Chapter 17: Unseen Threads

In the depths of the Blight, where the land rotted and twisted under the Great Lord's touch, Ishamael stood upon a barren precipice, gazing across the landscape of nightmares. His black robes billowed despite the still, stagnant air, and the Saa in his eyes pulsed with the ever-consuming power of the True Power. He no longer required light to see. His awareness stretched beyond the physical, piercing into the unseen fabric of the Pattern.

He could feel the ta'veren's pull, the stirring of the Dragon Reborn, the tangled fates of those caught in the Wheel's relentless cycle. Rand al'Thor was in motion, unknowingly stepping toward his destiny.

But Ishamael's true focus lay elsewhere.

A shadow moved within Andor, threading itself through the foundations of a kingdom. It was not one of the Chosen. Not yet. And that was the problem.

Naravoss.

The name was new to the world, but not to the Shadow. Ishamael had sensed his return from the Bore, his emergence into the world untouched by the taint that had ruined so many others. The Great Lord's hand had been upon him, shielding him, preserving him.

Ishamael had not been informed of why.

Naravoss had grown powerful in too little time. He moved unlike the other Darkfriends, unshackled by old allegiances, free from the stagnant rivalries of the Chosen. He was neither subservient nor rebellious.

He was independent.

That could not be allowed.

Ishamael extended his will, reaching beyond the decayed remnants of Malkier's ruins, beyond the Blight, through the World of Dreams. The Great Lord had whispered of a test. A final measure of Naravoss's worth.

A weave of the True Power rippled through his fingertips. He did not need to speak. The command was understood.

The Darkhounds stirred.

Deep in the forests south of Caemlyn, where the night was thick with mist and the howls of distant wolves, a pack of Darkhounds moved with unnatural silence. Their massive, shadow-wrapped bodies left no footprints, their glowing eyes burning with malice as they stalked unseen through the night.

They had no scent. No sound. Only death followed in their wake.

Their target was a noble estate, one that Naravoss had recently acquired through careful manipulation. Within its walls, men loyal to him worked tirelessly, mercenaries, spies, and minor nobles who had pledged fealty to his growing power.

The Darkhounds struck just before midnight. Silent. Unstoppable. The guards at the gate barely had time to draw breath before black fangs tore out their throats, leaving behind corpses untouched by blood, for Darkhounds did not leave remains as men understood them.

In the upper chambers, a scholar working under Naravoss screamed as the door splintered inward, a monstrous form lunging toward him, only to be stopped by a force unseen.

Naravoss had felt them coming.

He did not know why, but there was something familiar in the attack, something he had not sensed since before his imprisonment. It was not simply the Shadow moving against him.

This was a test.

With an almost casual flick of his wrist, he wove Death's Gate, a razor-thin weave of Air, Spirit, and Fire, creating a ripple in reality that bisected the first Darkhound cleanly in two. No sound. No warning. The creature simply ceased to exist.

Another came for him. He unleashed lightning, striking it mid-leap, sending its smoldering form crashing to the marble floor.

He had faced Darkhounds before. But never ones this strong.

These were not mere creations of the lesser Dreadlords. These beasts were infused with the True Power.

And that meant only one person had sent them.

Ishamael.

A test, then.

Naravoss allowed himself a smile.

His hands wove the next weave effortlessly, the air shimmering around him as he manipulated the space within the room itself.

Folds of the Shadow, a forbidden weave, twisted reality, trapping the remaining Darkhounds in a space between existence and oblivion. Their snarls grew distant as the weave collapsed, taking them with it.

Silence returned to the manor.

Naravoss stood in the center of the destruction, inhaling deeply. The scent of burned flesh. The hum of unraveling power.

He raised his gaze to the empty night.

"Was that the best you had, Nae'blis?" he whispered, knowing the words would find their way back to Ishamael.

Ishamael sat motionless upon a throne of black stone, his Saa-ridden eyes unblinking as he observed the results.

Naravoss had survived. Easily.

More than that, he had anticipated the test.

Ishamael clenched his hands behind his back. He had meant to provoke a response, to see if Naravoss would show fear, hesitation, or dependency.

Instead, he had shown amusement.

The Great Lord had chosen to preserve this one for a reason. Ishamael would find out why.

For now, he would watch.

And if Naravoss proved to be more than a mere Darkfriend, then the Nae'blis himself would decide what to do next.

The Pattern was shifting. And Naravoss was no longer a forgotten piece.

Naravoss leaned against the grand oak desk in his study, absently turning a glass of wine between his fingers. The estate was eerily quiet after the attack. The Darkhounds were gone, their remains erased from existence, but their presence had left an impression. A message from Ishamael. A reminder.

He exhaled, the taste of victory sharp on his tongue. He had passed the test. But he had no illusions, the Nae'blis would not accept him so easily.

A soft knock at the door.

He straightened as a cloaked figure entered, moving with the precise grace of one accustomed to secrets. The woman lowered her hood, revealing dark eyes and a face hardened by years within the White Tower. An Aes Sedai. But more importantly, a Black Ajah.

"You expected me?" she asked coolly, glancing around the ruined chamber. The scent of charred air still lingered.

Naravoss set down the glass. "A careful man always prepares for company."

She smiled thinly. "Your name has reached ears within the Tower, but names alone do not grant trust. You claim to serve the Shadow, yet you walk freely within Andor's court. Some believe you simply play both sides."

Naravoss laughed, the sound rich with amusement. "A claim easily made by those too blind to see the game for what it is. I do not seek chaos, I shape it. Andor is mine to weave into the Shadow's hands.** Your sisters should be grateful."

The Aes Sedai's expression did not change, but he caught the flicker of interest in her gaze. "Then prove it. A simple test. One that will solidify your worth."

Naravoss leaned forward. "I expected no less. What do you require?"

She pulled a small, folded parchment from within her robes, sliding it across the desk. "This noble opposes the Shadow and the Tower's influence in Andor. He must die, but in a way that does not tie back to us. Make it seem like an act of treachery from within Andor's own ranks."

Naravoss picked up the parchment, his lips curling into a satisfied smile as he read the name. Lord Adelin Gildor. A minor but vocal noble, Lord Adelin Gildor, had consistently opposed any growing influence of the White Tower in Andor, his stance making him a convenient obstacle for the Shadow's greater plans. His removal would serve multiple purposes, eliminating an irritant while also destabilizing loyalties among those who still hesitated to embrace the inevitability of the Shadow's rise., a noble whose integrity had become a thorn in the side of the Shadow. His elimination would not only weaken opposition but send a message to others who clung to the Light.

This would be far too easy. Naravoss already had agents in place, whispers among the court that could turn friend against friend. A scandal, a manufactured betrayal, and House Coelan would crumble under the weight of its own honor. He would ensure that Lord Pelivar's death did not merely serve the Shadow, it would reshape Andor's political landscape to his advantage.

Elaida do Avriny a'Roihan stood near the grand windows of the Queen's receiving chamber, her sharp gaze locked on the sprawling city of Caemlyn below. The throne room was quiet except for the distant murmur of court officials tending to the kingdom's business. Morgase had not yet arrived, but that suited Elaida just fine. She needed a moment to think.

Naravoss.

The name alone sent a ripple of unease through her. The man was too polished, too precise. Everything about him suggested careful manipulation. He was hiding something.

She could not shake the sense that she was missing something critical. A lesser Aes Sedai might have dismissed him as a mere noble playing at power. But Elaida was no fool. Naravoss had risen too swiftly, moving with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing.

A soft knock at the chamber doors. Alviarin Freidhen, White Tower liaison to the Queen, entered with the graceful composure expected of an Aes Sedai. Her expression was unreadable, but her presence was never without reason.

"Elaida," Alviarin greeted smoothly. "You seem troubled."

Elaida turned, arms folded. "You heard about Duke Naravoss, I presume?"

Alviarin inclined her head. "Of course. He has made quite the impression."

Elaida frowned. "He is too controlled. No man is so unshaken under an Aes Sedai's scrutiny. Even kings shift uneasily when we are near, yet he remains... unaffected."

Alviarin took a slow step closer, her voice measured. "Perhaps he is simply an exceptional man. Not all fear us."

Elaida scoffed. "No, not fear. Wariness, at the very least. He showed nothing. Not even a flicker of discomfort when I channeled Saidar."

For the first time, Alviarin's expression flickered. A brief, calculating look.

Elaida narrowed her eyes. "You recognize something in this?"

Alviarin tilted her head, her lips curving slightly. "Merely a curiosity, Elaida. The Tower has dealt with nobles like him before. Overly ambitious, but ultimately powerless. You waste your energy pursuing shadows when there are real threats lurking in Andor."

Elaida's eyes narrowed. "You dismiss him too easily. There is something about him that does not sit well with me. The way he maneuvers, the way he speaks, it is as though he has trained his whole life to deceive."

Alviarin let out a soft chuckle. "Perhaps he has. But deception is not a crime, nor is it proof of something darker. The world is full of men who seek power, Elaida. If you hunted every noble who moved with confidence, you'd never leave Caemlyn."

Elaida's lips pressed into a thin line. "Confidence is one thing. But his control is unnatural."

Alviarin leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Or perhaps he simply does not fear Aes Sedai as most do. The White Tower is not all-powerful, Elaida, and some men know it. Do not let your pride lead you into chasing ghosts. If he is hiding something, let him reveal it in time."

Elaida turned back toward the window. "I will find out what he's hiding. But I need time. If I press too hard, I risk losing my chance."

Alviarin nodded. "Wise. Though perhaps your attention is better spent elsewhere. Andor is... unstable of late."

Elaida frowned. "Unstable?"

Alviarin smoothly slid a small parchment onto the table. A report.

Elaida's frown deepened as she read. A noble accused of treason. A plot against the Queen. The accusations were unverified, but troubling.

Alviarin's voice was soft but insistent. "You are too focused on one man when the true danger may be elsewhere. This noble conspiracy threatens the Queen's rule directly. If your duty is to Andor, then securing its stability must come first."

Elaida exhaled slowly, glancing back at the parchment in her hands. There was no way to be in two places at once. Naravoss would have to wait, but not forever.. "The court is already restless. If there are traitors among the nobility, it is best they are dealt with quickly. Surely the safety of Andor outweighs one man's suspicious composure."

Elaida's fingers tightened around the parchment. Naravoss would have to wait.

If Andor was under threat from within, she could not afford to let distractions cloud her judgment.

She would return to him soon enough.

Naravoss's Design: The Manufactured Crisis

Naravoss read the report with mild amusement. The seeds had taken root faster than expected.

The noble Alviarin had reported? His doing.

He had carefully orchestrated the scandal, using his spies to spread whispers among Andor's inner circles. A well-placed rumor, a fabricated letter, and a few "eyewitnesses" planted within the Queen's court.

Now, the Queen's Aes Sedai would be too occupied with rooting out a false conspiracy to pursue him further.

He set the parchment aside and steepled his fingers. The Black Ajah's test was still ahead. But tonight, Andor's court would turn against itself.

And he would be watching.

Rand awoke with a strangled gasp, his body drenched in sweat. His heart pounded as he tried to slow his breathing, the fading remnants of the dream clawing at his mind. He had been somewhere else, somewhere filled with shadow and malice. The heat of unseen flames licked at his skin, and a terrible presence loomed over him, whispering words he could not quite remember but knew meant doom.

The fire in the small inn's hearth had burned down to embers. Across the room, Mat tossed in his sleep, murmuring feverishly. The dagger. Rand could see its shape even in the dim light, clutched tightly in Mat's hand beneath his blankets. The thing was changing him.

Rand exhaled shakily. This wasn't the first nightmare.

Since Shadar Logoth, the dreams had come night after night, each one leaving him more shaken than the last. He saw Ba'alzamon, the Dark One's voice hissing from the shadows, promising him power, taunting him with inevitable destruction.

He looked at Mat again, then at Thom Merrilin, who snored softly from the far corner. There was no waking them for this. If he spoke of it, Thom would dismiss it, and Mat… Mat had his own demons now.

Across the miles, Perrin's sleep was just as restless. He sat up suddenly, gasping for air. The wolf-dream had returned. He had seen golden eyes staring back at him, a connection to something he could not yet understand. And more than that, there had been a presence, dark and relentless, a shadow with burning eyes that seemed to search for him.

Egwene stirred nearby but did not wake. Elyas had warned him, yet Perrin had not fully believed it until now. The wolves were calling him, and something else hunted him.

Meanwhile, Moiraine sat awake beside the dying fire, eyes calm but troubled. She had felt the disturbance in the Pattern. Something was moving, shifting too soon. It was not only the ta'veren at work, but something else was stirring in the darkness. She could not yet name it, but she would not let it go unchecked.

The Wheel was weaving them all toward something inevitable. And in the shadows, the Dark One's reach grew longer.

Naravoss stood in the quiet solitude of his study, a glass of dark wine in hand, his gaze lingering over a collection of reports spread across the polished oak desk. The candlelight flickered, casting elongated shadows against the walls, mirroring the shifting tides of power unfolding around him.

He had been expecting movement, but not like this.

Reports of strange disturbances rippled across the lands. Aes Sedai movements, whispers of a young noble stirring trouble in the west, and most importantly, dreams.

Dreams that carried more weight than they should.

Naravoss knew the significance of the ta'veren and how their presence disrupted the Pattern itself, bending fate in unnatural ways. And if his own sources were correct, three such anomalies now walked the land.

He set the glass down with a quiet thud. He had been playing a careful game, positioning himself to maneuver unseen beneath the growing conflict between the White Tower and Andor's nobility. But the Wheel had begun to weave faster, forcing his hand sooner than expected.

A light knock at the door. One of his spies entered, bowing low.

"My lord, a message arrived from our contact within the White Tower. Elaida has shifted her attention away, focusing on matters within the Queen's court. For now, you are no longer her primary concern."

Naravoss allowed himself a slight smirk. Exactly as planned.

"And what of the Chosen?" he asked, swirling the remnants of his drink absently.

The spy hesitated, his hands twitching at his sides. "My lord, the Great Lord's will moves unseen. The whispers say that powerful ones stir, but no names are spoken. Only that eyes turn toward Andor." He expected nothing less from the Great Lord's most favored, but that did not mean he would be controlled so easily.**"

Naravoss's expression darkened slightly. He had known Ishamael would not leave him unchecked.

But he did not fear the Nae'blis. Not yet. If anything, Naravoss welcomed the attention. He had always known this day would come, the moment when the true masters of the Shadow would weigh his worth. He would not fail. Naravoss understood the games the Chosen played, and he intended to carve his own path among them, whether they acknowledged him or not.

Instead, he turned back toward the scattered parchments, his mind already weaving new possibilities. There was still much to do. His network in Andor had yet to reach its full potential, the noble houses were only beginning to turn against one another, and the false sense of security the White Tower held would soon crumble. He had worked too carefully to be revealed too soon. But if the Chosen were watching, then he would make his presence undeniable.

Slowly, he reached for another parchment, a missive from one of his most trusted informants. A name stood out. Lord Adelin Gildor. The man was already ensnared in the fabricated conspiracy Naravoss had planted. It was time to tighten the noose.

He would move swiftly, carefully, ensuring that every step led to his ultimate goal. Andor would crumble. The White Tower would falter. And in the chaos, he would rise.. If Ishamael was watching, then it was time to give him something to see.

It was time to set the next move into motion.

The storm was coming, and Naravoss would be ready.