Chapter 46

Standing at the gates of Solis Magna, I had to admit I felt a certain satisfaction—not the raucous glee radiating from the gladiators behind me, who were already discussing just how hard they planned to hit the taverns, but a quieter pride. We'd survived the journey. Every single one of us had made it here, though, admittedly, in no small part thanks to elven magic and some inconvenient but effective forest intervention.

I glanced at the elves as they were ushered ceremoniously into the city. The princeling himself had arrived to greet them, complete with his simpering entourage and all the pomp he could gather at short notice. It was a scene: him standing there, taking every political advantage of our survival and the elves' arrival, as if he'd done anything other than hand me an impossible mission. The way he was beaming and soaking up the applause, you'd think he'd risked his own neck to bring the delegation safely to Solis Magna.

The gladiators, oblivious to the political maneuverings, were already laughing and boasting as they envisioned their first taste of civilization in weeks. Frankly, I couldn't blame them. They'd held their own, and they'd earned a bit of revelry. I might even join them if the mood struck—after I collected what was rightfully mine.

As the elves disappeared into the city gates, flanked by their armed escort and an impressive array of imperial guards, I caught sight of my real target: the princeling's political fixer, a balding man with the smuggest expression I'd ever seen, standing a few paces back from the main event, clearly very pleased with himself. I took a deep breath, steeling myself as I walked over, trying to keep my irritation simmering rather than boiling over. My tally of expenses—blood, sweat, and a hefty portion of my patience—was already calculated in my head. This man owed me, and I was ready to collect.

The fixer's name was Marius Sulla, a slimy figure who always appeared perfectly composed, as if the world itself existed to fall neatly in line with his desires. He met my gaze with a look that would have withered a lesser man, but I was well beyond being cowed by his posturing. I held out my hand, offering him the tally of expenses and a firm, unyielding stare.

Without even glancing at the paper, he raised an eyebrow and let out a humorless chuckle. "Be careful what you ask for, Goodchild. You're fortunate I don't have you silenced out of sheer spite. Loyalty, after all, is a fickle creature in these parts."

A muscle tightened in my jaw, but I forced myself to stay calm. "Loyalty, is it? Odd how my loyalty meant quite a bit to your princeling when he needed someone expendable to escort a delegation of elves through a politically charged minefield."

"Expendable," he echoed, tone icy, as if the mere implication offended his sensibilities. "Expendable doesn't typically equate to reward. The princeling considers this a demonstration of your loyalty—one that doesn't come with financial compensation, I'm afraid."

I took a slow breath, hoping it would dull the urge to reach across and throttle the man. "And what about the expenses I incurred on this 'demonstration' of loyalty? I have quite a tally here—food, supplies, bribes, not to mention the necessary defenses to keep this delegation alive. Or was I supposed to pull that out of the air, too?"

He offered a thin smile, every inch of it condescending. "If it's coin you're after, Goodchild, then perhaps next time you might seek employment somewhere less… dependent on loyalty." He shrugged dismissively, as if I were some nuisance trying to haggle over street food, not demanding a payment I had more than earned. "And as for your tally, consider it a personal contribution to the Empire."

The audacity was almost admirable. Almost. I gritted my teeth and let out a humorless laugh. "I didn't realize 'loyalty' came at such a personal cost," I said, barely containing my irritation.

Sulla's gaze hardened, clearly ready to end this conversation. "The princeling expects unwavering dedication, Goodchild. Consider this a test of yours." His voice dropped, steel laced with finality. "This conversation is over."

He turned as if to leave, as if this encounter was little more than a minor inconvenience in his day. I could feel the heat rising in my chest, the kind that often precedes a good punch. But I managed to restrain myself, just barely.

"Is Lady Valeria released yet?" I demanded, my voice sharper than intended. This had been part of the deal. Valeria's freedom was, at the very least, what I'd expected in return.

Sulla paused, just for a second, then turned his head with a smirk that made my hand twitch toward the weapon on my belt. "And why does that concern you, Goodchild? Your task is complete. Leave Valeria's fate to those more capable of seeing the larger picture."

I felt the weight of his insult settle, the absolute dismissal of me as if I were nothing but a pawn in his political game. My fingers clenched tighter around the edge of my cloak, willing myself to let the man walk away. I knew I couldn't kill him here, not out in the open, and certainly not with half the Empire's forces milling about.

Sulla gave one last withering look before he strode off, vanishing into the crowd of nobles and soldiers that clustered around the princeling and the arriving elves. It took everything in me not to follow him, to demand some satisfaction. But I knew that patience—infuriating, unbearable patience—was the only real weapon I had here.

The gladiators, unaware of the exchange, were cheering and making plans for the nearest tavern. Caius clapped a hand on my shoulder, grinning. "Come on, David, let's get some proper food and ale that doesn't taste like it's been strained through a boot."

I forced a smile, letting his enthusiasm ground me. "You go ahead. Just save me a seat, will you?"

Caius laughed, unbothered by the irritation in my voice, and he joined the others as they trooped off, already boisterous. I took a final look back toward Sulla, now little more than a figure in the distance, yet still somehow looming large. The bitter satisfaction in his face lingered in my mind. Today, he'd won a small, contemptuous victory. But I wouldn't forget it.

With the noise of the gladiators fading as they made their way into the city, I stayed behind a moment longer. Standing there at the gates of Solis Magna, watching the pageantry and the hypocrisy, I made a quiet vow to myself: I might have to play their game for now, but it wouldn't be forever. And when the time came, I'd have Sulla's expression turned just as sour as mine felt now.

For now, though, I had a night ahead of me and, hopefully, some way to get to the bottom of Valeria's fate.

Reluctantly, I followed the gladiators, letting their boisterous energy lead me through the bustling streets of Solis Magna toward one of the nearest taverns by the wall. It was the kind of establishment where the ceilings were perpetually stained with smoke and the tables had endured enough abuse to tell a thousand stories of fights, revelry, and the occasional regrettable romance. The gladiators, unbothered by the grime, barreled in with all the decorum of a storm, taking over the room like a band of conquering heroes. They had, after all, survived a deadly journey and faced more than their fair share of "bandits."

As they ordered round after round, I settled into the background, scanning the scene with as much amusement as I could muster, which wasn't much. While the others guzzled whatever brew the bar kept in its suspect kegs, I ordered a watered-down wine that tasted as sour as my mood. It had all the allure of vinegar but seemed fitting. I raised the glass to my lips, glancing over at the soldiers turned rowdy, drinking with the urgency of men who were keenly aware that moments of peace were fleeting.

I sipped, barely tasting, and let my thoughts wander through the bitter remnants of the day. Marius Sulla's sneering face flickered in my mind, his dismissal like salt in a wound I hadn't known was festering. To be treated as expendable—a tool, something to be used and discarded—that grated on every instinct I had. I'd been dealt worse insults in my life, no doubt, but there was something particularly venomous about this one. It was as if, no matter how capable, no matter how essential I'd proven myself, I was still nothing more than a disposable asset to men like Sulla.

Sulla's condescension wasn't even surprising, and therein lay the frustration. The Empire, in all its grandeur, had no shortage of men and women who used "loyalty" as a weapon. Loyalty, to them, was a one-sided transaction: you give everything, and they owe you nothing. I'd seen it in all corners of the world—this tendency to demand sacrifice without recompense. And here I was, no different, even after escorting an elven delegation, fighting off attackers, and using every ounce of my resources and ingenuity to see this mission through. The princeling would be lavished in accolades, and Sulla would continue on his merry way, with not a thought spared for the promises they had conveniently "forgotten" to keep.

A gladiator beside me let out a loud laugh, slapping his hand on the table as he regaled the others with the tale of our final battle, embellishing it, no doubt, with every gulp of ale. I smiled a little, but it was empty—a reaction so far removed from real emotion it almost amused me. The gladiators were pleased with themselves, with their survival, with the ale, and I couldn't fault them. They weren't burdened by thoughts of payment withheld, or favors dismissed. For them, tonight was just another celebration of life in a world that often threatened to take it from them.

The noise dimmed around me as I thought back to the psychology lectures I'd given, back before all this. Betrayal was never straightforward, never just about the event. Betrayal was about identity. It was about the sense of self and the way others perceived you, often clashing in brutal ways. Being overlooked and dismissed wasn't just an insult; it was a dent in the armor of my own perception. To Marius Sulla, I was nothing. To the Empire, I was nothing but a pawn, disposable at best and a liability at worst. And that feeling—knowing how easily they dismissed me—was like a weight pressing down, heavy and suffocating.

I took another sip of my sour wine, and even its unpleasant taste couldn't distract me from the knot in my chest. Sulla's reaction hadn't been a one-off; it was a mirror of a broader truth. I'd been useful to them this time, but as soon as they found another pawn, another "loyal servant," I'd be just as easily forgotten. The Empire was a machine, endlessly fueled by the ambitions of those who ran it, devouring everything that didn't serve its immediate needs.

The thought burned in me, kindling a resentment that had been smoldering under the surface for too long. I'd taken on this mission with full knowledge of its dangers, but I had foolishly expected some kind of recompense, an acknowledgment, however small, that my loyalty wasn't in vain. It seemed, however, that in the Empire's eyes, loyalty was nothing more than another lever to pull, a cheap trick to keep men and women like me in line. I'd fought for the elves to arrive safely, navigating through traps and ambushes that would have felled lesser men, and yet, here I sat, drinking watered-down wine, considering how entirely I'd been disregarded.

I watched as Caius and the others toasted, raising their mugs high as the drink flowed freely, splashing over the edges. They didn't know what I was wrestling with, nor would they care, and that was all right. They'd earned this night. I only wished I could join them fully, unburdened by the weight of promises unfulfilled.

As the noise swelled and laughter filled the room, I leaned back, letting my gaze drift to the rafters, where lantern light flickered, casting shadows that danced and twisted like the specters of ambitions lost. Sulla might have dismissed me today, but he'd made one critical misstep: he assumed I'd accept it. He'd assumed that a man like me, with my patience, my quiet loyalty, would simply fall in line, shrugging off this insult like another day in the life of Empire politics.

But I wasn't about to let this betrayal slip into obscurity. Not this time.

Ah, first things first: Lady Valeria. Much as I'd like to settle into my temporary freedom with a bottle and my feet up, I couldn't ignore the fact that she was still in the hands of… well, whoever deemed her a pawn in this grand game. If I was going to exact any semblance of justice or make sense of this twisted arrangement, I'd need to find out what had become of her. This, of course, was going to require someone with their ear pressed firmly to the noble circuits. I turned to Caius, who had just downed a sizeable mug with a satisfaction that suggested he might be well on his way to forgetting every moment of this ill-fated mission.

"Caius," I began, keeping my voice low enough to avoid alerting the rest of the drunken crowd. "You wouldn't happen to know anyone with a pulse on the city's nobles, someone who can filter out the gossip from the useful bits?"

He paused, giving me a look that said he thought I'd been dropped on my head as a child. "Do I know anyone?" he echoed, clearly unimpressed. "David, you and I both know her: Lucilla Varinius. The senator's wife with the uncanny ability to get under the skin of every man, woman, and child within a mile."

Ah, Lucilla Varinius. The woman who knew more than the city's scribes and never hesitated to let people know it. She could probably tell me what I'd had for breakfast last week, and she'd be sure to remind me I hadn't paid her for the last 'favor.'

"Of course," I muttered, feigning exasperation as I gave Caius a wave. He just chuckled, raising his mug for another swig as I slipped out, leaving the lively chaos of the tavern behind.

The walk back through Solis Magna's wealthier streets felt oddly familiar after so long in foreign lands. The stone facades gleamed under the lamplight, polished and resplendent as if to constantly remind every passerby of the nobility's unchallenged superiority. In their world, trouble was something they watched from their windows, not something that followed them home. Unlike mine.

The street that led to my workshop was blissfully quiet, save for a handful of servants bustling from one estate to another. I caught the eye of a serving girl from the shop next door who threw me a smile and a wave. Nice to know some things hadn't changed while I was off risking life and limb for people who couldn't be bothered to remember my name.

Once inside, I took a moment to breathe in the slightly musty scent of my workshop, long unused but, thankfully, untouched. The runes I'd etched into the door frame had done their job; not a single item was out of place. I ran my fingers over the engravings as I disarmed the final layer of security, feeling the faint hum of energy under my fingertips. It was good to be back, if only for a brief reprieve.

First order of business: a proper bath. I stripped off the travel-worn gear, discarding the smell of dust and exertion, and sank into hot water, feeling the grime of the last weeks melt away. If there was any consolation to be had tonight, it was that I finally had this small luxury. The water loosened the knots in my shoulders, but my mind kept turning over the events of the day, the nagging, relentless feeling of unfinished business gnawing at my thoughts.

Lucilla Varinius, then. I doubted she'd be out in the early morning hours, primed for a visit; she was the type to let the rest of us stew in anticipation, making sure our impatience peaked right before she deigned to see us. If I wanted a decent chance of prying any information from her, it would be best to wait until the afternoon.

Feeling somewhat cleaner, if not entirely at ease, I stretched out on my cot, allowing myself a few hours of much-needed sleep. I'd need to be sharp tomorrow; Lucilla had a way of twisting words and answers, and I had no intention of playing the fool in her game.

The morning was a lesson in quiet preparation. I'd spent the night calculating every angle, rehearsing every possible reaction, and preparing myself for Lucilla Varinius—a woman as unpredictable as the politics that she thrived on. If anyone knew what had become of Lady Valeria, it was Lucilla. But if I wanted answers, I needed to play her game with all the charm and precision I could muster.

Dressing for Lucilla required something beyond basic presentation. She had an eye for details, a penchant for people who appeared to her on her terms, so I decided to dress as if I were seeking a commission rather than answers. My finest tunic, subtly adorned with the unmistakable threads of rune weaving, and a small token I'd prepared as an offering: a delicate, intricate rune amulet, the kind that would fetch quite a price at market but that might grant me just enough favor to gain Lucilla's attention.

The walk toward her estate took me through Solis Magna's grand avenues. This district—the heart of power—was different from the rest of the city. The mansions here, with their polished marble façades and towering gates, looked like fortresses meant less for defense than for displaying wealth and status. Each estate seemed to whisper promises of both security and secrets, their balconies overlooking the city like watchful sentries. I couldn't help but feel a familiar resentment bubbling up as I walked; this was where fortunes were made or broken by whispers alone, where my own life was less significant than a noble's passing whim.

Lucilla's estate was no exception. An opulent residence perched just close enough to the senatorial district to signal her influence, yet far enough to suggest independence. Two guards outside the gate eyed me with mild curiosity until I held up the rune amulet. The glint of precious metal caught their attention immediately, and after a quick, wordless glance at each other, they led me through.

Inside, I was greeted by a servant who ushered me into a reception room—a space filled with silks and delicate artifacts, each one an unsubtle reminder of Lucilla's wealth and taste. I held my breath, readying myself for her entrance.

Moments later, Lucilla Varinius herself swept into the room, a picture of aristocratic elegance. She wore a deep red gown, rich with embroidery, and a glint of something metallic at her wrist—probably one of the minor rune-trinkets she was known to collect. Trailing behind her, as if by habit rather than choice, was her friend Flavia Quintilla, a woman whose presence was as inevitable as Lucilla's latest intrigue. Flavia, with her pale hair and sharp features, had a way of looking like she was perpetually deciding whether to laugh or sneer.

"David Goodchild," Lucilla purred, holding out a hand expectantly. I took it, bowing slightly as I placed the amulet in her palm, watching her expression shift from curiosity to barely masked delight as she inspected it.

"Well, well," she murmured, turning the amulet over in her fingers, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "You have an impeccable sense of timing, David. And, it seems, impeccable taste." She paused, clearly pleased, before fixing me with a knowing smile. "Are you here to offer me your talents for a commission, or is this"—she waved the amulet between us—"a bid for my company?"

"Perhaps a bit of both, but with more modest expectations," I replied smoothly, choosing my words carefully. "Though I'm afraid I'd hate to interrupt your morning with anything too forward."

Lucilla laughed, a light sound laced with a hint of mockery, as if amused by the very idea. "How refreshingly polite. But I'll allow it," she said, slipping the amulet into a pocket with a graceful ease that suggested she was accustomed to accepting offerings. "Now, what is it that's brought you back to my door? Surely not just a trinket."

I took a breath, feigning a casual air. "I was hoping you might have some information on Lady Valeria. She's had a complicated season, I've heard."

Lucilla arched an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. "Ah, Lady Valeria. I'd forgotten how dedicated you are to the fairer sex, David." Her tone was teasing, laced with a hint of something sharper.

"No romantic attachment, I assure you," I replied, trying to match her lightness, though inwardly I felt a chill. Lucilla's eyes sparkled with mischief as if she'd just stumbled upon an amusing game.

Flavia, who had been silently observing with her usual detachment, chuckled. "That's not what the city whispers," she muttered under her breath, her gaze flicking between Lucilla and me.

"Whatever the rumors, I'm only interested in her well-being," I pressed on. "Do you happen to know anything about her current situation?"

Lucilla leaned back, studying me with an expression that was both amused and calculating. "Lady Valeria," she said slowly, as if savoring each word, "has been… absorbed, shall we say, into a rather exclusive arrangement. Our dear Prince Calder has a certain way of collecting people of interest, particularly those with charm and vulnerability. A 'group' of sorts, though some might call it a gilded cage."

For a moment, her words didn't sink in, and I felt as if the air had thickened around me. "Prince Calder's collection," I repeated, my voice strained with disbelief. "Are you suggesting she's... one of his 'playthings'?"

"Let's not mince words, David," Lucilla replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "Prince Calder does enjoy his—let's say—diversions. Valeria is a part of his private circle now. And I'm afraid she's likely to remain there for as long as he finds her amusing."

A knot twisted in my stomach, a mix of anger and disbelief. "And how long do they usually last in this 'circle' of his?" My voice came out sharper than intended, but Lucilla merely smirked.

"Oh, David," she replied, her voice laced with mock sympathy, "that depends on his mood. Calder is nothing if not capricious. Some women last for a season, others only a few weeks. It's all quite theatrical, really."

I stared at her, trying to process the callousness of her words. I had known Calder was no saint, but the idea of Valeria trapped in his whims, vulnerable to his every fleeting desire, left me seething. "And you find this... amusing?" I asked, my voice low, barely concealing the edge beneath it.

Lucilla smiled, unperturbed by my tone. "Amusement is a currency, David, as is everything else in this city. You should know that by now." She leaned forward, her gaze fixed on me with an unsettling intensity. "Tell me, why does this matter so much to you? Valeria is just one woman in a city teeming with them. What makes her fate so special?"

"Maybe I just prefer my debts settled," I replied, keeping my tone light despite the anger simmering beneath my skin. "And I tend to take issue with men who treat people as expendable."

Lucilla tilted her head, studying me with an unreadable expression. "How noble. But nobility, I'm afraid, is seldom rewarded in these circles."

"I've learned that lesson well," I replied dryly. "But that doesn't mean I have to like it."

For a moment, Lucilla's gaze softened, and she regarded me with what might have been a trace of genuine interest. "You're a rare breed, David. A man with principles in a city that eats principles for breakfast."

Flavia, who had been listening with a half-smile, chimed in. "If I were you, David, I'd tread carefully. Men who stand on principles in this city rarely leave it with their heads still attached."

"Duly noted," I replied, feeling the weight of their words settling over me. But principles or no, I wasn't leaving until I'd done everything in my power to secure Valeria's freedom.

With a forced smile, I inclined my head, masking my irritation with a thin veneer of polite farewell. "Thank you, Lucilla. As always, your insights are… illuminating."

I turned, preparing to make my exit, but Lucilla's voice slid in, smooth and casual, just as I was about to escape. "I hear you've been on an errand for our beloved princeling," she said, her tone laced with a knowing amusement that never boded well. "And that the release of Lady Valeria was part of the deal... though, naturally, you're a bit put out. Out of pocket too, I imagine?"

I forced myself to pause, looking back at her with a practiced, nonchalant expression. "You know me too well, Lucilla," I replied, keeping my voice light. There was no use pretending in front of her, not when she practically breathed intrigue.

She gave a graceful nod, crossing her arms as if she'd just appraised a rather amusing street performance. "If there's anything I can do to help… undermine that insufferable idiot, consider me at your service. I imagine it would be immensely satisfying."

I raised an eyebrow, aware that she wasn't exactly fond of Prince Calder—the prince of petty tyranny, the princeling with grand delusions and an unrestrained appetite for both power and revenge. Lucilla's distaste was evident, but this offer was unexpected. It took no genius to see that she saw an opportunity in this—to damage Calder and perhaps gain a foothold in the shadowy political dance of Solis Magna. Still, one rarely received a gift in this city that didn't come with strings—particularly not from Lucilla Varinius.

"I have the minor constraint of wanting the elven delegation to succeed," I replied, choosing my words carefully.

Lucilla's lips curled into a faint smile, almost conspiratorial. "As we all do, of course. But there are... other outcomes that might also be arranged. Nothing says it has to be a simple success or failure, does it?"

Her words hung in the air like smoke, layered and tantalizing. I nodded slowly, turning her suggestion over in my mind, uncertain whether I wanted to pick up the thread she was offering. But if there was anyone who could counteract Calder's influence—or at least match his appetite for manipulation—it was Lucilla.

"Well," I said, feeling the flicker of an idea forming, "I'll keep that in mind."

Her smile deepened, as if pleased that I was finally learning to see things her way. She tilted her head, a gesture of acknowledgment that was both calculated and genuine in its own way. "Good," she murmured, and with that, she turned back to her circle of ladies, leaving me standing in the doorway, an unspoken alliance shimmering between us.

As I left her estate, the sun had shifted, casting a slightly harsher light over the marble-paved streets. Lucilla's words echoed in my mind as I weighed the possibilities. Lucilla's offer was a rare thing—a doorway to subversion, to cutting Calder down a few notches and, perhaps, even to securing some stability for the elven delegation. Yet the risks were as obvious as they were tempting. Political maneuvering was hardly new to me, but this city had a way of bending even the most skilled into inconvenient shapes.

I reached my workshop at last, unlocking the runes that guarded its entrance, each symbol humming with a low, familiar energy as it recognized my touch. I entered, the quiet of the place settling around me like a forgotten but well-worn coat.

Sitting down with a steaming cup of bitter tea, I let the quiet settle over me, the noise from the city beyond the walls fading into a muted hum. The chaos of the princeling's betrayal, the treachery wound tight around his petty ambition—it all called for a precise, psychological approach. No brute force, no reckless magic. This would need finesse, the kind of surgical manipulation that could only come from one well-versed in the art of the mind.

I took a slow sip, letting the tea sharpen my senses as I slipped into the techniques I knew so well. Free-association exercises, to begin with—loosening up the obvious thoughts and letting my mind meander toward less conventional options. I jotted down phrases and thoughts as they came to me, however disconnected. "Valeria," "payment," "Calder's weak spots," and "influence in the court"—all things that floated to the surface, fragments that might eventually align into a plan.

One method in particular stood out to me, something I'd honed in my old days of experimentation: lateral thinking. It was an effective way to uproot expected patterns, to think not just beyond the box but in an entirely different room from the box. Calder was like a spoiled child who played power games as if they were his birthright, smugly protected by his station and his ego. The predictable approach would be to appeal to his pride, perhaps stroke his need for control, but that was only going to get me the same half-baked deals I'd gotten so far. Instead, I would have to disrupt his assumptions, go against the grain of his narcissistic impulses. The question was how.

If Calder was desperate for recognition, it would take very little to plant doubt in the minds of those around him—perhaps even cast him as an unreliable protector of the Empire. The court lived on reputation, after all; a single chink in the armor of someone like Calder could become a rift if the right leverage were applied. So, if I needed him weakened, why not cast him as incompetent? Or better yet, a man without control over his own assets. Manipulating the court's opinion of him was a delicate dance, but I'd been here before, with clients who trusted no one yet were eager to see others fall.

After setting down my empty cup, I leaned back and let my eyes fall half-closed, feeling the various ideas start to intersect. I had the key points of my objective floating before me. First, there was Lady Valeria's freedom; for that, I needed a trade valuable enough to pry her from Calder's grasp without putting him on alert. Second, my payment. I'd gone above and beyond in seeing the elves safely to Solis Magna, and yet that reward had evaporated thanks to Calder's cronies who assumed loyalty was a virtue they could buy for free.

Drawing from a practice I'd discussed on the podcast—one I liked to call "role inversion"—I imagined how I would respond if I were Calder. Where were his vulnerabilities? A man so high on his own status wasn't immune to doubt; in fact, he was practically built for it. A well-timed seed of mistrust could make him see threats lurking in his own shadow. His own paranoia could become my tool.

I sketched out a crude diagram of court power dynamics, pinpointing Lucilla Varinius and her faction as the perfect foil. Calder saw her as a threat, which meant she would be doubly valuable if positioned to gain some measure of influence through Valeria. It would take careful maneuvering, a way to bring Lucilla into this web without arousing her suspicions or Calder's defenses.

I chuckled softly. The simplicity was appealing, but simplicity rarely held up in a court of ambitious schemers. I needed another layer—something to keep them all busy enough not to notice the strings I was pulling.

So, another layer: I would need to create a small ripple, something that would grow into a distraction, while I worked on retrieving Valeria. The more I imagined it, the clearer the possibilities became. If Lucilla were to receive a fabricated piece of intelligence about a threat to Calder's standing—perhaps a rumor about his failure to handle the delegation with the elves properly—it would incite enough chatter to draw the right kind of attention. Of course, the information would be perfectly crafted: subtle, plausible, and released just far enough from my hand that no one could trace it back to me.

With that, I leaned forward and penned the beginnings of the rumor: "Calder's incompetence nearly undermines alliance with elven delegation." It was enough truth to stoke suspicion, enough fiction to let it evolve on its own. I'd seen lesser rumors topple much stronger men.

I smirked as I envisioned the court's reaction, the whispers turning into a current that would slowly surround Calder. It would begin with a murmur in the shadows, perhaps a side glance or two from courtiers eager to see him stumble. Lucilla wouldn't need much encouragement to turn it into a full campaign. She'd take the rumor, embellish it in her own subtle ways, and spread it with that sly grin of hers. Her instincts would handle the rest.

And there was one final, personal twist I'd considered. The elven delegation—fiercely independent, impossibly poised—would add an element that no one in Solis Magna fully understood. Most of the court still viewed the elves as distant, barely human figures who operated under an entirely alien logic. That ignorance was an advantage, one I could wield by reminding them of the elves' detachment. If word spread that the elves found Calder… lacking in gravitas, it would fan the flames even faster.

The entire picture now began to take shape in my mind, each piece fitting neatly into place. The elves' quiet dignity, Lucilla's biting wit, Calder's insatiable need for praise—each of these would play a part in setting up the scene I needed.

The inspiration struck me like a lightning bolt—a flash so clear it left me momentarily dazed. The entire convoluted mess I'd been trying to untangle had suddenly presented itself as a straight line, a path of leverage and opportunity. One small twist, and I'd have Calder exactly where I wanted him. And as much as I wanted to share it, perhaps bask a bit in the sheer cleverness of it, I knew this idea needed to stay as close to the vest as possible. Not even Lucilla, though she'd play a part. She'd only know what I needed her to know—no more, no less.

It was a rather liberating thought, keeping the strategy entirely under wraps. Lucilla's unpredictable nature meant that, as long as her interests aligned with mine, she'd do her part flawlessly. But she didn't need to know every detail. Keeping secrets was often more powerful than sharing them.

With that decision settled, I looked over my worktable, scattered with a half-finished amulet and various tools of my craft, still as familiar to me as the back of my hand. I needed an amulet to catch Lucilla's interest, something with an allure as complex as the favor I'd ask of her. It couldn't be just any trinket; Lucilla Varinius was no fool, and only the rarest, most subtly enchanted amulet would make her open her ears to my next set of "requests."

I picked up a piece of raw obsidian, turning it slowly in my hands, feeling the smooth, cool weight. Obsidian was powerful, but it lacked a certain elegance that Lucilla favored. No, I'd need something more alluring—quartz, or perhaps even onyx, for its luster and the depth of color that spoke to her fascination with things of value. My fingers found a small piece of onyx on the table's edge, half-hidden under a parchment. Yes, this would do. A perfect piece to begin with.

I smiled, picturing her face when I presented it. Lucilla Varinius had expensive tastes, and her appreciation for the finer things was often more of a weakness than a strength. If this amulet whispered promises of influence, intrigue, and hidden power, she wouldn't be able to resist it. And, frankly, given the political chessboard we were playing on, I couldn't resist the satisfaction of adding a few extra moves she'd never see coming.

As I carefully channeled a low surge of magic into the stone, I considered what kind of enchantments I could layer into the amulet that would pique her curiosity. Nothing overtly powerful, of course—subtlety was key here. A light aura of persuasion, perhaps. Something that would give her a slight advantage in court, just enough to stoke her ego and make her feel indebted to me. And a touch of secrecy, so only the truly sharp-minded would detect the amulet's potential.

The crafting was slow, meticulous work, and I felt a familiar calm settle over me as I traced rune after rune onto the stone's polished surface, each mark imbued with careful intent. Layer by layer, I built a hidden message into the amulet, one that only Lucilla would understand if she looked closely enough. The craft itself was enough to take my mind off the simmering irritation I still felt about Calder's betrayal, but only just.

As the hours slipped by, I began to run through the details of my upcoming visit to Lucilla in my head. Tomorrow, I'd need to look every inch the composed professional—an expert rune weaver and trusted adviser to the powerful. I was no common hired hand, and Lucilla, of all people, would appreciate the touch of formality, the ritual of presentation. And in that formality, I could disguise my true intentions: to subtly enlist her in my plan against Calder without her realizing she'd been drawn into my scheme.

Finally, the amulet was ready. It lay gleaming on the workbench, catching the dim candlelight in facets that seemed to shift and shimmer with hidden depths. I held it up, examining my handiwork. It was perfect, really—a piece that could easily pass as nothing more than an attractive accessory but, to those who knew better, would hint at far more.

Tomorrow would be an exercise in subtlety, a delicate weaving of truth and fiction. I would need to seem genuine, mildly inconvenienced but mostly motivated by the need to resolve Lady Valeria's unfortunate predicament. Lucilla would want to hear about Calder's shortcomings—she thrived on such gossip. And with the right nudges, she'd start to see him as an even greater liability than she already did.

I closed my eyes for a moment, picturing the court's reaction as Lucilla planted seeds of doubt and discontent around Calder. My instincts told me that once the court saw him as a careless player who was too frivolous to manage alliances or reward those who deserved it, Calder's power would begin to crumble. Lucilla, meanwhile, would benefit—at least on the surface. She'd get to feel like she'd played a hand in bringing him down. But it would be I who reaped the true reward.

Setting the amulet down, I allowed myself a small grin, savoring the anticipation of the day to come. It was an elegant, simple plan with just enough complexity to make it unpredictable. Calder, with his lack of foresight, would never know what hit him. And Lucilla would go on believing she'd outwitted him, while I walked away with Valeria's freedom and the payment that had been unjustly withheld.

I left my workbench in its well-organized chaos, the tools and fragments a testament to the pieces of the plan now falling into place. Tomorrow, the real work would begin.