The city of Veltharion did not sleep. It never had.
Its towering spires clawed at the heavens like the fingers of a dying god, shrouded in a constant veil of mist and smoke. Beneath them, streets buzzed with the pulse of a world too old, too burdened by secrets.
Tonight, however, the heartbeat had changed.
It was quieter.
Tense.
As if the city itself were holding its breath.
In the lower district, where lanterns flickered like nervous eyes and shadows stretched longer than they should, a single figure moved with purpose. Unseen. Unheard.
Kael.
Cloaked in the dark, he passed through alleys and backdoors like a whisper through silk. Not hiding—no. Positioning.
The meeting place was an abandoned chapel, long forgotten by the faithful and repurposed by those who believed in more practical gods: gold, information, and leverage.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and secrets.
A circle of cloaked figures waited—nobles, merchants, even a disgraced general. All seated around a cracked marble table that had once served as an altar.
And at its head, Kael.
He said nothing at first.
He let the silence stretch, tightening around them like a noose.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm. Controlled.
Deadly.
"The king believes this city is his. That his bloodline grants him dominion. That faith, fear, and tradition will keep his throne intact."
He looked up.
"He's wrong."
Murmurs stirred. Someone shifted nervously.
A merchant cleared his throat. "With all due respect, Lord Kael, to move against the crown—"
"—Isn't what I'm proposing," Kael interrupted. "We don't move against the crown. We move beneath it."
He stood, slow and deliberate.
"We fracture his pillars. Not with swords, but with whispers. With doubt. With fear."
He placed a single black ring on the table—an ancient artifact once worn by a priest of the old gods.
"The people don't need truth. They need belief. And I will give them something to believe in."
Eyes locked on him.
They felt it now.
This wasn't rebellion.
This was something colder. Sharper.
This was control.
Across the city, in the palace of light and gold, Queen Seraphina sat before a mirror that reflected more than just her face.
She touched her cheek absently, listening to the reports from her informant.
"Kael moves at night," the spy whispered. "He has influence among the merchant guilds. Even some of your court."
She narrowed her eyes.
"And yet, he claims no title. No ambition."
"No visible ambition," the spy corrected.
Seraphina smiled—a dangerous, knowing curve of her lips.
"Keep watching him. But do not interfere. Men like him… they only reveal their hands when they believe they've already won."
That night, Kael stood atop the spire of the ruined chapel, overlooking the city like a god surveying his broken temple.
The wind tugged at his cloak. The stars offered no light.
"The first ember has been lit," he murmured to himself.
"Let the fire begin."
To be continued…