He reached into his tunic and pulled out a small leather pouch. He emptied it onto the map-table. Out rolled three more silver coins—each stamped with my father Philip's face, each defaced with that same jagged 'X'.
"I found these in the bags of the Silver Shields," Hephaestion said. "Your elite. Your veterans. They aren't just tired, Alexander. They are conspiring. And they are using your father's ghost to justify the knife."
My breath hitched. The betrayal was no longer a shadow; it had a shape. "Who leads them?"
"Does it matter?" Hephaestion's smile was tragic. "If you kill the leaders, the rest will still hate you. You've won every battle, but you've lost the war for their hearts."
A sudden commotion outside broke the tension. A messenger from the White City stood at the flap, breathless. He carried a gift—a helmet made of pure white jade, translucent and cold as ice.
"The Raja of Kairav sends his respects," the messenger bowed. "He says the feast begins at sunset. He also says... he has a guest who claims to know the King of Macedonia. A man who died at the Granicus."
Hephaestion and I locked eyes. The Granicus was years ago. No one survived that we didn't know about.
"Is it a trap?" Hephaestion asked, his hand instinctively dropping to his sword.
I took the jade helmet. It was freezing to the touch. "It's more than a trap. It's a mirror. And it's time we saw what's inside."