The carriage drew up quietly at the palace gates, moving with deliberate care to avoid attracting attention. Simon waited in the shadows of the courtyard, his coat dark against the fading light. Only Philip and a small group of discreet attendants were aware of the visitor's arrival.
When the door opened, a figure stepped out gracefully, her presence commanding yet understated. Thessaly. Her eyes scanned the courtyard, noting the palace walls and the torchlight, before settling on Simon.
"Simon," she said softly, though with authority, carrying the weight of their past connection.
"Thessaly," Simon replied, voice low and measured. "It's been some years."
She inclined her head slightly. "I see that the crown has not softened you."
"No," he admitted without hesitation. "It never will. And I assume your skills have not dulled either."
A brief, knowing glance passed between them, a shadow of the past they had shared when he was younger—reckless, ambitious, and impatient, yet already showing the spark of cunning that would one day make him king.
"You must be tired," Simon said finally, his tone controlled but not unkind. "You've traveled far. Rest first. You will need your strength for what lies ahead."
Thessaly inclined her head in acknowledgment. "I appreciate the courtesy, Simon. A brief rest will suffice."
Simon waved a hand toward a small set of chambers prepared in secrecy—secure, comfortable, and private. Philip had ensured that everything would meet her needs without alerting anyone else.
"Settle in," Simon said. "Eat, drink, and rest. When you are ready, we will speak of the matter at hand. I trust you understand the urgency, even if the details remain… delicate."
She gave a slight smile. "I understand. And I trust you as well. But for now, I will follow your lead and rest."
Simon nodded once, his gaze lingering on her briefly before he stepped back into the shadows. She moved to the chambers with quiet assurance, her every movement precise and calm.
Alone, Simon allowed himself a moment to study the maps again, tracing the dark lines of the western border with careful fingers. The witch was still an unknown, the scouts missing, the men dead or scattered—but patience would be a weapon as much as any blade. Thessaly would rest first. When she was ready, the work would begin.
...
Thessaly entered the chambers Simon had prepared with calm precision, her eyes scanning the room as if noting every corner, every detail. Once inside, she paused and closed her eyes, her breathing steady, the faintest crease of concentration forming between her brows.
"I wish to see it… everything," she murmured.
Philip, quietly stationed nearby, looked uneasy. "See what, Mistress Thessaly?"
She opened her eyes, sharp and focused. "The witch's power. I need to know what we face before any plan is made. Take me to the western border—or at least, show me it as it truly is."
Philip hesitated, then gestured to a small, prepared space with a shallow pool of water and enchanted crystals—a place Thessaly had requested. "This will allow you to perceive it safely," he said.
Thessaly knelt before the arrangement. Closing her eyes, she reached out with her senses, and the room faded. In its place, the western border unfolded before her mind's eye, every shadow, every rustle of leaves replaying as if it were happening in real time. She saw the missing scouts—their fear, their confusion—and the way the witch's power had moved through the forest like a living thing.
Her lips pressed together, eyes narrowing. The witch's power was subtle but insidious, capable of bending perception and weakening even disciplined minds. Thessaly could feel the threads of it, the manipulation of nature and will, and it made her stomach tighten.
She is clever, careful… and she knows the boundaries of her enemies.
The replay continued, showing Thessaly glimpses of soldiers frozen mid-step, shadows that should not have moved, and whispers of something unnatural winding through the trees. She inhaled slowly, steadying herself. The images faded gradually, leaving the chamber silent once more.
"Simon must know the extent of this," Thessaly murmured to herself. Her mind traced every detail she had observed, committing it to memory. She would guide him carefully—precisely, ruthlessly—without revealing anything unnecessary.
Philip remained silent, watching her from a distance. "Is… it that bad?" he asked finally.
Thessaly's eyes opened fully, sharp as blades. "It is worse than you imagine. And yet, knowing is the first step. We will need every advantage, every plan executed without error, if Vishendor is to survive what is coming."
She rose gracefully, her expression calm but her mind already racing with strategies, contingencies, and warnings. This was no longer a matter of scouts and soldiers—it was a war of perception, will, and unseen forces. And Thessaly knew exactly where to begin.
-----
The morning sun had barely crested the palace walls when Simon arrived at the chamber where Thessaly waited. She sat calmly, her posture poised, eyes clear and sharp—no trace of fatigue from her journey or the visions she had witnessed the previous night.
"Simon," she greeted, her tone measured. "I've seen what I needed. We both know what we're dealing with."
He nodded once, his gaze assessing her as always. "Good. Tell me what you learned. Do not spare me any detail."
Thessaly's lips pressed together. "The witch is more subtle than we anticipated. Her power does not manifest as brute force, but through manipulation—twisting perception, bending nature, and turning even the disciplined mind against itself. The scouts… they were not defeated by strength, but by confusion and fear. They didn't stand a chance once she chose to touch them."
Simon's expression remained cold, unreadable. "So she targets the mind before the body. Predictable. But her patience… that makes her dangerous."
"Yes," Thessaly agreed. "She waits, watches, and understands the limits of those around her. She knows when to strike, and when to wait. That is why we must plan carefully, and anticipate her moves."
Simon moved to the table, tracing the map of the western border with his fingers. "We will not fight blindly. Every patrol, every position, every reaction… calculated. I want contingencies for every scenario. I will not allow hesitation or error to cost more lives."
Thessaly's gaze followed his movements, analyzing, calculating. "Then we must prepare wards and strategies that account for her manipulation. You will need disciplined troops and intelligence, yes—but also… defenses that cannot be seen or predicted."
Simon's eyes narrowed slightly. "Then we begin. I will assign trusted men for reconnaissance, patrol adjustments, and… discreet observations. You will guide me through what is visible and unseen."
She inclined her head. "Exactly. And Simon…" Her tone sharpened slightly, carrying the weight of both warning and authority, "you cannot act impulsively. That is what she thrives on. Every misstep is an opening."
Simon's lips curved in the faintest, coldest smile. "I do not make mistakes."
Thessaly did not flinch. She had known him when he was younger, reckless and ambitious, and had learned how to anticipate his moves. She would guide him now, quietly, precisely—just as she always had.
The room fell into a tense silence, filled only by the quiet scratch of quills as Thessaly prepared notes, and Simon's measured breathing. Outside, the palace was waking, unaware that the first steps in a hidden war were already being taken.