The city did not sleep.
By day, its streets roared with merchants and nobles. By night, the same city whispered—gamblers and thieves in taverns, mercenaries counting coin in alleyways, spies exchanging secrets in candlelit rooms.
Lucien knew this rhythm instantly. The White had taught him: every beast had patterns, every labyrinth had cracks. The city was no different.
He would build his influence here. Not loudly—not like the Chancellor's golden banners that declared authority. No. Lucien would weave himself like a shadow between shadows.
And it began with pawns.
He found his first in the underbelly of the docks—a smuggler known as Veynar, scarred and brutish, the kind of man who trusted only coin and steel. Lucien approached him without fear, his noble frame clean even in the filth of the harbor.
"You're out of place, boy," Veynar sneered, hand on his dagger. "Best leave before you drown in someone else's pockets."
Lucien smiled faintly, setting a small pouch on the crate between them. The smuggler's eyes widened at the weight of gold inside.
But before he could reach for it, Lucien's aura brushed against him—barely, like the kiss of a blade against his throat. Veynar froze, sweat dripping down his scarred brow.
"That's the difference between me and your other clients," Lucien said softly. "They pay you for silence. I buy your loyalty."
The smuggler swallowed. "And if I say no?"
Lucien's smile sharpened. "Then I don't leave you alive enough to regret it."
A long silence. Then, slowly, Veynar's trembling hand pulled the pouch close. "…What do you need moved?"
Lucien leaned forward, his pale eyes gleaming. "Not goods. Information. Every whisper from the docks, every shipment that reeks of secrecy—I want it all."
The first thread was tied.
The second pawn came two nights later: a forgotten priest whose faith had rotted into wine and despair. Lucien found him slumped in the ruins of an abandoned chapel, praying to gods who no longer answered.
"You want a god?" Lucien whispered in the candlelight. His aura coiled like a crown of flame behind him. "Serve me. I'll give you something greater than faith. I'll give you truth."
The priest fell to his knees. Another thread woven.
Piece by piece, Lucien spun his web. A smuggler, a priest, a trembling scribe, and others—broken men and women, dismissed by the world, ignored by power. To most, they were trash. But to Lucien, they were instruments. Pawns with purpose.
And through them, whispers of the Chancellor's cult reached him.
Meetings at midnight. Hooded figures gathering in cellars beneath the Citadel. A phrase repeated like a curse: The Crown of Thorns shall bloom again.
Lucien stood upon the rooftops that night, cloak billowing in the wind, the city glowing with torches beneath him. His amulet glinted faintly in the moonlight.
"The Chancellor feeds the White," he murmured. His aura surged, coiling like a blade unsheathed. "Good. Then I'll cut the root before it spreads."
Below, bells tolled midnight.
The cult was gathering.
And Lucien Dreamveil was ready to walk into their den.