Rebirth: Forgotten Prince's Ascension

As they gathered, the study still burned low with firelight, stone walls swallowed in stacks of tomes and maps, the heavy oak table spread like the deck of a warship.

Outside, Valeria whispered its nocturnal rituals—hooves on cobbles, tavern laughter snagged on the wind, the distant tolling of a bell—but within these walls silence sat like it were home.

Aric stood at the head of the table, one hand resting against the carved arm like it was another limb.

His council awaiting his next step: Serina, Maxim coiled and ready, Hitoshi's eyes glittering with dry amusement, Kael Draylen composed as always, Borag a hulking presence at the edge, Lady Syenna measured and still.

Maps lay open, inked routes and red pins tracing ambitions; letters and seals from the Draken envoy were stacked, their dangers catalogued.

The fire cracked. Aric broke the quiet.

"It is time," he said, low and precise. His voice carried better than his stature: a command disguised as a sentence. "The next phase begins tonight."

Clothes rustled. Serina leaned forward, elbows on knees. The chamber's attention pooled like water around a stone.

Aric looked at Maxim and Hitoshi. "The evidence taken from the Draken envoy—letters, contracts, seals—we've verified it all. Begin distribution of copies. Small leaks, aimed at the nobles on the brink. Seed doubt; do not drown. Let the noose tighten itself."

Maxim inclined his head. Hitoshi gave a rasping laugh, like gravel shifting.

Borag, impatient as a knife, spoke first.

"Many of his supporters already suspect these dealings. Some profit by them. We risk telling men what they already know. They may close ranks."

Aric's hand flattened against the table. The flames reflected in his eyes, making them cold and clear.

"It does not matter if they know." He spoke the words slowly, and the room went still. "What matters is that someone else knows. If a noble chooses to stand with Sylas once the truth is dragged into the streets, they do more than support him—they declare themselves traitors. Traitors die."

The sentence fell like verdict. Borag's nod was a black thing: approval, appetite sated.

Aric let the silence set, then continued. "This is not merely scandal. Sylas must be broken wholly. His name, his network, his foundation—we strip them away until the man stands naked and alone. When the blade falls, nothing will remain to shield him."

Maxim's mouth softened into a thin smile; he lived for unraveling things without spectacle. Hitoshi stroked his beard, pleased; the gears of his mind had already turned.

Lady Syenna's voice, silk over glass, asked the question Aric had expected. "Who will be the first target?"

Aric's gaze slid to Kael. "You know the noble quarter. Which houses falter most in loyalty?"

Kael steepled his fingers, thinking like a mapmaker reading weather. "Deloran chafes after Sylas meddled with their tariffs. Ralvere—proud, but wary of his temper. Verenne—superstitious, hungry for omen. A cipher here, a ledger there, and they begin to look inward instead of to him." His eyes sharpened. "A few nudges, your highness, and those cracks will widen."

Hitoshi asked, blunt as always, "And the more loyal?"

Aric's stare hardened. "Not now. We peel away the uncertain first. Fear is a solvent. Let the weak dissolve, and the strong will find themselves isolated when the tide turns."

Serina, quiet until then, leaned her chin on her knuckles. "You will cause a storm. Storms are unpredictable. Loose a thing and it may not fall where you want."

A faint curl of something like pleasure touched Aric's mouth. "That is why we guide it. Controlled leaks. Controlled destruction. We set the pattern; the chaos fills the lines we carve for it."

He turned to Kael. "You—thread the nobles. No flood. Whispered doubts. Manuscripts slipped under pillows. A ledger misplaced. When rumors appear like a pattern the mind cannot ignore, they will turn from Sylas to one another."

"And you," he said to Maxim, "work the streets. Taverns, markets, kitchens—the places a lord never thinks to listen. When a noble hears of a betrayal, it must come from more than one voice. Truth hunted by many shadows will find no shelter."

Hitoshi's grin split wide and ugly. "Ah, the elegance of it. A man cannot swat every fly when the swarm is endless."

Aric straightened. The fire flared behind him and cast his silhouette long across parchment and map. "Then it is decided. The storm gathers soon. Every doubt, every shiver, is our weapon. When the lightning strikes, it will be us who holds it."

The council absorbed his words differently: some leaned in, sharpened and eager; others sank back, wary but unable to deny the momentum of his will.

Aric's voice narrowed to the single instruction that would set the night in motion. "Maxim, Hitoshi—begin. Prepare the leaks. Target the houses that already wobble. Plant doubt and let it root. By the time Sylas notices, it will be too late."

They dispersed into the house like shadows finding gaps, murmurs trailing behind them. Serina paused, and her eyes found Aric's.

There was question there—not of the plan, but of the cost.

He met it without a crack of doubt.

When they had all left, he stayed, hands on the table, looking at the network of marks and names he had laid out.

The maps were islands of ink, his kingdom in miniature. In the corner of his mind a smaller, darker image braided itself into the whole: his brother's face, the warmth of blood, the slow swing of a noose.

He did not close his eyes.

Oh, how he longed to see that—Sylas taken, stripped, hung for his crimes. Not for petty revenge, but for purpose. For every treachery remembered, for every wound that had shaped him.

The longing sat like a coal under his ribs: hot, steady, inevitable.

He tapped a finger on a pin—soft, almost casual. A storm had begun to gather.

Outside, the city kept its old rhythms, stupid and ignorant and safe. Inside, they were the ones who moved the weather.