The Dirrium nobility act :The Calculus of Discord
The High Council chamber was a theater of velvet and hushed conspiracies. For centuries, the Great Houses—Count Valerius, Duke Montclair, and Marquis Solon—had maintained a fragile peace through mutual greed. It was a web of trust built on the fact that everyone was equally guilty.
Leornars, watching from the gallery behind a heavy curtain, didn't intend to break the web. He intended to pluck a single string and let the vibration tear the rest apart.
Beside him, Mishima stood rigid. She wore a high-collared gown of midnight blue, designed to hide the silver scars on her neck where the varnish had bit deep. She looked perfect. She looked powerful. She looked entirely hollow.
"Remember the script, Viscountess," Leornars whispered, his voice a cold draft against her ear. "You are not an aggressor. You are a 'concerned friend' with a secret she cannot keep."
"I understand," she murmured, her eyes fixed on the men below.
"Go. Start the rot."
Mishima descended into the lounge where Count Valerius was nursing a glass of fortified wine. Valerius was the "Banker of the Realm," a man who prided himself on knowing every coin's location.
"Count," Mishima said, her voice a masterclass in feigned hesitation. She touched his arm lightly. "A word? In private?"
Valerius raised an eyebrow. "Viscountess. I heard your trade was... struggling lately."
"It was. Until I found a new auditor," she lied smoothly, mirroring Leornars's own tone. "But that isn't why I'm here. I saw the ledgers for the Southern Iron Mines. The ones you co-own with Duke Montclair."
Valerius stiffened. "And?"
"I saw a discrepancy," she whispered, leaning in. "Two hundred tons of Deep-Iron dust marked as 'industrial waste' and sold for a pittance to a merchant in Avangard. I thought it was your doing, but... the signatures on the waste-permits? They aren't yours. They're Montclair's private seal."
Valerius's face went from pale to a dangerous, mottled red. "Montclair is skimming? From our shared vein?"
"I'm sure there's an explanation," Mishima said, her eyes wide with false innocence. "Perhaps he's just... preparing for a downturn. Or perhaps he's building a private militia. I only tell you because I value our history, Valerius. Don't let him know I spoke to you. He's... erratic lately."
She slipped away before he could respond, leaving the poison to circulate.
Two hours later, Mishima was in the conservatory with Duke Montclair.
"Duke," she sighed, fanning herself. "I fear for the Council. Count Valerius was asking me very strange questions about your daughter's dowry. He seemed to think the gold wasn't coming from your estates, but from... redirected tax subsidies."
Montclair, a proud and volatile man, slammed his hand onto a stone planter. "He's auditing me? That bean-counter dares to look into my family's private affairs?"
"He mentioned something about an 'imbalance' in the books," Mishima added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial hum. "He said he would bring it before the Crown next week unless you 'renegotiated' your border treaties with him. It sounded like blackmail, honestly. I was shocked."
From the shadows of the arched walkway, Leornars watched as the two men locked eyes across the room. There was no greeting. No nod. Only a cold, razor-sharp suspicion.
"Phase one is complete," Stacian said, appearing at Leornars's shoulder. She held a small device that recorded the mana-signatures of the room—the rising heat of anger, the jagged spikes of betrayal.
"They were a circle," Leornars remarked, closing his pocket watch. "Now they are a line. And a line is easily broken."
"Why not just kill them?" Zhyelena asked, her hand resting on her blade. "It would be faster."
"Killing them creates martyrs and vacuums," Leornars replied, stepping into the light. "But making them hate each other? That creates opportunity. When they start seizing each other's assets to 'protect' themselves, the economy will destabilize. The people will suffer. The King's popularity will plummet."
He looked at Mishima, who was now standing alone by the fountain, looking exhausted.
"And when the chaos reaches its peak, they will look for a savior. Someone with a clean record, a sharp mind, and the 'generosity' to restore order."
"You," Stacian said.
"Naturally," Leornars said. "I'll buy their debts for pennies on the gold. I'll 'mediate' their disputes by taking control of the disputed lands. By the time they realize the 'waste' I've been collecting was the very iron they accused each other of stealing, I'll have enough cannons to make the Council Chamber a tomb."
He clicked his silver pen, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent hallway.
"Mishima did well. Give her another barrel of solvent tonight. Let her think she's earned a reward. A happy puppet performs with much more... conviction."