The Void-Mirror was a relic of terrifying potential, a crystal so rare that scholars spent lifetimes merely theorizing its limits. At their current understanding, its most potent use was distant communication where it could be used as a bridge across the world. If two people held paired Void-Mirrors, the sender could pierce the veil of the world, projecting a flawless, holographic image to the receiver, regardless of the leagues between them.
The communication was as seamless as a face-to-face whisper, but it came with a great cost- the sender's crystal would fundamentally destabilize and shatter within twenty-four hours of the first ignition. Even for a house as wealthy as the Bistros, it was a staggering expenditure. Something was not adding up. Lorian felt a cold, oily dread pooling in his stomach.
In the dim light of the Whispering Door, Lorian praised Grisel's network but demanded more. "I want every noble house she visited shadowed," Lorian commanded, "All eighteen".
Grisel paled, hesitating as he wiped his mouth, "My Prince... it isn't a matter of gold. It's a matter of men. I don't have enough ghosts to haunt eighteen noble manors at once."
"In that case," Lorian thought for a moment, "Prioritize the six she visited personally.Then the rest."
Grisel rubbed his chin, looking toward the door, "My Prince, erm... I may need to hire outsiders. People from the Sinks. Men who... well, men you might not approve of."
"GRISEL!" Lorian roared, his voice echoing off the hall. Zara and Kaelen flinched. They had never seen their Master this frayed, this prone to sudden lightning-strips of temper.
"I need hardcore criminals! Thugs! Bandits! Thieves! Men who breathe the underworld!" Grisel blurted out, as if fear finally overcame his cautious tongue.
Lorian didn't hesitate. He slammed a heavy pouch of gold onto the counter, "I want results! I want their movements, their breaths, their very heartbeats tracked! I don't care if you have to buy them, threaten them, or burn their houses down. I want them shadowed until the trial is over!"
The trio left soon after. The walk back to the Auric Spire was like funereal procession. Even Grisel's gift of Jax's favorite ale, tucked under Zara's arm, couldn't lighten the mood. Lorian felt a strange, creeping paranoia; the streets he once walked with confidence now felt like enemy territory. Every passing glance felt like a spy's appraisal.
Upon reaching his chambers, a new silence haunted him. Azal'Gul. The demon had been quiet- too quiet. Lorian realized he hadn't heard that grating, rhythmic rapping in days. A sickening thought struck him- Was the Slot Machine still there? He reached for the mental trigger but stopped, his hand was trembling. If the machine didn't appear, it meant he had been abandoned by the only power that made him special in this world.
Schrödinger's Cat, he thought bitterly. As long as I don't check, the machine is both there and gone. I will keep the box closed.
That night, sleep was like an elusive mirage. His mind twisted past failures as Adrian into the present dangers of Lorian. He was running through a maze of shadows when a clawed beast finally caught him. He woke with a gasp, his sheets were soaked in sweat. For a terrifying second, he thought he was back in his old life, and all of this- the Spire, the Prince, the Beastmen- was just a fever dream of a dying man.
"Everything is all right, my son. It was only a nightmare."
A soft hand pressed against his brow. It was his mother, Seraphina. She had sensed his turmoil and had spent the night on the couch beside his bed.
Lord Elmsworth stood by the window, his silhouette made a sharp contrast against the morning sun. He watched Lorian with a gaze that was both clinical and concerned. He had heard the rumors. He had heard the whispers of his son meeting with 'Dwarves' in the dark.
"How was your meeting with the Dwarves, Lorian?" Elmsworth asked quietly.
Seraphina gasped, "Dwarves? In our domain?"
Lorian looked at his father, his chest was heaving, "Do you believe the superstitions too?"
Elmsworth took a deep breath, turning to face his son, "I did not believe. But the truth is rarely a matter of faith; it is a matter of what remains when all other lies are stripped away."
"Wait," Seraphina interjected, "Dwarves in the Spire? Lorian, what is happening?"
"Not now, Seraphina!" Elmsworth barked, as he found his patience was snapping, "Your son has been throwing tantrums since yesterday. Do not add your own to the pile."
"I am sorry, Father..." Lorian whispered.
"YOU SHOULD BE!" Elmsworth's voice boomed, shaking the dust from the tapestries. He stepped closer, as his presence filled the room like a physical weight, "You are not a boy moping in a garret. You are a Prince. Act like one. If your burden is personal, bury it deep and deal with it in the dark. Do not make a spectacle of your grief in the hold, feeding the vultures of gossip. But if this is a matter of the Kingdom... then speak! NOW!"
"It's Bianca," Lorian spat out, "Bianca Bistro."
"What of her?" Seraphina asked in her trembling voice, "Has something resumed between you two?"
"No," Lorian groaned, "She's meeting people. Important people. Shady people."
"Is that all?" Elmsworth made a snide, cutting remark, "At least she acts like a noble heiress instead of a wounded animal. She moves. She plans."
"She's met eighteen houses!" Lorian argued. "She's…."
"Ten," Elmsworth interrupted coldly.
Lorian froze, "What?"
Elmsworth stepped forward, his eyes were still like a cold lake, "Six families which were in league with her house, and four who will preside over the upcoming hearing. Did you truly think I would leave the fate of my blood to the whims of a teenager?"
Elmsworth let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh,- a sound which was devoid of mirth. He leaned over Lorian, sharing his wisdom which sounded more like a threat.
"Politics is not a game of chess, Lorian. In chess, the pieces return to the box when the game is done. In politics, the loser pays with their wealth, their name, and quite often, their life."