The Shadows That Whisper Counsel

Ben lowered his gaze, exhaling a slow, weary breath.

"Tell me, Rafi…" he repeated quietly, more to the emptiness than to the man before him, "what am I to do now?"

The vast throne room answered only with silence. The kind that presses down, heavy and intimate. The golden light from the high windows had faded, leaving behind long shadows stretched across marble and stone. The banners hung motionless—Lionheart's sigil glinting faintly, as if watching in judgment.

Ben stood still for a moment, staring at the floor as if the answers might be carved somewhere between the tiles. The crown on his head felt heavier tonight, though no one remained to see the doubt in his eyes.

A low hum broke the silence—soft, unnatural.

Before the throne's steps, the air wavered, darkened, and from the thin crack of shadow, a figure emerged.

Kneeling. Cloaked in black from head to toe.

"...Sire."

The voice was calm, respectful—low enough to sound like the night itself had spoken.

Ben's expression barely shifted, but his shoulders tensed.

He didn't flinch. He never did around this one.

"Rafi," he murmured, lifting his gaze at last.

The shadowed man stayed on one knee, head bowed, one hand resting over his chest. Beneath the hood, a faint glint of steel caught the dim light—the edge of a hidden blade, the symbol of his service. His presence felt cold, precise, like something carved from silence itself.

"I believe what you believe, my lord," Rafi said slowly. "If you ask whether treason breathes within our court… I'd say yes."

Ben's jaw tightened. "So it's true, then."

"I would not speak without certainty," Rafi replied. "You feel it too—the way certain men flinch when Varen's name is spoken. The whispers that die the moment your guards approach. Someone inside our walls is moving their hand in the dark."

Ben moved closer, each step echoing in the hollow court. "You've been watching?"

"Always."

Rafi raised his head slightly. Beneath the shadow of his hood, his eyes glimmered faintly—a calm, predatory focus. "There are signs—subtle, but there. Delayed reports. Altered ledgers. A missing courier who should've reached the Homender border three nights ago. Someone is choking information before it reaches you."

Ben's hand found the armrest of the throne. He wasn't angry yet, but something darker stirred beneath his composure. "And you're certain it's not just Varen's paranoia feeding into ours?"

Rafi's lips curved faintly. "Paranoia, perhaps. But the kind that keeps kings alive."

That earned him a small breath of dry amusement from Ben. "You're becoming bold."

"I learned from the best."

Ben shook his head, but there was warmth beneath the gesture—a quiet trust that few had ever earned from him. "You speak freely tonight."

"I speak truth," Rafi said. "And truth rarely needs permission."

Silence stretched again, heavier now.

Ben's gaze drifted toward the tall windows where the last threads of sunlight slipped below the horizon, bathing the court in muted orange. Dust floated in the light like tiny motes of memory—quiet witnesses to everything spoken within these walls.

"Then tell me," Ben said finally, voice dropping low. "What do I do with this commander's request for Martial Law?"

Rafi didn't answer immediately. His hands rested on his knee, the quiet confidence of a man who weighed his words before giving them.

"My king," he said at last, "we accept it."

Ben blinked once, surprised. "You think I should?"

His tone carried disbelief—not anger, not fear, but the ache of a man tired of making choices that only sharpened the blade at his throat.

"Yes," Rafi said plainly. "Because right now, it's our best option."

Ben turned slightly, leaning against the throne's steps. "Explain."

Rafi rose to his feet, his cloak whispering across the marble. "We're being watched—from within and from below. The underworld has been stirring for weeks, feeding on the chaos in the borders. If we declare Martial Law, we can move our forces through the capital without interference. We tighten control, restrict travel, and let the traitors believe we've turned our focus outward."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "They'll grow comfortable. They'll make mistakes. And when they do… we'll be waiting."

Ben studied him for a long moment, the faint echo of Rafi's words lingering in the air.

There was logic there—cold, pragmatic, cruel if needed. The kind of plan that only Rafi could deliver without blinking.

"You want to set the bait," Ben murmured.

Rafi nodded once. "Exactly. Let them think we're too busy to see. That's when men reveal their true loyalties."

Ben's fingers brushed the throne's arm again, tracing the grooves left by kings before him.

"Moon Eagle," he said quietly, "the assassin group—you've seen movement?"

"They're still on the border," Rafi confirmed. "Scattered, but not gone. They've aligned with someone. Whoever moves against us in the capital might already be funding them."

Ben exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing. "So, if we accept Varen's Martial Law, it buys us time."

"It buys us control," Rafi corrected. "Time only matters if we hold the board."

Ben gave a tired, humorless smile. "You sound more like a strategist than my guard."

"I've had to become both," Rafi said. "You trust few, my king. I adapt where trust fails."

That stung more than Ben expected.

He looked down, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. "You've earned that right."

The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was heavy with unspoken gratitude, loyalty forged in years of blood and shadow.

Ben finally stepped down from the throne's dais, stopping before Rafi.

"Then we proceed," he said. "I'll make the order public tomorrow."

Rafi inclined his head. "I'll handle the preparation."

Ben's eyes drifted toward the tall doors at the far end of the hall, where the faintest sliver of night leaked through the cracks. "The sun's gone," he murmured. "Another day swallowed by secrets."

Rafi's gaze softened. "Secrets are what keep you alive, sire."

Ben gave a quiet, thoughtful hum. "And they'll be what kills me too, someday."

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