The city was buzzing with rumors, whispers that carried faster than wind through gilded corridors and marble halls. Nobles gathered in private chambers, their voices low but sharp, their faces pale with unease.
"…A shadow in the docks, moving like a ghost…"
"…The boy who fell into The White… they say he survived."
"…And the Thorns crest appeared again. Someone is meddling with forbidden relics."
Lucien watched it all unfold from a rooftop overlooking the Council Hall. From here, he could see the spiderweb of influence, every noble reacting with fear, greed, and suspicion. The game had begun in earnest.
He descended into the hall's periphery, blending with servants and courtiers, his aura dimmed to almost nothing. The nobles were unaware of the presence that would unweave their power in hours.
At the center of the room, the Chancellor's allies convened. Lords of wealth and war, faces twisted with anger and confusion, argued over strategy. Every word, every gesture, revealed weakness.
Lucien listened. Every plan to secure void relics, every suspicion of spies, every misstep was noted.
When one noble dared to shout, "We cannot allow this… ghost… to disrupt our trade and influence!" Lucien's presence shifted. Shadows stretched subtly, curling behind him. No one noticed, but the air thickened, tension amplifying.
He stepped forward. The room turned in unison, startled by the sudden appearance of the pale noble who had previously gone unnoticed. His aura flared faintly, enough to unsettle the most composed faces.
"I am no ghost," Lucien said softly, his voice carrying the calm authority of inevitability. "I am the Sole Exception. And every action you take against me will ripple back onto you."
Whispers erupted. Some courtiers froze, recognizing the calm that carried the weight of someone who had survived death itself. Others scoffed, thinking this a display of arrogance, until the faint pressure of his aura brushed against their senses. The sensation was subtle but unnerving, like the world itself bending against them.
"Your relics, your schemes, your manipulations—they belong to me now," Lucien continued, voice low and deliberate. "I do not seek war. I seek order. And if you cannot maintain it, then you will be removed."
A noble tried to challenge him openly, drawing a dagger with a trembling hand. Lucien's eyes flickered. A finger raised, and the dagger froze mid-air, suspended by invisible pressure. The man fell to his knees, eyes wide, mouth open in terror.
"Remember," Lucien said, aura pulsing faintly around him. "The Sole Exception does not need armies to command obedience. He only needs will… and the foresight to strike."
The hall fell silent. Even the Chancellor's allies, far away from him physically, felt the weight of inevitability pressing down.
Lucien turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving nobles whispering in fear, each questioning their own alliances and safety.
Above the city, the wind stirred, carrying the faintest hint of darkness and promise. The White had left its marks here, and Lucien was beginning to understand the depth of its reach.
The game had shifted. The noble houses were now aware that someone beyond their understanding was moving among them. And the Sole Exception was only getting started.