The meeting hall smelled of wax, polished stone, and secrecy. Curtains hung heavy, dark enough to swallow light, but thin enough for whispers to crawl along the walls.
A small circle had gathered: nobles, former generals, and one high-elf adept in threaded magic, the same discipline Aurelion had just dismantled with terrifying efficiency.
"They survived," one said, voice low, clipped. Eyes flicked to the other. "Both of them. And the corridors…"
The adept inclined their head. "He unthreaded our magic. Every strike, every cord, snapped in his presence. I have never seen such control."
A murmur spread through the circle.
"Then it is him," another whispered. "The eldest prince. He has been trained, yes, but not for this. Not at that level."
"And yet," the first spoke again, "he walked away. No warning. No report. He did not kill them all."
The adept smirked faintly. "That was deliberate. He leaves them alive for counting, for consequences. A test, in itself."
One of the nobles folded their hands over their chest. "You said the boy is reckless. That Kaelen is young. But the eldest… he is precise. Calculating. Not just reflex, but intellect, patience…"
A glance passed between them. The word dangerous hung in the air, heavier than any blade.
"They do not know we exist," a high-ranking general said quietly, almost in awe. "The Queen herself — she suspects nothing."
"Yes," another replied. "And that is the advantage. She still believes the court merely murmurs, that loyalty is intact, that her exile preserves the balance."
"But our move failed," a young noble protested. "We lost six. One alive, the rest… destroyed. What does that tell you?"
The adept's eyes glimmered. "It tells me they are underestimating us. They will continue to. And we will escalate."
A pause. Silence stretched like a drawn bowstring.
"Escalate," the general repeated. "How?"
"Threads," said the adept. "Not just blades. Not just poison. We work through whispers, through magic embedded in commerce, in servants, in courtiers. By the time they notice the pattern, we will have already shifted the board."
The young noble swallowed. "The King… he is… relentless. If he discovers the Queen's name, the factions… we cannot survive."
The adept smiled, thin, precise, dangerous. "She won't know. Not yet. That is the key. She believes herself untouchable, removed. We act beneath her notice. Her absence is our shield. Her name… our excuse if needed."
Another murmur. One of the older nobles pressed a hand to their forehead. "And the eldest? He survived this, but he will not fail next time. You saw him. The way he unthreaded the strikes. No one walks away from that unless…"
"Unless they allow it," the adept finished for them. "Patience is the greatest weapon. Patience, observation, misdirection. Kaelen remains unaware. That is critical. The Queen remains unaware. That is even better. The King is… a wall. But the eldest prince is more than a wall — he is a tide that can erode anything over time."
A nervous laugh. "You make it sound… poetic."
"Poetry is strategy," the adept said. "We measure, we wait, we test. And soon, we provoke. Because every reaction is data. Every breath, every hesitation… everything counts."
Outside, the city moved. Birds perched on the hedges. Couriers carried letters. Merchants shouted prices.
Within the palace, a silent war had begun. And the Queen — blissfully unaware — continued her routines, tending to the court she thought she controlled, while her factions spun threads through shadow, counting, measuring, testing patience and precision alike.
The adept looked to the young noble. "Tell me again," they said. "Do you think she would approve?"
The young noble hesitated, voice tight. "She… she loves her children."
A smile, sharp and cold. "Exactly. And that is why she cannot know. Love blinds. We exploit what she cannot see. The rest… will follow."