---
"At first, it was just whispers," he said. "A drunk in a tavern saying he heard a hunter found Dawn boy's bones. A caravan guard saying he saw a Dawn ring in a monster's stomach. A priest claiming he performed a funeral rite for a nameless corpse."
He smiled faintly, cruelly, at the memory.
"All lies," he said. "Carefully placed lies."
He lifted a finger, ticking them off as if counting business steps.
"Step one. Start small," he murmured. "A whisper that can't be traced. A story that sounds like an accident."
"Step two. Repeat," he said. "Not with the same voice. Never with the same voice. Different mouths. Different streets. Different corners of the city."
"Step three. Add detail," he continued. "People believe details. Blood. A torn coat. A broken ring. A shadow beast. The more specific the lie, the more it feels like the truth."
One of the guards swallowed, listening despite himself.
Dickon's eyes gleamed.
