They threw me into a deeper cell, this time with chains inscribed with runes of binding. The runes hummed, a monotonous psychic drone: Stay. Submit. Be the traitor.
I sat in the damp dark and took stock.
Leo's memories: A fog of petty ambitions, paternal neglect, and the hazy, wine-soaked night of the "assassination attempt." The memories felt borrowed, ill-fitting. He was a pawn, moved into position for a hero's third-act triumph.
My awareness: Kaelen. The knowledge of structures, of pressure points, of how things fit together and how to make them come apart. No divine power. Just a profound understanding of narrative causality. And that understanding was my spark.
The chains' hum was a pattern. I listened until I found its rhythm, then I introduced a silent counter-rhythm—the rhythm of a skipped heartbeat, of a forgotten line. Over hours, the hum grew erratic. The runes didn't fade, but their certainty did.
On the second day, Elara came.
She stood in the doorway, a shadow in a gray cloak. Her two personal knights flanked her, hands on their swords.
"You," she said, her voice low. "What did you do?"
"I exercised a minor editorial privilege," I replied, not opening my eyes. "You felt it."
"I felt… madness."
"That's one word for seeing the cage for the first time." I opened my eyes. "Why are you here, Princess? Your thread shows a planned flight to the southern ports. A coward's escape."
Her composure cracked. "How could you know that?"
"I read the lines written for you. They're poor prose. Full of cliché." I shifted, the chains clinking. "You have a choice. Flee and live a few extra chapters as a fugitive. Or stay, and learn to rewrite your role."
"You're a condemned traitor. A fool."
"Am I?" I asked softly. "Or was Leo simply the most convenient fool available when the plot needed a villain?"
The question hung in the dank air. Her knights exchanged glances. One, Gareth, had a thread of fierce, personal loyalty to Elara alone. An independent variable. Interesting.
"What would 'learning' entail?" she asked, her curiosity warring with her fear.
"Seventy-two hours of observation," I said. "Watch Cedric and Liana. Don't watch the prince and the saintess. Watch the performers. Note their routines, their tells, the moments their masks slip. Report to me what is pattern, and what is person."
"That's all?"
"The foundation of all power is perception," I said. "Do this, and I will show you how to turn their performance into your script."
She was silent for a long moment. The torchlight danced in her eyes, where a new, hard light was kindling. She gave a single, sharp nod. "Seventy-two hours."
As she left, I turned my attention inward, to the cold ember. It had grown slightly, fed by the confusion I'd sown. Deviation was fuel. My power wouldn't come from chanting or ritual. It would come from changing the story.