Montclair leaned back in his private chamber, his drumming fingers tapping impatiently on the smooth oak top of the table. The candlelight danced unsteadily, and tension began seeping into the room. The gossip was running rampant. It wasn't a matter of whether or not folks suspected him anymore—it was a matter of how soon before the king's eyes landed on him.
"Find out who is behind this," he growled, his voice heavy with suppressed anger.
His chief advisor, Lord Revelle, nodded seriously. "My lord, we have some suspects. These rumors did not just materialize. Someone planted them."
"I don't need speculation, Revelle," Montclair snapped. "I need names."
The advisor bowed slightly. "Very well. There are three principal people who might benefit from your loss."
Montclair leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
"Tell me."
Revelle took a thin strip of parchment in hand, unrolling it carefully.
"Lord Ferris first. He's been hostile for ages and simply inquired regarding the cost of the army. If he did get some. information, he could be trying to have you killed before you move against him."
Montclair laughed. "Ferris is an idiot. If he had evidence, he'd be at the king's doorstep by now."
Revelle went on. "Second, Baroness Lysara. She's telling tales of your wealth to anyone who will listen. She benefits a great deal if you would fail."
Montclair's face hardened. He had underestimated that woman once.
"And the third?"
Revelle's hesitation was palpable. "A man of no title of nobility. but one increasing in power, nonetheless."
Montclair's staccato drumming fingers ceased.
"Aric."
Revelle nodded. "He has been playing deeper in court politics. There are rumors he has Duke Strathmore's backing, and even Lord Cedric has been… wonderfully obedient to him."
Montclair's fist curled. Aric. A name he had never considered seriously before—but now, suddenly, it all fit.
"Call my spies. I want Aric tailed."
That evening, black-robed men came forth to defend the city. Montclair had used informants and mercenaries for years to keep his foes in line, and he now turned them on a new enemy.
Aric.
The men followed him wherever he went. Every meeting, every word—nothing was omitted.
And the initial news was quickly brought.
"My lord," a spy fell to the ground at Montclair's feet. "Aric has been giving private audiences to nobles. And his name is spoken in whispers when men discuss the rumors against you."
Montclair heaved for air.
It was him, then.
He stood up from his chair, his mind racing. A direct blow was not wise. If Aric had Strathmore's or Cedric's support, a direct attack would isolate him at court.
No, this needed to be done with caution.
"Write a note," Montclair dictated. "I want Aric to realize I'm observing."
Later, when Aric came back to his quarters that night, he found something lying in wait.
A dagger.
With its tip stuck deep within the wood of his desk, holding down a note underneath it.
Aric pulled the paper loose and unfolded it, scanning the tidy but menacing handwriting:
"I see you, little gambler. Take care whose footsteps you follow. Some shadows fight back."
Aric grinned.
"So… he finally saw."
His ruse had worked.
And now the fight was to commence in earnest.