The city that had seemed peaceful now throbbed with tension. Word of the pale sovereign's intervention in the Chancellor's cult and the stolen void relics had spread like wildfire through the noble houses.
They were terrified. And terrified men acted recklessly.
At dusk, the streets became a battlefield. Mercenaries, assassins, and masked killers flooded the alleys, moving like shadows, striking at couriers, pawns, and anyone rumored to have ties to Lucien. Their intent was clear: draw the Sole Exception into the open—or die trying.
Lucien did not run. He had anticipated this.
From the rooftops, he watched the chaos unfold. His aura simmered beneath his skin, coiling like a predator ready to strike. The city was his chessboard, the enemies merely pawns moving without understanding the rules.
A group of assassins burst into the street where his scribe-pawn gathered intelligence. Their blades were coated with toxins designed to kill ordinary men instantly. Lucien appeared in a blur of white and shadow, aura forming blades around his arms.
A single motion, and the first assassin was cleaved in half mid-lunge. The others froze, aura slicing invisibly between them, bending their momentum against themselves. By the time they realized the threat, Lucien had vanished into the alleyways, leaving only bodies and a faint shimmer of aura behind.
But the attacks escalated. Entire blocks were filled with mercenaries, using explosives, traps, and black powder to flush him out. Yet for every trap, Lucien had prepared counters. His aura compressed to strike through walls, twist metal, and redirect force with terrifying precision.
He moved through the city like wind, unseen and untouchable. Yet amidst the chaos, he noticed something disturbing.
The symbols.
Every group of mercenaries carried talismans—small marks etched into weapons, armor, even clothing. Each mark pulsed faintly with void energy, reminiscent of the creatures and monsters of The White.
Lucien's eyes narrowed. The White's influence was not contained to the cult or the Chancellor. It had bled into the city, twisted mortal greed into instruments of the void.
With a thought, he changed tactics. No longer fighting merely to survive, he began dismantling the noble houses' coordinated assault. Using his aura to manipulate gravity subtly, collapse walls, and redirect attackers into one another, he turned their own aggression into chaos against themselves.
By midnight, the streets lay in ruin, the attackers either unconscious, terrified, or fleeing. Lucien stood atop a spire overlooking the city, aura glowing faintly, a calm island amidst the storm of destruction.
He smiled faintly.
"The White," he murmured, "left its marks everywhere. And now I see… it is more than a prison. It is a test. And I am the only one to pass it."
Below him, the city whispered of a pale sovereign who could not be caught, who could strike without warning, and who seemed to bend fate itself.
Lucien Dreamveil, the Sole Exception, had survived the first retaliation.
And the noble houses now knew that fear alone would never protect them.