The map of Solan’s capital city lay unfurled across the scarred oak table, its once-cream surface crowded with wax-sealed notes, charcoal outlines, and blood-red markers that bloomed like wounds across the parchment. Narrow alleys had been inked in by hand; patrol routes etched with care; rooftops marked with runes for meeting points and message drops. The table creaked under its burden of strategy and secrets.

At least a dozen figures stood in the candlelit room, their hoods pulled low and faces half-swallowed by shadow. Each bore the insignia of the ember—an old, half-forgotten sigil from a fallen province. Rebels, each cloaked in anonymity, bound by purpose and blood. The flicker of the flames made ghosts of them all.

Seressa stood at the head of the table, tall, silent, her gloved hand resting atop the dark curve of the road that led to the palace’s eastern gate. Her face was mostly hidden beneath a veil of dark lace that had become her symbol among the insurgents—not for concealment, but mourning. She had worn it since the day the city of Veyne burned.

“You’re certain he’s not here?” she asked, voice low but steady.

“We’ve confirmed it thrice,” answered Vera, an older woman with a voice like cracked stone. Her silver hair was braided and pinned beneath a thin scarf, and she leaned on a gnarled cane that had once been a spear shaft. “The tyrant king is away on what the court calls ‘diplomatic business.’ But our informants say otherwise. He’s searching.”

“Searching?” Seressa frowned.

“For something ancient,” Vera said, her lips thinning. “Old magic. Forbidden rites. Not the usual pageantry. Something darker. Hungrier.”

A hush fell. Even the flames stilled.

“He wants to bend the provinces to his will,” Vera continued. “Not with war—but with fear. If he finds whatever it is he’s looking for, we may never unshackle another city again.”

A murmur rippled through the room. Then one of the younger rebels stepped forward, eyes bright with fervor.

“Then we strike now. With the king gone, there’s no better time.”

Seressa drummed her fingers softly on the edge of the table, her eyes never leaving the map. “Not the king,” she said. “Not yet. His heir remains.”

“The prince?” the young rebel asked, voice low with disbelief. “He’s not as cruel.”

“No,” Seressa agreed, “he’s far worse.”

That silenced them.

“He doesn’t need cruelty to control people,” she went on. “He wins them with charm, with rhetoric. He listens more than he speaks, calculates more than he commands. Already, he’s weaving his own loyalties—military officers, minor houses, scholars from the arcane colleges. The court calls him principled. Clever. Unshakable.”

Vera gave a slow nod. “And if he ascends unchallenged… the Solan dynasty survives. A softer mask on the same old tyranny.”

“But if he dies while the king is away,” she added, her voice quieter now, “the court fractures. Panic spreads. The nobles turn on one another. And the provinces smell weakness.”

Another voice, smooth and practiced, spoke from the shadows. “You’ll never get close dressed like that.”

All eyes turned as Dalen stepped forward, Seressa’s closest confidant and the architect of a dozen successful infiltrations. He laid a sealed scroll upon the table and unfurled it with deliberate care. Inside was a parchment—creased, stained, but clearly a forged writ of assignment.

“I’ve created a backstory,” he said. “Seressa will enter the palace as Lady Vaeline of Harthmere—a minor noble from the western reaches, whose family remained neutral during the rebellion. Harthmere is obscure, politically irrelevant, and conveniently distant. Few remember it; most believe it was razed during the Eastern Sieges.”

“She’s the last of her line,” he continued. “Traveling to Solan under the guise of mourning, seeking sanctuary while the estate is rebuilt. Her uncle—fictitious, of course—was a friend to the court. Her entrance will be viewed as nostalgic, even pitiable.”

Seressa studied the documents. Her fingers brushed the seal—an invented coat of arms stamped with a weeping fox.

“And the guards?”

“You’ll be vouched for by an ally inside the Ministry of Records,” Dalen said. “He’ll confirm your lineage and entry. You’ll stay in the lesser wing of the palace—among distant cousins, minor diplomats, and exiled barons. You’ll have access to the public halls, the court salons, and the gardens.”

“And the prince?” she asked.

“He hosts salons twice a week. Quiet affairs—debate, philosophy, performance. He invites those who intrigue him, who challenge him without disrespect. If you play the part, you’ll be noticed.”

Seressa let the words settle. Her mind was already moving—shifting tone, posture, accent. She would need to abandon not just her name but her past. Become someone else entirely.

Vera's voice cut the silence. “Be cautious. He’s not a man who underestimates people. Some say he studies his guests the way a falcon studies prey.”

“He's careful, then,” Seressa replied.

“He’s meticulous,” Dalen said. “And older than you by perhaps ten years. Which means he has the advantage of time, experience, and a reputation for patience. He won’t be taken off guard easily.”

Seressa offered a grim smile. “Then we’ll have to be... fascinating.”

A few rebels chuckled, briefly, but the moment passed quickly.

“I’ll learn his routines. His patterns. His blind spots.”

“And if you get close enough?” asked the young rebel again, eyes fixed on her.

Seressa said nothing. She reached across the table. The dagger lay there—a thin-bladed stiletto forged of moonsteel, cold to the touch and silent as regret. It had no markings, no maker’s crest. It was, by design, forgettable.

She held it in her gloved hand, its weight familiar.

“No Solan,” she said softly, “is invincible.”