Back in the capital, Cian was fighting a war of ink and shadows. The "Provisional Council" was growing desperate. They had tried to appoint a Regent, but every candidate they put forward was met with a "Nexus Audit"—a public leak of their darkest secrets, from embezzled funds to hidden mistresses. The Council was paralyzed, and they had narrowed their list of suspects down to the lower administrative staff.
A High Inquisitor, a man named Draken with a face like scarred leather, slammed his hand on Cian's desk, spilling a bottle of ink. "You've been handling the North Wing's records for years, boy. Tell me, where does the 'Ghost' go when he isn't haunting our dreams?"
Cian didn't flinch. He calmly took a blotter and began to soak up the spilled ink, his movements methodical. "The North Wing is a ruin, sir. As for the 'Ghost,' perhaps he goes wherever the Council is most corrupt. If you want to find him, I suggest you stop looking in the archives and start looking at your own ledgers. I've noticed a discrepancy of ten thousand gold coins in the defense budget."
Draken leaned in, his breath smelling of stale tobacco. "You're very brave for a clerk with no family to protect him."
"I have the Law to protect me, Inquisitor," Cian replied, his voice like ice. "And the Law says that until an heir is crowned, the administration must remain neutral. If you wish to arrest me for being efficient, please, do so. But the paperwork will be a nightmare."
Draken growled and stomped out, but Cian knew the clock was ticking. Once the door was locked, he activated a hidden compartment in his desk, revealing a communication mirror.
"Livius, the Inquisition is breathing down my neck," Cian whispered. "They're getting closer to the truth. Your eighteenth birthday is in ninety days. The Great Houses are planning a 'Trial of the Sword'—they want to find a warrior to take the throne by force since they think the 'Ghost' is just a coward who hides in the dark."
"Let them hold their trial," Livius's voice echoed through the mirror, sounding deep and resonant. He was currently standing in the center of a restored forest, the air around him shimmering with life. "I have one more visit to make. The Duke of the South thinks his navy can protect him. I'm going to show him that the Dragon God rules the seas as well as the sky."
"Vaelin is worried," Cian added, glancing at the old man who was currently sketching in the corner. "He says the portrait is finished. He says it's time for the world to see the face of the man who saved them."
"Tell him to wait," Livius replied. "I want the reveal to be perfect. When I walk into that Throne Room on my birthday, I want them to realize that the 'Freak of the North Wing' was the only one among them who was truly a King. Keep the ledgers clean, Cian. We're going to need a lot of ink to rewrite the history of this empire."
Cian watched the mirror go dark. He looked at his ink-stained fingers and smiled. He wasn't just a clerk anymore. He was the shadow-hand of a god. And as the stars began to poke through the smog of the capital, he began to draft the "Decree of the Unseen," the first law of the new era.
The countdown to eighteen had begun. The world was about to meet its Ghost.