The night draped itself over the ruined chapel like a veil, broken only by the flickering dance of torches lining the ancient stone walls. Shadows stretched across the clearing, clinging to the rebels who had gathered, speaking in hushed tones of their long-awaited uprising. At the center, amidst the glow of firelight, stood Hans von Eisenhart—his obsidian katana, resting against his hip as he surveyed the scene with the measured calm of a warrior before battle.
Shuna approached, her steps quiet, deliberate. She studied the shifting expressions of the rebels—hopeful, eager, unaware of the deception surrounding them. "They trust us," she murmured, voice barely above the crackling of the flames.
Hans ran a hand over his hilt, feeling the perfectly weighted blade beneath his fingers. "Good," he replied. "Trust makes betrayal seamless."
Merian, the rebels' leader, stepped forward, his stance stiff with anticipation. "My lord, the plans are set. At first light, we march upon the keep."
Hans gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable. "Your people show courage. Your young lord, Caelan, shall be restored." He exhaled, crimson eyes flickering with amusement. "Rest tonight—for tomorrow, you reshape history."
Merian bowed, turning toward his companions, his voice steady as he repeated the orders. The rebels scattered into preparation, sharpening weapons and adjusting armor.
Shuna watched them, her jade-green eyes sharp with knowing amusement. "They truly believe this is their moment. Their victory."
Hans stepped closer, his voice cool, composed. "That is how history is written—not in battle cries, but in whispers before the storm."
He turned toward the forest's edge, where the trees thickened into natural barriers against the outside world. Shuna followed, falling into step beside him.
She glanced at him, expression unreadable. "Are you certain about replacing Caelan?"
Hans' fingers curled around his weapon's hilt, feeling the cold bite of its metallic sheath. "Completely. A true Caelan would seek justice. Our Caelan will seek obedience."
A slow smile tugged at Shuna's lips. "Then tomorrow, we crown a puppet."
Hans exhaled, shifting his stance, feeling the weight of the coming deception settle over him. "And no one will suspect."
With that, the night folded itself into silence, awaiting the dawn where revolution and shadow would walk hand in hand.
Away from the torch-lit gathering, Hans allowed himself a moment of reflection beneath the twisted limbs of an ancient oak. The rebels had fallen neatly into place, the pieces on the board aligning exactly as planned. He had provided them with supplies, strategy, and whispers of hope. In reality, they were marching toward their own subjugation—shaped by his unseen hand.
And tomorrow, they would forge its final shape.
Standing at the crest of a hill overlooking the rebels' camp. Below, the movement of figures—young and old, eager and weary—formed a rhythm of preparation beneath the pale light of the half-moon.
"They will fight believing in Caelan," he murmured. "They will see him as their beacon."
Shuna folded her arms, her gaze sharp. "And yet, the real Caelan will never return to them."
Hans chuckled, adjusting the sheathed katana at his waist. "No. Miryss will take his place, shaped by every memory extracted within the Dominion."
Shuna tilted her head, studying him. "Do you ever wonder how far this control can reach? How much of this world we can weave into our grasp?"
Hans ran a hand through his dark hair, the markings on his arms glowing faintly in the moonlight. "Control is an illusion. Influence, however, is reality. And influence stretches across every kingdom, every battlefield, every whisper that turns men toward war or peace."
Shuna observed him in silence before allowing a knowing smile. "Tomorrow, we shift history."
Hans turned, watching as the wind lifted the silver strands of her hair. "Yes," he murmured. "And none will know whose hand truly guided it."
Morning arrived in washes of gold and deep crimson, casting long shadows across the chapel's fractured walls. The rebels assembled, armored in mismatched gear, weapons gleaming in the early light. Hans and Shuna stood at the forefront, their expressions unreadable, their plans already unfolding beyond what anyone could see.
Merian stepped forward, raising his sword toward the sky. "Brothers! Sisters! Today, we reclaim our home!"
A roar of approval rolled through the ranks, men and women gripping blades with fierce determination.
Hans let their cheers wash over him, unimpressed.
They believed in this fight.
They believed in Caelan.
Hans stepped forward, voice cutting through the noise. "Your entry points are clear. Your forces will advance on the main gate, forcing a retreat among the guard ranks." He gestured to a secondary map. "Shuna and I will infiltrate the keep—freeing Lord Caelan and ensuring the fall of the old regime."
Shuna lifted a hand, activating a shimmering rune. "This sigil will disorient loyalist troops within the inner fortress. When the gate falls, Caelan must be the one to claim his father's throne."
Merian clenched his fist. "He will—with our blades behind him!"
Hans smiled faintly, "Then we move."
The rebels advanced beneath the rising sun, their figures sharp against the dust-kicked path. Hans and Shuna traveled at the head of the column, their movements fluid as they stepped between eager warriors preparing for their so-called liberation.
As they neared the outer walls, Hans turned to Shuna. "The real Caelan waits within the Dominion now. It's time to retrieve our agent."
Shuna nodded, whispering silent commands into her palm. A flicker of **Mental Dominion** activated a hidden sigil, summoning Miryss—the shapeshifter who would become Caelan.
A ripple of energy shimmered, and the illusion completed itself.
The game was about to begin.
Within the keep, guards remained oblivious to their fate. In the rebel ranks, no one doubted their purpose. And far beyond Teravell, deep within the Eternal Dominion, a noble son's memories lay etched in arcane stone, waiting to shape the puppet who would take his place.
Hans adjusted his stance, feeling the weighted precision of **Crimson Fang** against his side. Shuna flexed her fingers, feeling the pulse of runic magic within her grip.
The gate would fall within the hour.
Caelan—Miryss—would rise within the day.
Hans smirked as the first war horn echoed through the valley.
"Showtime."
Shuna chuckled, her voice rich with anticipation. "Let's write history."
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