There was a chamber cut from stone deep beneath Valeria, far from prying ears and Imperial lanterns.

Here, torches guttered against damp walls, throwing shadows that clung like drunken friend. It was a place without banners, without heraldry—only silence, and the faces of men and women who had sold their names long ago.

The Shadow League had gathered.

Sylas Valerian sat at the head of the blackened table, the torchlight catching on the silver threads embroidered in his dark doublet.

His eyes, sharp and fever-bright, swept over his companions. Each was masked, some by cloth, some by half-helmets, all by secrecy. Their voices would never be written, their actions never recorded.

Yet tonight the silence was brittle.

"It's been confirmed—It was not Valen," rasped one of the masked voices, a woman with a scar that split her lip. "The Crown Prince was in the north when it happened, attending the Icefort negotiations. His spies move differently, besides—too clean. Too careful."

"Nor Darius," another replied, a squat man with fingers thick as sausages. "His Silver Dawn bleed their enemies in the streets. The Brienne estate was a slaughter, yes, but there was method in it. A message, not mindless carnage. Darius would never leave an Imperial dagger behind. Too neat, too deliberate."

Sylas leaned forward, steepling his hands.

The dagger in question glinted in memory, though he had locked it away months ago. He recalled how he had found it in the ruins of the Brienne estate, above Lisellie's trembling figure, the blood still tacky on the marble floor. The blade had been Imperial issue, etched with the sigil of their house.

Not just slaughter, but a proclamation.

"And yet," Sylas said softly, "someone left it there. Someone wanted me to know."

The words hung heavy. No one dared shift.

At last, the scar-lipped woman spoke again. "That leaves only one conclusion, Your Highness. The fourth prince."

The words dripped like venom.

Sylas's jaw clenched. "Aric."

Even the name tasted bitter. The cripple reborn, the bastard made king of Byzeth, the phantom rising from obscurity. He had dismissed him once as nothing more than a pawn too stubborn to die. But pawns could cross the board, and when they did, they became far more dangerous.

"He had reason," said the squat man. "House Brienne was your ally, was it not? His strike destabilized you. It sent a message to Lisellie, to your supporters, to every noble who thought you unassailable."

"And the letter," another shadow whispered. "The one left pinned to Lisellie's palm. It named Draken. It means the fourth is the one who know your dealings with the flame Empire."

Sylas's hand curled into a fist on the table.

He felt the eyes of the League upon him, measuring, weighing. For months he had discussed little of the Brienne massacre. He had insisted it was an external enemy, a rival noble faction. But the evidence had grown undeniable.

Aric Valerian knew.

The realization slid through the chamber with an odd edge.

Sylas broke the silence at last. "Then the fourth prince is not only a nuisance—he is a threat. If he knows of my ties to Draken, if he knows of the arrangements I have forged, then it is only a matter of time before he strikes again."

The scarred woman's voice hardened. "What action do you propose?"

The council stirred. Voices rose, harsh and urgent.

"Strike him down," the squat man urged. "Send blades in the night. End him before he grows stronger."

"No," countered another, cloaked in green. "He is a hero now, the conqueror of Byzeth. His estate is watched, his halls guarded by loyalists. A failed strike would expose us all."

"Discredit him," said the scarred woman. "Paint him as a butcher, an unstable warmonger. Turn the empire against him before he can turn them against you."

"Poison," muttered another shadow. "Slow, unseen. Accidents happen every day in Valeria."

The chamber dissolved into argument, the shadows bartering blood and fear. Sylas let them rage, his mind racing. Assassination would not work; Aric had survived too much already, and death clung to him so much he had learned to shrug off.

Lies might wound him, but the empire loved victories, and the taste if Aric's victory was still fresh on their tongue.

Killing him was not enough. Containing him was not enough. They needed time.

At last, Sylas slammed his palm on the table, the sound like a whipcrack. Silence fell.

"You are all correct," he said, voice low and venomous. "Aric must be stopped. But understand this—if he truly knows my secrets, then every step he takes is calculated. He has not yet struck because he prepares. He waits, like a serpent in the grass. We cannot cut his head clean. Not yet. We must make him strike elsewhere. We must divert him."

The shadows shifted uneasily.

"How?" asked the cloaked one.

Sylas's smile was thin as a knife. "By reminding him of his conquests. Byzeth is his now, but their scars are fresh. Their lands are weak, exposed. And I did not only orchestrate their rebellion—I forged pacts beyond it. Ogard. Blackiron. Both Kingdoms wait for my word."

A low murmur rippled through the chamber.

Sylas continued, savoring their unease. "We will order them to march. Ogard from the east, Blackiron from the south. Not with full force—no, only raids, border strikes, enough to rattle the Byzeth throne. And then we shall see."

The squat man leaned forward. "You would draw him from Valeria? Send him scurrying back to defend what he seized?"

"Precisely." Sylas's eyes gleamed. "If Aric rides to Byzeth, his web in Valeria withers. His whispers scatter. He cannot be both king and conspirator at once. And if he refuses, if he leaves Byzeth undefended… the people will see him for what he is: a usurper who cannot even hold what he took, and when we control Byzeth we take his coin and northern Favor."

The scarred woman nodded slowly. "Divide his strength. Buy time for yours."

Sylas inclined his head. "Time is all we require. Time to root out which of my allies waver, time to mend the fractures he seeks to exploit. Time to prepare the next move. When he returns, he will find his foundations rotted, not mine."

The League digested his words in silence. One by one, heads dipped, agreements muttered.

The plan was not perfect—no plan was—but it was cunning. It shifted the burden of choice onto Aric, forcing him to reveal where his priorities lay.

Sylas leaned back, the torchlight glinting off his eyes. He thought of Aric—the forgotten cripple, now risen like a ghost from the grave of obscurity.

It burned him to acknowledge the boy's rise. But he would not be undone by him. Not by the fourth son, not by fate's cruel jest.

"He believes he has me cornered," Sylas murmured. "Let him think it. Let him celebrate his cleverness. But he will soon find that while he plays with rumors, I command kingdoms."

The scarred woman raised her cup, the torchlight flashing across its rim. "To the downfall of the fourth prince."

The others echoed, their voices a murmur of steel and smoke.

But Sylas did not drink. He sat in silence, eyes fixed on the flames. In the flicker of fire, he thought he saw Aric's shadow, tall and unyielding. For the first time in years, a chill coiled beneath his skin.

He crushed it down, forcing his lips into a smile.

"Begin the messages," he said. "Ogard. Blackiron. They will march. By the time Aric learns of it, he will have to make a choice."

The torches sputtered.

The shadows leaned in, binding themselves once more to the prince's will.

The League dispersed soon after, leaving only Sylas at the table, staring into the fire until the coals hissed to black.

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