Smoke and embers still curled above Teravell Keep when dawn's pale fingers reached over the ruined battlements. Within the courtyard, captive banners of rebellion had been replaced by pennants bearing the new lord's crest: a silver hawk against midnight blue. The courtyard stones, slick with morning dew, still bore the footprints of the night's triumph—and of Hans von Eisenhart's silent blade.
At the heart of it all stood Caelan Teravell—Miryss, in perfect mimicry—where the real Caelan had once been bound. His posture was unshakable, voice clear as he addressed the gathered populace. "Today, we rebuild our lands. Let no man doubt that Teravell stands united under justice and mercy." His words carried across the silent ranks of townsfolk and former rebels alike, settling as truth upon their hearts.
Hans watched from the shadows of a shattered archway, obsidian katana sheathed at his side. His stern countenance revealed nothing of pride or doubt—only the calm assurance of a strategist whose design had come to life. Shuna stood beside him, her cloak drawn about her slender frame, eyes glinting with satisfaction.
"These people believe a broken keep and a fresh coat of paint made them free," she murmured, voice low. "Soon, they'll believe our Caelan can do no wrong."
Hans scented the morning air—smoke and damp earth—and nodded. "Loyalty born of hope is a stronger chain than iron." He turned his gaze on the puppet lord, noting how Merian knelt at Caelan's throne with reverent awe. "Watch how he forges alliances. All we supply from here onward is illusion."
By midday, the Great Hall had been reconsecrated. Long tables of rough-hewn oak bore fresh loaves, salted fish, and barrels of pale ale. Peasants and soldiers alike clustered under vaulted ceilings carved with the Teravell family's ancestral scenes—now repainted to feature Caelan as the savior knight.
Hans and Shuna entered under the guise of royal envoys. Caelan rose, stepping forward with regal grace. "Welcome, my stalwart protectors," he said, voice ringing with sincerity. "Your deeds on the walls last night saved countless lives. I owe you both my life and my reign."
Shuna offered a courteous bow. "Your trust is our honor, Lord Caelan. May Teravell thrive under your guidance."
Hans echoed the formality, voice measured. "As your vanguard, we stand ready to serve." Under the table, his fingers brushed the hilt of his katana—ever vigilant even in ceremony.
Behind them, Merian took his place among Caelan's new council, sworn from rebel captain to royal steward in a single day. Hans had provided him with forged land grants, granting Merian authority over three border villages in exchange for his fealty. The once‐fierce insurgent now wore fine leathers and silver-trimmed pauldrons, a living testament to the Dominion's promise of reward and the puppet's benevolence.
As Caelan moved among the crowd, dispensing pardons and accepting oaths of loyalty, Hans noted the subtle threads:
• The Merchant's Guild had been summoned to Teravell—their captains now pledging exclusive trade in grain and timber under the baron's seal.
• Minor houses from neighboring territories dispatched envoys bearing tribute to secure his favor.
• Local magistrates, formerly under the Marquis's sway, now signed decrees abolishing heavy taxation on smallholders, citing Caelan's compassion.
Every policy shimmered with both genuine relief and veiled gratitude for the reforms—reforms Hans and Shuna had seeded with precise leaks of forged documents and strategic blackmail name‐drops gleaned via Mental Dominion Shuna's unique skill.
When the final oaths were sworn, the Great Hall erupted in cheers. Caelan raised a goblet of spiced wine. "To Teravell's bright dawn," he toasted. Glasses clinked. Hans allowed himself the faintest nod, acknowledging a game expertly played.
As celebrations continued, Shuna slipped aside, touching a small rune‐etched token. Within seconds, a shimmering veil enveloped her and Hans, transporting them back to E-Naeul's guild pavilion—the very annex where their mission had begun. The oak-paneled room was now silent, the chairs still warm from their departure. No one approached to question their tardiness; after all, the baron's envoys were accustomed to swift returns.
Shuna laid out a report before Lumina, who sat upon a cushioned chair draped in Helmut's old robes. "My lord, Teravell Keep has been secured. The rebels have sworn loyalty. Baron Caelan rules with the people's support—our policies and pressures have cemented his authority." She offered a sealed dossier bearing the signatures of Merian, Captain Jordla (the new head of the guard), and three minor lords.
Lumina—Helmut in all but name—nodded, her flawless features composed. "Excellent. Dispatch word to King Ramposa III: Teravell's succession has been completed peacefully. My efforts have prevented bloodshed."
Hans bowed. "A triumph of diplomacy and security, my lord."
Lumina inclined her head. "Then grant us the time to draft the official report. We shall present it to the royal court at tomorrow's council."
With that, Hans and Shuna departed once more—this time via carriage back to Teravell—to oversee the final touches of their revolution's first act.
That evening, beneath the vaulted obsidian dome of the Eternal Dominion's throne room, Velkharion reclined upon the Frostfire Throne in his customary plate armor. His crimson-lit eyes regarded the assembled generals: Sythera, Kroxar, Zelefar, Valnor, and Isaril. Each stood with disciplined posture, awaiting his decree.
Sythera was first to speak. "My lord, the report from Teravell confirms the successful coup. Baron Caelan's popularity is soaring. Mercantile treaties are in place, and the region's fortifications now answer to his command."
Velkharion nodded, his expression unreadable. "Excellent. Teravell is secure—our puppet's reign unquestioned." He let a moment pass, crimson eyes flicking to Zelefar. "And our captive, the real Caelan? His memories have been fully extracted?"
Zelefar's golden gaze gleamed. "Complete. His knowledge of family alliances, regional politics, and personal relationships is distilled into crystalline scrips. Miryss now embodies him perfectly."
Kroxar added, "With that, every letter, every decree, every tribute in Teravell aligns with our long‐term strategy."
Valnor produced ledgers. "We've redirected a portion of Teravell's trade income into our merchant fronts in Baharuth and E-Naeul—ensuring future leverage."
Isaril stepped forward. "Our undercover agents in Ashkare report that the Crimson Serpent Guild pledges exclusive protection for Teravell's cargo. Soon, their tunnels will serve our operations."
Velkharion folded his gloved hands. "Then we stand poised on two fronts: Teravell consolidates our western anchor, while Baharuth's underworld yields to our control. Next, we press the Slane Theocracy into distractions north of E-Naeul—our expedition to the underwater ruins still labeled 'cursed'."
He leaned forward. "Maintain the Siren Ruins as a no-go zone. Let the Theocracy wonder at our silence while their fleets pursue phantom arcanes beneath the waves."
Sythera inclined her frost-scaled brow. "As you command, my lord."
A hush fell over the chamber as the generals dispersed, setting their schemes in motion. Velkharion remained, gazing into the shifting currents of mana that pulsed through the Convergence Core.
Alone in his private library, Hans—at this moment known as a noble samurai—ran a hand along the spines of imported grimoires. The faint glow of phosphorescent inks traced serpentine runes along the shelves. Here, removed from the clamor of strategy, he allowed himself a rare moment of introspection.
Shuna's voice drifted through an open archway, drawing him back. "The courier from E-Naeul arrives with dispatches." She rested a hand on his arm. "The world turns swiftly, yet you remain thoughtful."
Hans offered a small, rueful smile. "Power demands action, but heart demands pause." He lifted his katana. "Tomorrow, we ride again. But tonight…let us savor the quiet."
Shuna pressed her cheek to his shoulder. "Whatever you seek—be it world dominion or peace at dawn—I stand with you." Hans closed his hand over hers, pushing her softly on the bed.
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