Chapter 16: The Price of Power

In the heart of the Blight, beyond the reach of mortal men, Ishamael stood within the vast emptiness of the Great Lord's domain, his form barely visible against the writhing darkness that surrounded him. The air crackled with unnatural energy, whispers of the damned echoing from the unseen void. Time did not exist here, only the eternal weight of the Great Lord's presence.

Kneeling before the unseen force, Ishamael allowed the True Power to seep into him. The black veins of Saa flickered across his vision, a reminder of his unrivaled favor. Unlike the other Chosen, he did not fear the True Power's cost, he embraced it, let it consume him.

The Dark One's voice came as a sensation rather than sound, pressing into Ishamael's mind like molten steel.

"The Pattern resists. The Wheel turns against Us. Will you falter, Nae'blis?"

Ishamael's lips curled in a grim smile. "Never, Great Lord. The Wheel is bound by its nature, but I have unraveled it before. And I shall again."

Visions swirled before him, threads of fate bending toward chaos. The ta'veren, Rand al'Thor, had begun his journey. The Pattern tightened around him, pulling in those who would shape the world. Yet, another thread stood apart, moving with uncanny purpose. Ishamael narrowed his burning eyes.

Naravoss.

He had watched this one rise in Andor, a shadow without allegiance. Unlike the other fools who called themselves Darkfriends, this one moved with precision, an architect of unseen wars. A potential asset, perhaps, or an obstacle.

With a thought, Ishamael wove the True Power, reaching across the distance, sending ripples through Tel'aran'rhiod, the World of Dreams. Tonight, he would test this Naravoss, see where his ambitions lay.

Naravoss stood upon the balcony of his Caemlyn estate, gazing down at the city's glowing streets. The Queen's palace loomed in the distance, a monument to Andor's power and, soon, his own. The pieces were falling into place. The military academy, the noble houses, the spies planted within every echelon of society, Andor was his to claim.

And yet, the feeling of being watched had not faded in days.

The moment came suddenly. A pull, as though his very soul was being drawn into a vortex. He staggered, gripping the railing as the air around him darkened. The world twisted.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in Andor.

He stood in an endless void, where light itself seemed to retreat. Before him, a figure emerged, clad in flowing black, eyes burning with a power beyond reckoning. Saa flickered in those eyes, a storm of uncontained might.

Ishamael.

"You have done well to rise so far, unshackled by the Light or even the Chosen," Ishamael said, his voice like an echo across eternity. "But the Wheel does not turn for those who stand alone."

Naravoss straightened, masking the unease that clawed at his mind. "I stand where I choose. The others are relics of an age long past. I am the future."

Ishamael's smile was cold, knowing. "A bold claim. And yet, the Great Lord has taken notice. Are you worthy of his favor? Or do you stand against us?"

The air around them shimmered, the fabric of Tel'aran'rhiod bending to Ishamael's will. Naravoss could feel the power pressing in on him, testing him. He was strong, but this was Nae'blis, the one closest to the Great Lord.

A choice lay before him.

He could submit, become another pawn in Ishamael's grand game. Or he could carve his own path.

A slow smile crept onto Naravoss's lips. "I have no desire to stand against the Great Lord. But I do not bow blindly either."

Ishamael studied him for a long moment before chuckling. "Good. Then prove yourself."

The void collapsed, and Naravoss awoke, gasping, back on his balcony. The night air was still, but the message had been clear.

The Shadow had taken notice. And now, he had to decide how to play the game.

The following day, Naravoss arrived at the Queen's palace, his stride measured and confident. The guards at the entrance gave him wary glances but did not question his passage. His presence in Andor's court had been solidified beyond challenge, at least for now.

As he entered the grand throne room, the sight of Queen Morgase, regal in her scarlet dress, greeted him from atop the dais. At her side, Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan stood like a sentinel, her crimson shawl a stark symbol of the Red Ajah's authority. The sharpness in her gaze had lost none of its edge since their last encounter.

"Duke Naravoss," Morgase said, her voice carrying the practiced poise of royalty. "Your request for an audience is granted."

Naravoss inclined his head in perfect courtly grace. "Your Majesty honors me beyond measure. I come today to discuss the next stages of my contributions to Andor's infrastructure, particularly the ongoing efforts in strengthening the military academy."

Elaida let out a scoff, her arms crossing over her chest. "A noble cause, indeed," she said, her voice laced with carefully veiled disdain. "And yet, I find it peculiar how your investments align so perfectly with strategic influence."

Naravoss turned to her, his expression untouched by her accusation. "If securing Andor's prosperity is a crime, then I am guilty of serving this realm too well."

Elaida's lips pressed into a thin line. Her gaze bore into him, as though searching for cracks beneath his polished facade, she weaved a single thread of spirit so tiny it will not be noticed even by another sister if she was not looking for it. She moved the thread near him, no reaction, nothing at all.

"Curious," she murmured, just loud enough for Morgase to hear. "Even the most composed men tend to fidget under close scrutiny, but you seem entirely at ease, Duke Naravoss. That is... unusual."

Naravoss met her gaze with polite indifference. "You give me too much credit, Lady Elaida," he said, his tone almost amused. "I am but a man, and the workings of Aes Sedai are beyond my understanding."

Morgase, growing weary of the tension, sighed. "Elaida, enough. I will not have you turning my court into an inquisition. If the White Tower wishes to question my allies, they will do so in the proper setting, not within my throne room."

Elaida said nothing, but her eyes did not leave Naravoss. She knew she had lost this round, but the game was far from over.

Naravoss, ever the picture of civility, inclined his head again. "Your Majesty, my work in Andor remains a duty I take with the utmost devotion. Should you have any concerns, I am always at your service."

Morgase gave a nod of approval, and with that, the audience was concluded. As Naravoss turned to leave, he could feel Elaida's gaze burning into his back.

She was suspicious, yes, but she lacked proof. And he would ensure it stayed that way.

That night, Naravoss returned to his estate, deep in thought. He now had the attention of both the White Tower and the Shadow.

The question was, which one would he manipulate first?

With a flick of his wrist, he summoned one of his spies. "Find me the latest reports on the Chosen's movements. If Rahvin, Graendal, or any others have begun making their play, I want to know."

The agent bowed and disappeared into the night.

Naravoss turned his gaze toward the looming silhouette of the Queen's palace.

"Let the Chosen come," he murmured. "Andor will be mine."

The Blight pulsed with a sickly glow, deep within the ruins of what had once been a kingdom lost to time. At its heart, a figure stood motionless, his black robes billowing despite the stagnant air. The night itself recoiled from him, the shadows shifting unnaturally.

Ishamael, Nae'blis of the Great Lord, surveyed the shifting tides of the Pattern.

He no longer needed eyes to see; his mind drifted across the fabric of the Wheel, tracing disturbances like ripples on a vast ocean. The ta'veren were in motion. Moiraine and her pawns were pressing toward Whitebridge, their fates interwoven with a destiny they could not yet comprehend.

But that was not what concerned him.

One thread in particular, dark yet unbound, caught his attention. It slithered through the Pattern like an anomaly, a force the Wheel had not accounted for.

Naravoss.

The Great Lord's whispers echoed in Ishamael's mind, confirming what he had already sensed. Naravoss had returned, not as a forgotten Darkfriend, not even as one of the Chosen. He was something else.

Ishamael clenched his hands behind his back, feeling the Saa coil in his vision. Why had the Great Lord shielded him? Why had he been spared the fate of the Chosen, yet still preserved?

Was he a weapon? A rival? Or something worse?

The air in Tel'aran'rhiod shifted as Ishamael extended his will across the Dream, sending a whisper through the void. "Let us see what you are truly worth."

The Wheel turned, and the game was set.

Naravoss gazed at the map before him, yet his mind was elsewhere, trapped in the past, in the echoes of a moment he had tried to bury beneath layers of careful calculation. The word still haunted him: "Traitor!" The roar of fury, the way the Light's warriors had turned on him in those final, frantic moments.

But most of all, he remembered Lews Therin's eyes. Not just the fury or the power, but the sorrow, an unbearable weight, as if he mourned Naravoss's choices even as he moved to stop him. That moment, that brief hesitation, had nearly cost the Dragon everything.

Naravoss had moved swiftly, striking at the final weave, aiming to unravel the circle and set the Great Lord free. Fire and Air had torn through the chamber. The Seals had not yet locked into place. He had been so close. And then… the Pattern had taken hold. The Seals snapped shut, and before he could unleash his final strike, he had been caught in the aftermath.

Not bound like the Chosen. Not held within the Bore. Something else.

He clenched his fists, forcing himself back to the present. That was then. And he was here now, unchained, untouched by the taint that had consumed the rest. The Wheel had spun, and this time, he would not be cast aside.

Months had passed since his emergence, and Naravoss had wasted no time. His influence spread through Andor, through the noble houses, through the city's veins like poison beneath the skin.

But the White Tower was a different battlefield.

In a hidden chamber beneath his estate, Naravoss met with one of his most valuable spies, a former Tower servant who now operated as his informant.

"The Tower has grown restless, my lord," the man said, bowing his head. "There are whispers among certain sisters, whispers of those who serve the Shadow."

Naravoss leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming. "Names."

The spy hesitated before handing over a sealed letter, marked with a discreet sigil known only among Darkfriends. "They await word, but they do not trust easily. You must give them reason to believe."

Naravoss broke the seal, scanning the names. Aes Sedai loyal to the Shadow, hidden among the Ajahs. He did not recognize them all, but a few stood out, names that held power. Names that could turn the tide.

This would not be simple. The White Tower was a place of political currents and deception, but if he could plant his influence within its walls, he would have control where none dared to challenge him.

In the Queen's palace, Elaida paced, her mind restless.

Naravoss had evaded her questions too easily, and that troubled her. The man had a presence about him, controlled, unreadable. And that was dangerous. He was too well-spoken, too precise in his mannerisms. He knew exactly how to deflect a question without seeming to dodge it, how to shape his words in a way that left no foothold for suspicion while still revealing nothing. And that was no ordinary noble's skill.

More troubling still was his utter lack of reaction. Men always showed something, nervousness, curiosity, even just the natural wariness of someone who knew an Aes Sedai was present. Yet he had been perfectly composed. As if he expected her scrutiny. As if he had trained for it.

Elaida frowned, recalling the moment she had woven Saidar in his presence. There had been nothing. No flicker of awareness, no unease. That should have reassured her, he was clearly no channeler. And yet… it unsettled her.

Something was wrong with Naravoss.

Summoning a trusted agent, she spoke in a low voice. "Send word to the White Tower. I want another sister in Caemlyn. Someone who can observe, quietly."

The agent bowed and hurried away.

Elaida clenched her jaw. Naravoss was hiding something. And she would find out what.

Moiraine's Journey & The Ta'veren

Far from Caemlyn, Moiraine Sedai guided her small group toward Whitebridge. The aftermath of their flight from Shadar Logoth still weighed upon them, the wounds of separation fresh in their minds. The cursed city had driven them apart, Mashadar's malevolent mist had swallowed their path, forcing them to scatter into the night. Now, they traveled in three separate paths, all hoping to reunite.

Rand and Mat, alone but for Thom Merrilin, had taken to the open road, avoiding large settlements when they could. Their supplies were dwindling, their trust fraying at the edges, but necessity bound them together. Mat clutched the ruby-hilted dagger he had taken from Shadar Logoth, though he had yet to tell Rand its true origins. The gleeman had grown quieter with each passing day, his watchful eyes scanning the horizon for danger.

Perrin and Egwene, guided by Elyas Machera, took to the forests, their pace slower but steadier. Elyas moved with a certainty that neither of them could match, and Perrin, though still unwilling to acknowledge it, felt an eerie kinship with the wolves that padded silently alongside them. Egwene, ever resilient, pressed onward with the belief that Moiraine would find them.

Moiraine, Lan, and Nynaeve followed the trails, searching for any sign of them.

She could feel the Pattern tightening, twisting around the three young men. The Wheel was turning, and their presence was shifting the currents of fate in ways she could barely comprehend.

Something else gnawed at her senses, a disturbance she could not yet name. A darkness that slithered at the edges of her vision, whispering of dangers yet unseen. The attack on the Two Rivers had already proven that the Shadow had set its sights on them, but the Myrddraal were not giving up. Somewhere, out in the night, a Fade hunted.

"Lan," she murmured, her voice low. "There is something… something unnatural about the way the Pattern moves."

Her Warder said nothing, only tightening his grip on his reins. He could sense her unease, even if he did not share it.

They pressed on, though Moiraine could not shake the feeling that something greater was unfolding beyond her sight.