Pax had always understood that Greyvale City wasn't governed by those who shouted the loudest.
But it was only when he began piecing together information,quietly, patiently, and without bias, that he truly grasped who held the city in a stranglehold.
In Greyvale, power didn't rest on thrones or don fine silks adorned with family crests. It moved on wheels and hooves, flowed through cups of cheap ale, said quietly in dim taverns, and exchanged hands beneath tables where coins changed ownership without witnesses. Its subtlety was what made it so perilous.
Late one night, Pax stood alone in a small courtyard with chalk in hand, gazing at a rough map etched onto a slate board. This wasn't a typical map of streets or buildings; it was a map of influence.
Lines connected names. Symbols marked intersections. Circles indicated convergence points where information pooled before radiating outward.
