From the balcony shadows, Lucien watched the Chancellor with the patience of a predator. Every movement, every gesture, every tone of voice was studied, dissected, stored away.
Power wasn't just measured in aura—it was measured in influence, secrets, and control. And the Chancellor reeked of all three.
But Lucien had learned a truth in The White: no fortress is unbreakable if you find the right fracture.
And tonight, he found one.
A young court scribe scurried across the hall, clutching scrolls too heavy for his thin arms. His steps wavered, his face pale beneath the candlelight. The other nobles ignored him, but Lucien's eyes sharpened. The boy's aura was trembling—weak, anxious, cracked with fear.
Perfect.
Later that night, as the hall emptied and the Citadel sank into silence, Lucien descended. He moved like smoke between corridors, until he found the boy alone, bent over a desk, scribbling notes by a flickering lamp.
The boy startled as Lucien's voice broke the silence.
"You write the Chancellor's words, don't you?"
The scribe spun, eyes wide. "Wh—who are you? This is restricted—"
Lucien stepped forward, and the air thickened. His aura pressed down, invisible yet undeniable, pinning the boy like a hand to the throat.
"I am no one," Lucien whispered, his tone sharp but calm, "and that is exactly why you should fear me. Tell me—what truths does the Chancellor hide in those scrolls?"
The boy's lips trembled. "I-I cannot—he would kill me—"
Lucien leaned closer, his pale eyes glinting with quiet intensity. "He will kill you one day regardless. That is how men like him work. But me?" His aura tightened, wrapping around the boy like a serpent. "I can make you more than a tool. I can make you… the sole exception."
The scribe's breath hitched. A flicker of desperation lit his eyes, and Lucien knew he had him.
Within moments, the boy cracked. The words spilled out—about secret ledgers, about shipments marked as grain but carrying something else, about whispers of cult-like gatherings behind closed doors. And most importantly: a crest.
An insignia burned onto the bottom of each hidden record.
Lucien froze when the boy described it: a spiral of black thorns encircling a fractured crown.
He had seen that mark once before.
In The White.
Carved into the flesh of the monsters he had slain.
His jaw tightened. So the Chancellor wasn't just a ruler. He was linked to the void itself.
Lucien straightened, releasing the boy from his aura. The scribe collapsed in his chair, gasping.
"Keep writing his lies," Lucien said softly, already turning to the shadows. "But when I call for you, you will deliver me his truth."
And before the boy could respond, Lucien vanished into the darkness.
Above the Citadel, the moon glowed cold and distant. Lucien stood upon the outer spire, his mother's amulet heavy in his hand.
"The White followed me here," he whispered. His eyes glimmered with the sharp hunger of inevitability. "Good. That means I can finally hunt it at its source."
The Chancellor laughed far below, unaware that a phantom had just marked him.
And in that moment, Lucien Dreamveil began his silent war.