Chapter 15: The Gathering Shadow

The gates of Baerlon loomed ahead, rising from the misty morning like a sentinel of stone. Moiraine Sedai led the group through the crowded streets, her serene expression masking the urgency that burned beneath the surface. Lan's keen eyes scanned their surroundings, always alert for danger, while Rand, Mat, Perrin, Egwene, and Thom trailed behind in varying states of weariness and wonder.

Nynaeve had finally revealed herself to them, her confrontation with Moiraine heated and bitter.

"You should not have taken them," Nynaeve hissed, her knuckles white as she gripped her reins.

Moiraine's calm gaze betrayed no irritation. "You followed, Wisdom. That alone shows you understand the danger that chases them."

"I followed to protect them," Nynaeve shot back. "Not to see them become pawns in your games."

Rand shifted uneasily, his eyes flicking between the two women. The tension between them was palpable, but he said nothing, unsure of his place in the growing conflict around him. Moiraine's words carried weight, but Nynaeve's fierce loyalty to the people of Emond's Field was undeniable.

Lan's voice cut through the argument like a blade. "We don't have time for this. The Shadow's forces are relentless. If you're here to help, Wisdom, then help. If not, go back."

The group fell into silence as they approached the Stag and Lion, their temporary refuge. For now, they had evaded the Shadow's grasp, but all of them could feel the unseen threads tightening around them.

In Caemlyn, Naravoss stood in his study, the heavy scent of parchment and ink filling the air. Reports from his spies lay spread across his desk, detailing movements in Andor and beyond. His black eyes scanned the pages with a practiced precision, piecing together fragments of information into a cohesive whole.

The Shadow's influence was growing. Naravoss could feel it in the air, a palpable tension that promised upheaval. But it wasn't just the Shadow's agents who moved in secret; whispers of ta'veren in the west had reached his ears. If true, these individuals could disrupt his carefully laid plans. He needed more information, and quickly.

"The Chosen will come," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "But which one?"

He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes as he considered the possibilities. Ishamael, the Betrayer of Hope, the Great Lord's most trusted lieutenant. Lanfear, with her obsessive ambition. Demandred, the brilliant strategist. Graendal, the mistress of manipulation. Sammael, the prideful tactician.

"Each has their strengths," Naravoss mused. "And each has their flaws."

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. One of his trusted lieutenants entered, bowing deeply before placing a sealed letter on the desk.

"From our contacts in Baerlon, my lord," the man said.

Naravoss opened the letter and scanned its contents. His expression remained unreadable, but a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. The reports confirmed that the group traveling with Moiraine Sedai had arrived in Baerlon. The ta'veren were in motion, and the Pattern was tightening around them.

"It begins," Naravoss said softly. He dismissed the lieutenant with a wave of his hand and turned his attention back to the map of Andor.

He would need to act soon. The Shadow's plans were vast, but Naravoss's ambitions were his own. He would not bow to any, not even the Chosen. Andor would be his, no matter what.

The Chosen's Perspective: Ishamael

Far from Andor, in the shadowed halls of a forgotten fortress, Ishamael stood before a gathering of Darkfriends. His presence was overwhelming, his eyes burning with the eerie glow of the True Power. The Great Lord's touch lingered on him, a reminder of the price he had paid for his power.

"The Wheel turns," Ishamael said, his voice resonant and commanding. "And the Pattern bends to my will."

The gathered Darkfriends murmured their assent, their loyalty unquestioning. Ishamael's plans were already in motion, his manipulations reaching across nations and into the hearts of men. He had sensed the ta'veren, their presence a beacon in the Pattern, pulling threads together in defiance of the Shadow.

But Ishamael was patient. He had waited centuries for this moment, and he would not squander it. The Great Lord's victory was inevitable, and Ishamael would ensure it.

In the royal palace of Caemlyn, Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan paced the room, her red-fringed shawl swaying with each precise step. Her eyes glinted with frustration as she reviewed the latest reports from her network of informants. The queen's tolerance for this "Duke Naravoss" had begun to irritate her more than she cared to admit.

"He has woven himself into every fabric of Andor's governance," Elaida muttered, her voice tight with anger. "The queen sees him as a benefactor, but I see a threat."

She paused at the window overlooking the city, her gaze distant. For years, Elaida had served as an unyielding presence in the queen's court, guarding Andor against subtle dangers. Yet Naravoss, with his charisma and veiled intentions, had managed to ingratiate himself without leaving a single visible crack in his facade. That infuriated her.

Later, as she stood before Morgase, Elaida attempted once more to push her point.

"Your Majesty," Elaida began, her tone carefully controlled. "I must insist that we scrutinize Naravoss's recent actions. His investments in the military academy are commendable, but his motives remain unclear."

Morgase raised a hand, silencing her. "Elaida, I value your counsel, but I cannot act on suspicions alone. Naravoss has improved Andor's standing in ways that no one else has achieved in years. Until you can bring me irrefutable proof of wrongdoing, I will not jeopardize that."

Elaida's fingers tightened around the edge of her shawl, but she bowed. "As you command, Your Majesty."

Turning to leave, Elaida vowed silently that she would uncover the truth about Naravoss. If he was a servant of the Shadow, as she suspected, she would expose him, no matter the cost.

Beneath the grand halls of his estate, Naravoss stood in a room lit by a single flickering lantern. The walls were lined with maps, diagrams, and lists, a testament to the meticulous nature of his plans. In the center of the room stood a large, circular table upon which miniature figurines of soldiers, nobles, and key locations in Andor were meticulously placed.

"Every piece must fall into place," Naravoss murmured to himself, moving a figurine representing the Andoran military closer to Caemlyn on the map.

His preparations had been exhaustive. The military academy was now firmly under his control, its brightest recruits subtly compelled to serve his interests. His spies were embedded in every level of society, from palace servants to influential merchants. He had even begun planting whispers among minor nobles, sowing seeds of doubt about Morgase's ability to rule effectively without his guidance.

A knock on the door drew his attention. One of his agents entered, bowing deeply.

"The latest reports, my lord," the agent said, handing over a sealed envelope.

Naravoss opened it, his sharp eyes scanning the contents. The reports detailed growing unrest in the western provinces and unusual movements near the Mountains of Mist. He smiled faintly.

"The Shadow stirs," Naravoss said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The time is approaching."

He turned back to the table, placing a black figurine, representing himself, near the Andoran throne.

"Let the Chosen come," he said, his tone cold and calculating. "Let them try to take what is mine. Andor will fall, but it will fall to me."

In his sanctum, Naravoss prepared for the coming storm. The Shadow's agents were moving, and the ta'veren were in play. He needed to solidify his power in Andor before the Chosen arrived, before the Pattern shifted beyond his control.

He issued orders to his spies, ensuring that every layer of Andor's society, from the lowest servant to the highest noble, was infiltrated. His network of Darkfriends grew daily, their loyalty secured through fear, ambition, or compulsion.

As he stood before the map of Andor, his mind raced with possibilities. The Pattern was shifting, and Naravoss intended to be at its center. He would carve his place in the world, not as a servant of the Chosen, but as their equal.

"Let them come," Naravoss said, a cold smile playing on his lips. "Andor is mine."