Mihail chose the lie before he chose the road.
It came to him one morning as he stood ankle-deep in mud, repairing a broken sluice gate with his father. The water pressed against the wood with quiet insistence, seeking every weakness. Left alone, it would eventually win.
So would the future.
"You're thinking again," his father said, tightening a rope.
"Yes," Mihail replied.
He did not stop working.
The idea was simple. That was what frightened him.
In his first life, he had been honest almost to the point of foolishness. He declared his intentions. He announced his defiance. He believed clarity inspired loyalty.
It inspired knives.
This time, he would not be seen.
Not as potential. Not as threat. Not as leader.
If the wolves were listening, he would give them a harmless sound.
By midday, he had made his decision.
He began to fail—carefully.
It started small.
He arrived late to work, once. Then twice. He spoke less sharply during disagreements. When a task required initiative, he waited to be told. When men argued, he did not step in.
Nothing dramatic.
Just enough.
People noticed, but not alarmingly. Disappointment replaced curiosity. That was good.
At the well, two men spoke quietly as he passed.
"Thought he was sharper," one said.
"Still young," the other replied. "All fire, no focus."
Mihail kept his eyes down and his pace unhurried.
Each word cut more deeply than open suspicion would have.
That night, guilt came for him.
Not in dreams—but awake, sitting heavy in his chest as he watched his father eat in silence.
"You alright?" the man asked.
"Yes," Mihail lied.
The word tasted wrong.
He helped more at home. Carried water without complaint. Fixed what broke before it was noticed. Kindness, freely given, unseen.
That was the balance.
In public, he dulled his edge.
In private, he sharpened it.
He began to listen not as a boy, but as a ruler in exile. Patterns emerged quickly when he stopped trying to control them.
Petru had been only the first thread.
Others followed.
A merchant who lingered too long. A priest who asked pointed questions. A patrol that returned twice in one week, asking the same things with different smiles.
Mihail made sure to be absent whenever possible.
And when he couldn't be absent, he was unremarkable.
It worked.
Mostly.
The test came sooner than he expected.
A boy named Stefan was caught stealing grain.
He was fourteen. Thin. Desperate. His father had been injured weeks earlier, unable to work. Winter pressed close, already whispering.
The village gathered quickly, judgment eager.
"The law is clear," the headman said. "We can't allow theft."
"He'll do it again," someone muttered.
Mihail stood at the edge of the crowd, hands clenched.
In his other life, this boy had died in a winter raid years later—nameless, one of many.
Now he stood shaking, eyes wide, waiting for punishment that would mark him forever.
Mihail could intervene.
One word. One suggestion. He knew exactly how.
He stayed silent.
The decision hurt more than the lie.
The headman sighed. "Three days' labor. No food provided. Let this be a lesson."
The boy nodded desperately, relief flooding his face.
It wasn't mercy.
It was delay.
That night, Mihail took food from his own stores and left it quietly near the boy's door. No witnesses. No gratitude owed.
Kindness in private.
But he had not changed the ruling.
History remained intact.
The road did not crack that night.
Instead, the dream shifted again.
The figures stood closer now. Not accusing. Observing.
"You learn," said the monk.
"I adapt," Mihail replied.
"And what will you become?" asked the presence.
Mihail did not answer.
Weeks passed.
His reputation softened into something harmless. "Reliable, but nothing special," one man said. "Good back, slow mind," said another.
Petru did not return.
That worried Mihail more than if he had.
Then, one evening, a letter arrived.
It bore no seal—only a simple knot in the string. Delivered by a boy who ran before questions could be asked.
Mihail read it alone.
I hear you've grown dull.
Good.
Men who dull themselves survive longer.
—A Friend
Mihail burned the letter immediately.
Someone was watching closely enough to see the lie.
He adjusted.
From then on, he allowed small, visible mistakes. Chose the wrong tool once. Misspoke during a meeting. Let another man take credit for a good idea.
Each error was deliberate. Measured.
Each one buried him deeper in mediocrity.
And still—quietly—he planned.
He mapped the village in his head. Who spoke to whom. Who resented whom. Who drank too much. Who watched too much.
Not to rule them.
To understand them.
One evening, his father sat beside him outside, watching the sun sink into the marsh.
"You've changed," the man said.
Mihail tensed.
"Not worse," his father added. "Just… heavier."
Mihail swallowed. "Is that bad?"
"No," his father said slowly. "It means you're paying attention."
Silence stretched comfortably.
"You don't have to stay here forever," the man continued. "When you leave, leave clean. Don't burn bridges you might need to cross again."
Mihail nodded.
He would leave.
Just not yet.
Far north, in a stone hall carved into the mountains, a minor lord read Petru's second report and frowned.
The boy had vanished from notice.
That, the lord knew, was never an accident.
"Keep watching," he said. "Quiet men are often the loudest storms."
Back in the Low Marches, Mihail lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
He had lied to the world.
He would lie again.
Not to become king.
But to survive long enough to choose how to rule.
The road did not stop him.
It watched