The morning sun gilded the turrets of the Guild Hall's private annex, where Baron Helmut von Gallen—really Lumina in flawless disguise—received an unexpected visitor. Courtiers whispered in marbled corridors; outside, a gentle breeze stirred the copper banners emblazoned with Helmut's fresh crest.
Inside the oak-paneled chamber, the Marquis of Teravell bowed low before the baron's dais. His face was drawn, eyes darting as if each shadow concealed a threat. Two stern‐faced guards flanked him, silent as statues. Baron Helmut rose from his seat, offering the Marquis a gracious smile.
"Marquis Teravell," Lumina began, voice smooth as polished wood, "to what do I owe this honor?"
The Marquis swallowed. "Your Grace, a matter of utmost urgency. A band of thieves—rebels, if truth be told—has fled into your southern territories. They brand themselves revolutionaries, but they carry evidence of my misdeeds… evidence I cannot allow to reach the crown." He bowed again, voice low. "My son, Lord Caelan, aids their cause. He is now imprisoned in my keep. Publicly, I cannot acknowledge this betrayal. I request—no, implore—your assistance."
Helmut's expression was grave. "You need but speak, and my forces will dispatch. I shall also send some adventurers I'm close with, Hans von Eisenhart and Lady Shuna to secure your property." He gestured to a curtained alcove. "By midday, they shall depart under my banner."
As Lumina's cloak swirled with the motion, two figures slipped through the side door: Hans von Eisenhart and Shuna. As they knelt in formal deference, Hans caught a flicker of desperation in the Marquis's gaze.
Shuna spoke first, her tone soft yet firm. "Marquis Teravell, rest assured, no rebel will escape our vigilance."
Hans inclined his head. "We shall swiftly deal with this matter."
The Marquis stood, relief flooding his features. "Thank you, my baron. May the crown's light protect us all."
Once the Marquis departed with his solemn guards, Shuna's cool façade melted into a mischievous smile. She and Hans exchanged a knowing glance.
"In truth," Hans murmured as the chamber doors whispered closed, "I have other plans."
Shuna's eyebrows lifted. "So do I." She laid a hand on his arm. "We will free Lord Caelan from his prison—and see that these so-called revolutionaries win their cause."
A shared grin sealed their pact. With a final bow to Lumina's empty dais, they swept from the guild annex, cloaked once more in the anonymity of ordinary travelers.
Outside, a dark‐green carriage awaited, its wheels shrouded in rune‐carved runes of silence. Hans and Shuna settled within, their expressions composed. The driver, unaware of their hidden agenda, lurked on the box seat as the horses clicked into motion down the cobbled streets of E-Naeul.
As the city's spires receded behind them, Hans produced a rolled parchment from his cloak. "These maps are forged to draw us past the Marquis's patrols," he explained, tapping the rune-etched surface. "They'll lead us to the rebels' refuge—a collapsed chapel in the Hinterwood."
Shuna traced the route with a slender finger. "We'll supply provisions, then gain their trust. They hold no grand designs—only a kernel of resistance. We must give them purpose if they are to aid us in freeing Caelan."
A brief silence settled between them, punctuated by the clop of hooves. Then Shuna's voice broke the quiet. "Once Caelan is free, we'll escort him north. I will bind his memories so he believes he alone has orchestrated his escape."
Hans's lips curved. "And they will hail him as hero of their fledgling state."
Beyond politics and manipulation, neither spoke of the fleeting moment of pride Hans felt. They rode on, intent upon the rebels' hidden world.
Midafternoon light filtered through twisted boughs as the carriage deposited them at the foot of a moss-slick path. Crystal lanterns dimly glowed amidst ivy–clad stones. Shuna stepped from the carriage and tapped a rune on the ground; the marker vanished without a trace.
Ahead, the chapel rose in collapsed arches—once grand, now half swallowed by gnarled roots. Six figures lurked in the shadows: men and women clad in patched leather, eyes flickering with both hope and despair. Their leader, a broad‐shouldered man named Merian, approached with cautious strides.
Hans drew himself up, voice resonant. "We are here to aid you."
Merian's hand went to a worn sword hilt. "You're sent by the Marquis," he accused. "But we know the lies he spreads. We'll not be sold back into his prisons."
Shuna raised her hands in peace. "Not by force. We bring food, healing salves, and a promise: we will free Lord Caelan from the keep. He inspires your cause—grant him life, and your ranks grow stronger."
Their eyes narrowed. One rebel spat on the ground. "Too many false promises," she muttered.
Hans stepped forward. "Allow me to prove our sincerity." He dropped a leather satchel at Merian's feet and offered his gloved palm. "Mental Dominion demands trust and compassion. Let me read your thoughts if you so wish."
Merian hesitated, but desperation overcame suspicion. He bowed his head. Shuna closed her eyes, fingertips brushing his skull. A cascade of memories flooded her mind: late‐night councils in cellars, stolen parchments exposing the Marquis's bribes, and Caelan's unwavering hope.
Moments later, Shuna withdrew, eyes shimmering with truth. "You suffer for him," she said softly. "Your cause is just. Freeing Caelan will ignite true change."
Merian's shoulders sagged, relief and resolve warping his features. "If you deliver him, we swear our blades to you."
Hans inclined his head. "Then prepare. At moonrise, we move on the keep."
As twilight descended, Hans and Shuna oversaw the rebels' secret meeting. Fires danced in iron braziers, casting grim shadows on the crumbling walls. Hans distributed iron‐bound keys—lifted from sentry towers by Kroxar's agents—to the rebel captains. Shuna shared scrolls that mapped guard rotations, gleaned from her Mental Dominion readings of sentries.
Merian's voice rang clear above the crackle of embers. "Tomorrow at first light, we strike. Caelan rises with us to claim justice for Teravell."
Shuna inclined her head. "We ride at dawn. Remember, once the keep gates yield, your loyalty is to Caelan alone."
Hans turned to his wife, pride burning in his gaze. "All is in place. The Marquis's guards remain oblivious until the signals we plant at the eastern wall."
Shuna smiled. "Then let us rest before the storm."
As the rebels scattered into the shadowed wilds—each bound by oath and emboldened by new plans—Hans and Shuna retired to their private tent. Flickering lamplight played across their weary faces.
"Do you think Caelan will forgive his father?" Shuna whispered, settling into Hans's arm.
He paused, considering. "A son who leads a revolution has little time for forgiveness. Yet in the disguise we craft for him, he will bear the weight of both rebellion and mercy."
Shuna's smile was tender. "Then he will become the marquis the people deserve."
Beneath the shifting tapestry of stars, Hans paused outside their tent, surveying the flickering camps of rebels. He slipped a hood over his head and called forth a silent rune—one that would teleport stray trackers to the Eternal Dominion if they came too close.
In his mind's eye, he rehearsed the next day's sequence: a swift infiltration of the keep's guardhouse, Shuna's unlocking of Caelan's cell, the unceremonious "rescue," and the safe teleportation of the real Caelan to the Dominion's laboratories. There, under Zelefar's watchful eye, his memories would be extracted—fuel for the next puppet revolution.
Then, in his place, Miryss would step forth, a perfect echo of the true son, infused with every memory and motive. At dawn, the rebels would hail him as their liberator and crown him hero of Teravell.
Hans's lips curved. "Soon," he murmured to the moon. "Soon, this territory will bind itself to our will."
With that, he returned to Shuna's side, and together they stared into the night—two architects of destinies woven in shadow, preparing to strike at the heart of a kingdom's lineage, all in the name of a golden age yet unrealized.
Tomorrow's revolution would mark the first tremor in a continent unprepared for the power wielded by Velkharion's hidden hand. And as the flicker of rebellion danced across the keep's distant walls, the Eternal Dominion's web grew ever more complete.
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