Chapter 3: The Tower (XVI) - III

Regis Von Castellan

Veylin is lying to me.

That insufferable bastard.

The chamber is quiet now, empty except for me. The air still carries the scent of burning wax and old parchment, but the presence of the council has long since faded. They have all left, one by one, without knowing the thoughts that coil like a viper in my mind.

Veylin claims he has no news of Callen. He delivers those words so smoothly, so effortlessly, as if he expects me to believe them. But I know better. He is too clever, too informed. He always has an answer, always has a plan. For him to claim ignorance? It is an insult.

I tap my fingers against the armrest of my chair, slow and deliberate. The sound echoes in the vast chamber, the only thing breaking the silence. I let my eyes linger on the polished table where Veylin sat just moments ago. He is scheming. He must be. And if he refuses to share his knowledge, then I will take it for myself.

I inhale deeply, steadying the anger simmering beneath my skin. I must not act recklessly. Not yet. I still need him-for now. There is still a war to win, still enemies at our gates. But when all this is over, when Valendria is nothing but dust and ash, I will not hesitate.

Veylin's days are numbered.

But first, I need to know what he is hiding.

I straighten, pushing myself up from the chair. The candlelight flickers, casting shifting shadows along the stone walls. My decision is made.

"Doran." My voice is quiet but firm.

The door creaks open almost immediately. He has been waiting just outside, always prepared, always listening.

Doran steps inside, his presence steady and unshaken. He does not speak right away, does not waste time with unnecessary words. That is why I trust him.

"My lord," he says simply.

I turn to him, clasping my hands behind my back. "I need you to follow Veylin."

Doran inclines his head, his expression unreadable. "For how long?"

"As long as necessary." I step toward the window, looking down at the city sprawled beneath the castle walls. Lanterns flicker in the streets, their glow barely holding back the darkness. Somewhere down there, Veylin moves, thinking himself unseen. He believes he controls the game.

He is wrong.

"I want to know where he goes, who he speaks to, and what he is planning," I continue, my tone even. "Watch him closely, but do not let him see you."

Doran does not hesitate. "And if I am discovered?"

I let a beat of silence pass between us. Then, without turning, I answer, "You know what to do."

A flicker of understanding crosses his face. He nods once. "Understood."

"Good." I exhale, feeling the weight of my decision settle over me. "Do not return until you have something worth telling."

Doran bows his head slightly, then slips from the room without another word. The door shuts behind him, and I am alone once more.

I press my fingers to my temples, forcing myself to think clearly. I cannot afford to lose focus. Veylin is only one piece of the puzzle. There is still another problem, one that gnaws at the back of my mind like a festering wound.

Callen.

Where in the abyss are you?

The war with Valendria rages on, its tides shifting with every passing day. Every man has a role to play, and Callen-he is missing. Disappeared without a trace.

If he were dead, I would know. There would be whispers, ripples of consequence in the undercurrents of war. But there is nothing. Only silence. And that is far more dangerous.

I grip the windowsill, my nails pressing into the cold stone. If Veylin knows something, I will drag the truth from him one way or another. But if he truly does not... then I must look elsewhere.

Callen, wherever you are, I will find you.

And when I do, everything will change.

***

The dining hall is bathed in warm candlelight, the soft glow reflecting off polished silverware and crystal goblets. A feast is laid before us-roast venison, golden-crusted bread, and a selection of fine wines, all carefully chosen to impress. The servants move silently, refilling goblets and ensuring not a single plate remains empty for long.

At the head of the table, Lady Seraphina Vael watches me with an amused smile. Regal as ever, she carries herself with the effortless grace of nobility, though her sharp eyes betray a mind far more calculating than the fools at court give her credit for.

"You are quiet tonight, Lord Regis," she remarks, lifting her goblet to her lips. "I can only assume you are lost in thought. A matter of war, perhaps?"

I offer a faint smirk, swirling the deep red wine in my own cup. "Is there any other matter worth pondering these days?"

She chuckles, setting her goblet down with a delicate touch. "If there were, you would be the last man to concern yourself with it. But tell me, is there any progress with Valendria? Or do their generals still think they can best you?"

"They think it, yes," I reply, taking a measured sip of my drink. "But thoughts do not win wars. Actions do."

"And whose actions will decide this war in the end?" Seraphina tilts her head slightly, her dark curls shifting over her shoulder. "Yours, or Veylin's?"

Ah. There it is.

I set my goblet down with a quiet clink. "Veylin is an invaluable mind," I say smoothly. "His strategies are unmatched, his cunning a weapon sharper than any blade. The enemy has learned that lesson well."

Seraphina hums in agreement, leaning forward slightly. "It is remarkable, truly. How he predicts their movements before they even make them. A man like that... well, it makes you wonder, does it not?"

I meet her gaze, my expression betraying nothing. "It makes you wonder what, my lady?"

She smiles coyly, as if she already knows the answer. "Where his true loyalties lie."

I allow a low chuckle to escape, feigning amusement. "Loyalties?" I shake my head, cutting into the venison on my plate. "Veylin's loyalty lies in victory. As long as he is useful, I care not where his interests truly reside."

Seraphina watches me for a moment, then sighs, settling back against her chair. "Spoken like a true warlord. Ever practical, ever ruthless."

"It is what is required of me."

"Of course." She lifts her goblet once more, a knowing glint in her eye. "But you have considered it, haven't you?"

I exhale through my nose, allowing my lips to curl into the faintest smirk. "I consider many things, Lady Seraphina."

The conversation drifts into other topics-discussions of trade routes, the state of the noble houses, minor disputes within the city-but my mind lingers elsewhere. Even as I engage in polite conversation, I turn her words over and over again.

Where do his true loyalties lie?

I have always assumed Veylin's schemes were aimed at me. A man like him always plots, always maneuvers. It is inevitable that he would turn his mind against those who hold power. And yet... what if I have been wrong?

What if his true target has never been me?

A chill runs through me, though I keep my expression composed.

Callen.

Damn it all.

Lady Seraphina does not notice my sudden realization-if she does, she does not show it. The rest of the dinner is uneventful, our conversation returning to the meaningless pleasantries of noble life. Eventually, she bids me farewell, departing with a graceful curtsy and a knowing smile.

As soon as she is gone, I waste no time.

I stride toward my study, my pace brisk but measured. The halls are dimly lit, the occasional flicker of torchlight casting shadows along the walls. The scent of aged parchment and ink greets me as I enter the chamber, the heavy wooden doors shutting behind me with a dull thud.

I move to my desk, leaning forward with my hands braced against its surface.

If Veylin is scheming, if his plans have nothing to do with me... then who else could he be maneuvering against?

Callen.

It makes sense.

A man as powerful as Veylin does not simply overlook a loose thread. If Callen's disappearance was an accident, he would have uncovered the truth by now. But if Callen was taken-if he was removed-then there is only one man with the intelligence and ambition to orchestrate it.

Veylin.

I grit my teeth, my fingers curling into fists against the desk.

He has been playing his game longer than I thought.

And now, I must decide how to play mine.

____________________________________________

Veylin Lorien

The underground chamber is dim, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across the rough stone walls. The air is thick with the scent of old parchment, damp stone, and burning wax. It is quiet, save for the steady drip of water somewhere in the tunnels beyond.

Callen sits across from me, arms crossed, his expression carefully unreadable. But his eyes-his eyes still burn with purpose. With the need for revenge.

How predictable.

He tilts his head slightly, studying me as though he's weighing his options. Then, finally, he speaks.

"With a name?"

I smirk, leaning forward. "Yes. With a name."

His gaze sharpens. He already understands, but he waits for me to explain it, to weave the words in a way that will make him believe this is his choice.

And I do.

"You cannot have revenge if you are seen, Callen." I keep my tone light, almost amused, but there is steel beneath it. "You were a hero once. If you step into the light, you will be caged by expectations-celebrated, yes, but watched. Controlled. The king will not harm you, the people will not let him. But they will bind you in another way."

I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in.

"But a dead man?" I continue. "A dead man is free."

His jaw tightens, his fingers drumming against the table. He knows I am right. If he is alive, if his return is known, he will never be allowed to move unnoticed. Every action will be questioned. Every step traced. His revenge will be hindered by the very kingdom that once hailed him as a hero.

But if he dies-if Callen dies-then his shadow can move freely.

Slowly, I lean back. "You need a new name. A new life. And I have just the one for you."

He exhales, his eyes still locked onto mine. "And what name do you have in mind?"

"Cedric."

He scoffs. "Cedric?" He raises a brow. "Cedric the mercenary?"

I nod, unbothered by his reaction. "A man with no past, no loyalties. A sellsword with nothing to lose. Someone who can walk into the heart of the revolution without suspicion. Someone who is not Callen."

His silence is telling. He is resisting, but only because it is difficult to let go. He is a man forged in battle, his name a legend. Abandoning it is not an easy thing.

But he must.

And he knows it.

"Cedric the mercenary," he repeats, his voice quieter this time.

I smile, though it does not reach my eyes. "Yes."

He tilts his head slightly. "And what do you gain from this, Veylin? Why go through all this effort to help me?"

A reasonable question. One that I expected.

I offer him an easy shrug. "Because I have no love for Regis, either. Because a dead man seeking vengeance is far more useful than a living one bound by duty." I pause, letting my words settle. "You need time to prepare. And I am simply offering you that time."

It is a lie, of course.

The truth is much simpler.

I do not help Callen because I want him to succeed. I help him because I must-because I cannot kill him. Not yet.

Too many eyes are watching. Too many people would ask questions. If Callen were to die by my hand now, I would be the first suspect.

But if he dies as Cedric?

Ah. That is a different story.

He exhales, his fingers tapping against the table. "...And if I refuse?"

I chuckle. "You won't."

He knows it, too.

Because there is no other path forward.

Callen cannot exist anymore. Not if he wants his revenge.

"Fine." He exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders back. "So what now?"

I stand, smoothing out my coat. "Now," I say, "we ensure that Callen is dead. And that Cedric is born."

The transformation is more than just a name. He must become someone else.

He moves like a soldier-too rigid, too disciplined. Cedric must be different. He must be unpredictable, rough around the edges.

"We will alter your appearance," I say as I begin to pace. "Change your stance. Your voice. The way you hold yourself. You are no longer a knight, no longer a hero." I glance at him. "You have fought under orders your entire life, Callen. Now you must learn to fight for yourself."

He runs a hand through his hair, considering my words. "And once I become this... Cedric?"

"You will join the revolutionary army."

His gaze snaps to me, wary. "Why?"

I smile. "Because that is where you will have the most freedom to move. You cannot exact revenge from the shadows forever. You need allies. Resources. The revolution provides both."

He does not like it. He is a soldier, not a rebel. But he knows it is the best path forward.

He exhales slowly. "...And if they find out who I am?"

I offer him a small, amused smile. "Then you will ensure they never do."

I watch him closely as he absorbs it all. The hesitation lingers, but it will not last.

He wants to believe this is his plan. That this is his decision.

But it is not.

It has never been.

I have already set the board. Already placed my pieces.

Callen thinks he is shaping his own fate, but in truth, I have already dictated every step.

And when the time comes-when he is buried deep in his new identity, when the world has forgotten the name Callen-I will strike.

Not yet.

Not now.

But soon.

And when that moment arrives, he will never see it coming.

I lean back, exhaling slowly.

"The plan is set."

A slow, knowing smile tugs at my lips.

"And I have already won."

____________________________________________

The Tower Arcana is one of the most feared and misunderstood cards in the Major Arcana. It represents a sudden and violent shift-an unavoidable collapse of established structures, forcing the subject into a moment of reckoning. Unlike gradual change, The Tower signifies an abrupt and catastrophic event that tears apart illusions, leaving only harsh truth in its wake.

The imagery of The Tower traditionally depicts a tall, imposing structure struck by a bolt of lightning, engulfed in flames as figures fall from its heights. The Tower itself represents false security-a fortress built on deception, arrogance, or unstable foundations. The lightning is the hand of fate, the raw force of reality striking down pretenses, forcing those involved to confront the truth, whether they are ready or not.

This is a card of destruction, but not without purpose. It heralds the fall of the old and the birth of something new, no matter how painful the process. Betrayal, loss, and ruin may be inescapable, but they serve as catalysts for transformation. Those who survive The Tower's fall are forever changed, stripped of illusions and left with nothing but the bare, unshakable truth.