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. Below, the streets pulsed with the lifeblood of a city built on centuries of conquest, betrayal, and ambition. Gaslights flickered like uncertain stars, casting long shadows over cobblestone alleys and forgotten sanctuaries.
Tonight, however, the heartbeat had changed.
It was quieter.
Tense.
As if the city itself were holding its breath, waiting for a name it dared not speak aloud.
Kael.
In the underbelly of Veltharion's lower district—where the noble banners no longer flew and the law was just a rumor—a figure glided through the darkness.
Cloaked in silence, Kael passed through the slums like a ghost born of smoke. He wasn't hiding. He was weaving himself into the fabric of the city, claiming its unseen veins.
He paused before a rusted iron gate, eyes flicking toward the shadows. A beggar watched him with milky eyes—blind, or pretending to be. Kael flicked a copper token his way.
The beggar caught it without hesitation.
The gate creaked open.
The abandoned chapel had once been a place of reverence. Now it smelled of old stone, forgotten prayers, and secrets. Candles flickered in a ring of light that barely reached the cracked walls. At the center stood an altar of black marble—scarred, weathered, and stained with time.
Around it, a dozen figures waited.
They were not priests.
Merchants cloaked in midnight silk.
A disgraced general with one eye and too many regrets.
Two minor nobles from Houses Rhenval and Oslin—both families publicly loyal to the crown.
And at the altar's head—Kael.
He said nothing. Not at first.
Let silence do what fear never could.
Let them sweat.
Let them wonder who else had come.
Let them remember who summoned them.
Kael's voice, when it came, was low and patient. Every word was measured.
"The king believes this city is his. That divine right and ancient bloodline will preserve his crown. That tradition will blind the people long enough for rot to reign unchecked."
His eyes moved from face to face, never blinking.
"He is wrong."
A merchant shifted uncomfortably. The general grunted but said nothing.
The noble from House Oslin finally broke the tension. "Lord Kael… to question the crown is—"
"—Not what I've done," Kael cut in smoothly. "We are not revolutionaries. We are architects."
He stepped forward and placed a single item on the altar: a black ring, inlaid with crimson script older than the empire.
"We do not shatter the throne. We hollow it from within."
A silence fell again, heavier now.
"We sow doubt," Kael continued, pacing slowly. "We turn loyal nobles into opportunists. Turn opportunists into agents. Turn faith into currency. The king does not need to fall. He needs to be outlived."
One of the merchants, younger than the rest, asked hesitantly, "And what of the Queen?"
Kael stopped.
Smiled.
"Seraphina is a different creature. She understands power. She watches, waits, calculates. We'll let her believe she still has time."
Far above them, in the palace of white marble and golden domes, Queen Seraphina sat before a mirror of silverglass. Her chambers were silent, save for the whisper of silk and the flicker of firelight.
A man knelt before her—cloaked, face hidden.
"Kael moves through the lower districts," he whispered. "He speaks to the old families. The ones your husband cast aside."
She tapped her finger against the rim of her goblet.
"And yet he makes no move for the throne."
"No... but they follow him."
Seraphina smiled faintly.
"Men like Kael don't seize power. They let it come to them."
She stood and moved to the window, watching the city's distant haze.
"Keep your eyes on him. Do not act. When he reveals his hand, I'll decide whether to shake it… or cut it off."
Back in the chapel, the meeting concluded with ritualistic precision.
Kael spoke last:
"You each have a role. House Oslin will begin poisoning the legitimacy of the Crown's tax reforms. General Mareth will recover old war records detailing the king's betrayals during the siege of An'dor. The merchants… raise prices where the faith is strongest."
He looked toward the shadowed entrance, where a silent woman leaned against the pillar—Mircea, his whisperblade.
"And you," he said softly. "Remind the High Priest of Vireon what his silence cost him."
She bowed slightly and disappeared without a word.
The rest followed, shadows slipping into the city like smoke in water.
Later that night, Kael stood atop the chapel spire, cloaked in wind and ash. His gaze stretched across the city, following the rivers of light that marked the veins of his kingdom-in-waiting.
He closed his eyes.
He felt it—like the first crackle of fire on dry wood.
The beginning.
"The first ember has been lit," he murmured, eyes opening to the horizon.
"Let the fire begin."
To be continued…