The northern wing of the palace had been built before mana was standardized.
That alone made it undesirable.
The walls were thicker here, the corridors narrower, and the ceiling lamps fewer and farther between. Mana conduits ran through the stone in irregular paths, patched and redirected over centuries rather than replaced. The light they emitted was uneven—soft in some places, harsh in others—casting shadows that clung stubbornly to corners and recesses.
Most people found the wing unsettling.
Kezzes found it honest.
He walked alone, his footsteps muted against the old stone floor. The sound did not echo the way it did in the main halls; the walls absorbed it, as though the building itself had learned discretion. That suited him.
No guards followed.
Not because he was trusted—but because he was dismissed.
A prince with no rank required no protection. A prince with no future required no attention.
Kezzes passed beneath a faded archway
etched with sigils so old their function had been overwritten by newer enchantments layered carelessly on top.
The original markings were still faintly visible beneath the revisions—crooked lines beneath cleaner ones, like a palimpsest of authority.
He paused briefly, fingers brushing the stone.
They never erase anything completely, he thought.
They just make it harder to see.
Beyond the archway lay the northern library.
Unlike the Grand Archive at the heart of the palace, this place had no wide windows or symmetrical aisles. Its shelves were arranged according to a logic that had not been updated in generations—by subject, by era, by relevance that no longer aligned with modern doctrine. The air was thick with dust and the scent of aging parchment, underscored by the faint metallic tang of dormant mana seals that had not been recharged in years.
This was where records were sent when they became inconvenient.
Kezzes stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The sound was final, but not loud.
He crossed the room slowly, eyes already scanning the spines of books and ledgers as he moved. He had been coming here for weeks now, always at irregular hours, always alone. At first, the librarians had watched him with mild curiosity.
Then boredom.
Then indifference.
That was the natural progression of neglect.
He selected a seat at one of the long wooden tables near the back—far from the main desk, far from the weak mana lamps. The table was scarred with age, its surface marked by shallow grooves left by countless quills and restless hands.
Kezzes placed his satchel beside the chair, removed his coat, and folded it neatly before sitting.
Only then did he begin.
The first ledger was heavy, its leather binding cracked but intact. The ink inside had faded to a deep brown, but the script remained precise. This was not a personal journal or a historical account.
It was a registry draft.
Not an official one—those were kept elsewhere—but a transitional record compiled during one of the early reforms of the mana system. Kezzes had learned to recognize them by subtle signs: inconsistent seals, multiple handwriting styles, marginal notes that contradicted the main text.
These were the documents written while rules were still being argued.
He opened to the middle and began to read.
At first glance, the numbers made sense. Mana allocation. Regional taxation. Ducal exemptions based on defense obligations. The same framework still in use today.
But Kezzes was not reading for accuracy.
He was reading for repetition.
Page after page passed beneath his fingers. His eyes moved steadily, unhurried, absorbing figures, phrases, footnotes. He did not write anything down. He did not need to.
What mattered were the patterns.
"Temporary adjustment," he murmured softly, encountering the phrase for the third time in as many sections.
He marked the page with a slip of parchment and continued.
Another ledger followed. Different year. Different scribe. Same phrasing.
Temporary.
A third record referenced the same region—Elyrth—but the numbers had shifted. Not vanished. Shifted. Mana subsidies delayed, not canceled. Tax burdens redistributed, not reduced.
This was not theft.
This was redirection.
Kezzes closed the ledger and leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting upward to the shelves looming above him. Rows upon rows of knowledge stood in silent disarray, each volume a fragment of truth that had once mattered enough to record—and then not enough to preserve.
People believed systems rotted from corruption.
Kezzes disagreed.
Systems rotted from editing.
He reached for another book, thinner this time, its spine unmarked. Inside were annotations—responses to policy drafts, objections raised and later dismissed. Names were crossed out. Margins were filled with notes written in a different hand, sharper, more decisive.
Authority correcting uncertainty.
Kezzes exhaled slowly.
So this is where it began.
He was so focused that he did not immediately register the sound.
A footstep.
Not the distant echo of a librarian moving between aisles. This was closer. Deliberate. Unhurried.
Kezzes did not look up.
If someone had come to stop him, they would not announce themselves. If someone had come to observe, they would try not to be noticed.
This person had done neither.
"You're reading the wrong books."
The voice was calm, composed, and carried the subtle cadence of someone accustomed to being heard without raising their tone.
Kezzes turned a page before responding.
"That assumes," he said evenly, "that there are right ones."
A pause followed. He could feel the presence now—a measured stillness a few paces away.
"That shelf," the voice continued, "contains preliminary drafts from before the Third Standardization. Most of it was invalidated."
Kezzes finally lifted his gaze.
The man standing at the end of the aisle was young—no older than his early twenties—but there was nothing uncertain about his posture. He stood with one hand resting lightly against the shelf, fingers brushing the spines of old volumes as though they were familiar to him.
He wore noble attire, but without ostentation. No house crest was displayed openly. The fabric was well-tailored, the colors muted. Practical.
A deliberate choice.
Kezzes recognized him.
Varien.
They had never spoken before, but Kezzes had seen him in passing—always near records, always adjacent to officials rather than nobles. A man who moved through court like a shadow cast by paperwork.
"Invalidated," Kezzes repeated. "Not erased."
Varien's lips curved faintly. "You're Prince Kezzes Isyl."
Kezzes inclined his head a fraction. "You have the advantage."
"Varien," the man said. "Third son of House Relmont. Administrative attaché to the Western Treasury."
A minor position. Influential only to those who understood numbers.
Kezzes closed the ledger in front of him, careful not to snap the brittle binding.
"Then you know," he said, "why I'm here."
Varien studied him openly now, his gaze flicking from the books to Kezzes' face and back again.
"I know why I come here," he said. "I didn't expect a prince to do the same."
"A ranked prince wouldn't," Kezzes replied.
That earned a quiet breath of amusement.
Varien stepped closer, pulling out the chair opposite Kezzes' without sitting. "Most people read these records to confirm what they already believe."
"And you?" Kezzes asked.
"I read them to find where belief failed."
That was… promising.
Kezzes gestured to the chair. "Sit."
Varien hesitated only briefly before complying.
They sat in silence for a moment, the space between them filled with the weight of unsaid calculations. Kezzes observed Varien carefully now—the way his eyes tracked details, the way his fingers rested near his coat pocket as though accustomed to reaching for documents.
This was not a man driven by ambition.
This was a man driven by accuracy.
Varien reached into his coat and withdrew a folded sheet of parchment, sliding it across the table.
"This hasn't been archived yet," he said quietly. "It won't be."
Kezzes unfolded it.
Official tax documentation. Ducal-level. The seal was intact, but the registration code was incomplete—intentionally so.
His eyes moved quickly.
Mana subsidies delayed under logistical pretexts. Resource transfers rerouted through intermediary holdings. The same name appeared again and again, never in isolation.
Elyrth.
Kezzes did not react outwardly.
"So," he said after a moment, "you think the Duke of Elyrth is hiding his taxes."
Varien frowned. "That's not what—"
"He isn't," Kezzes continued. "If he were hiding them, the records would be cleaner. These are too visible."
Varien fell silent.
Kezzes tapped the parchment lightly. "He's shifting flow, not reducing it. Redirecting mana obligations into neutral holdings. It keeps the numbers balanced while starving specific regions."
Varien stared at him.
"It took me six months to prove that," he said slowly.
Kezzes met his gaze. "It took you six months because you were asking whether it was legal."
Silence stretched.
Varien leaned back, exhaling. "Then you already know what this means."
"Yes," Kezzes said. "He isn't the only one."
That landed.
Varien studied him for a long moment, something like respect flickering behind his eyes.
"You're dangerous," he said quietly.
Kezzes shook his head. "No. I'm
unnecessary."
That was worse.
Varien let out a short, humorless laugh.
"You're planning to expose him."
"No," Kezzes replied. "Exposure is loud. It invites defense."
"Then what?"
Kezzes slid the parchment back across the table. "Silence."
Varien stiffened.
"Silence," Kezzes repeated, "is profitable. And it makes people careless."
Understanding dawned slowly.
"You intend to meet him," Varien said.
"I intend to let him think he found me."
Varien was quiet for a long time.
Finally, he nodded once. "If you do this… you'll be stepping into something you can't walk away from."
Kezzes stood, gathering his coat.
"I walked away from everything already," he said calmly. "This is simply choosing where to stand."
He extended his hand.
Varien looked at it, then up at him.
"Why me?" he asked.
Kezzes' expression did not change.
"Because you noticed something that wasn't meant to be noticed—and you didn't sell it."
Varien took his hand.
The grip was firm. Equal.
Above them, the palace continued its rituals of rank and measurement, unaware that in its forgotten wing, a failed prince and an overlooked administrator had begun rewriting the terms of relevance.
Slowly.
Quietly.
And without permission.