaud stares, his mouth agape. "Sir... you mean to say...?"
"You heard me, Captain," Kaelen snaps, his patience worn thin. "The Duke requires funds to assess potential assets. Move."
Renaud, utterly bewildered but accustomed to obeying, snaps a salute and disappears, pulling the door shut behind him. Kaelen turns back to you, his expression now completely serious, all traces of amusement gone.
"Consider it your first commission, 'Braisechant'," he states, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
"You will have your entry fee. And perhaps a little extra, to remind the merchant of the perils of greed. But understand this: The Duke's resources are not limitless. Prove your worth in the Cage. Leave no doubt. Your entire proposition rests on your performance tomorrow."
He leans back against his desk, crossing his arms. The silence returns, broken only by the muffled sounds of the Watch headquarters. You have your challenge, and the means to meet it. All that remains is the execution.
[About 11:00 AM on Day 23]
You take the small pouch of silver marks from Sir Kaelen's desk. The weight of the coins is a reassuring presence in your palm. Without a backward glance, you turn and walk out of the office, leaving the Captain of the Guard to his contemplation and the city's grim business.
Your exit from the City Watch headquarters is as undramatic as your arrival was chaotic. The Watchmen you pass eye you with a mix of curiosity and thinly veiled respect. You are no longer just the "unruly" individual; you are a man Sir Kaelen himself escorted, a new variable in the complex equation of Dijon's power.
You navigate the winding streets, the silver clinking softly in your pouch. The market square, once a stage for your performance, has returned to a subdued bustle. Guillaume's stall is conspicuously empty, guarded by a lone Watchman. His "Cudgels" are nowhere to be seen. You smile faintly. The lightning has struck.
Within the hour, you are back at the warehouse. You give the coded knock—three short, two long—and the heavy bolt slides back. Louie stands in the gloom, his figure still clad in the ill-fitting rags, his powerful form tense with anticipation. He steps aside, letting you in, and secures the door behind you.
You toss the pouch of silver into the air, catching it with a practiced hand. "I have succeeded in obtaining the funds for your fight," you announce, your voice flat but clear. "And more. Consider your entry to the Lion's Cage secured."
Louie's eyes, even in the dim light, gleam with a new, fierce light. He takes in the pouch, then you, and a slow, wolfish grin spreads across his face. He knows this is not just coin; it is validation. It is the first concrete step toward the revenge you promised him.
The sun is nearing its zenith, casting long shadows through the high windows. The stage is set. The Lion's Cage awaits.