The Market of Masks
The Dominion market at dusk was a spectacle of lights and lies. Giant holo-banners shimmered across the plaza, advertising everything from neural augmentations to imported off-world luxuries. Neon hawkers competed with temple-chanting drones; black-robed monks preached in one corner while mercenary recruiters shouted promises of fast credits in another.
Above them, sky-trams threaded between crystalline towers, ferrying the elite from rooftop to rooftop so they never had to walk among the sweating masses.
Ashira Valen strolled through this chaos as though it belonged to her. She was tall, statuesque, her midnight hair woven with thin wires that caught the neon glow like living sparks. Her steps were deliberate, her expression neutral, but her eyes — those sharp violet eyes — drank in everything.
To the crowd, she looked like another ambitious heiress, draped in understated luxury. But Ashira's true purpose tonight was buried deep.
She was here not for trade, nor for pleasure. She was here to plant an illusion.
The Theater of Lies
Her destination was the Emerald Veil, an upscale lounge that floated like a glass shard above the market. The moment she entered, a hush rippled through the air. Dominion's movers and whisperers turned to glance at her. Some with curiosity. Some with envy.
At the center table, surrounded by junior executives, sat Councilor Dresk — a corp politician with the body of a bear and the mind of a butcher. He was rumored to be considering alliances that might fracture Dominion's stability. That rumor was exactly what Ashira wanted to feed.
She approached with the kind of confidence that turned heads without seeming to demand them.
"Councilor," she said, her tone warm as honey, "forgive the intrusion. I thought it would be a crime to pass without greeting you."
Dresk rose, his bulk towering, but his smile wide. "Lady Valen! The pleasure is mine. Sit, sit. Join us — Dominion breathes easier with your family's presence."
Ashira inclined her head, sliding gracefully into the offered seat. Her mind ticked like a hidden clock.
Do not reveal too much. Let them think they see more than they do. That's the trick.
The Bait of Half-Truths
The conversation turned quickly to politics, as she knew it would. Dresk's companions probed for hints of her family's position on new defense contracts, on territorial disputes, on the rumored fractures in Dominion's unity.
Ashira laughed lightly, sipping her wine. "Contracts come and go. What matters is vision. And vision, my friends, is often clearest in the dark."
The table chuckled, though no one understood what she meant. That was the point.
Dresk leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Vision in the dark, eh? Then tell me — where does House Valen place its weight? With the reformers, or with the preservationists?"
Ashira smiled, tilting her glass so the red liquid caught the light. "Councilor, my House has always believed in strength. And strength is never static. But the wise do not shout their intentions across a crowded room."
Again, the words were smoke — alluring, meaningless, impossible to pin down. Yet Dresk nodded slowly, as though he'd been given an answer. His companions exchanged glances, each certain they had gleaned a hidden truth.
Ashira said no more. She let them interpret, argue, speculate among themselves. Already, their own words were revealing far more than hers.
The Dance of Masks
Later, on the balcony of the lounge, a junior aide cornered her. He was nervous, overeager, clearly tasked with prying deeper.
"Lady Valen," he said, wringing his hands, "forgive me, but… does your House intend to support Dresk's bid? If I could return with your assurance, it would secure great favor—"
Ashira stepped close, close enough for her perfume to blur his thoughts. She touched his sleeve lightly, her voice a whisper.
"You're bold to ask what others only wonder."
The aide swallowed. "Th-then you'll—?"
Her lips curved. "The question is not what we will do, but what you will make others believe."
And then she was gone, gliding back into the crowd, leaving him trembling with the illusion that he had learned something monumental.
The Oracle's Reflection
Much later, when she returned to her private quarters high above the city, Ashira activated her console. The holographic screen bloomed with coded text, the Oracle's whisper pulsing in silver light:
LAW III: Conceal Your Intentions.
A revealed plan is a dead plan.
Let others misread your silence, mistake your half-truths, and drown in the waters of their own assumptions.
Ashira studied the words, her reflection ghosted in the glass. She whispered to herself:
"Truth is a blade. Unsheathed too soon, it dulls. Hidden, it gleams forever."
Outside, the neon metropolis pulsed and throbbed with life. Inside, Ashira smiled faintly, knowing Dominion's vultures were even now feasting on rumors she had seeded — rumors that bound them, not her.