The throne room glittered with false smiles and sharpened ambitions.
Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow light across marble floors, illuminating the gathered nobility of Velderra in all their finery.
Silks rustled as lords and ladies moved through the crowd, forming and breaking alliances with each careful word and measured glance.
Caelan stood near the entrance, leaning heavily on an ornate cane that Aldric had insisted he use to complete his image of weakness.
His clothing, while clean and properly formal, was noticeably simpler than the extravagant fashions around him—another calculated choice.
The fallen noble, clinging to the tatters of his dignity.
"Remember to tremble slightly when addressed by anyone important," Aldric murmured beside him.
"And don't stand too long in one place."
"I know my role," Caelan replied softly, his eyes constantly moving, cataloging faces and relationships.
"Three hours of sleep was hardly enough, but I won't falter."
Indeed, though exhaustion pulled at him from the previous night's exertions in Thane's mansion, his mind remained sharp.
Marcus Chen had operated in less rest in more dangerous situations.
The news of Cordus Thane's murder had spread through the capital by midday—a merchant found dead among his gold, a black feather on his chest, and a silver raven clutched in his hand.
The court buzzed with speculation, though none connected the sickly Lord Albrecht to the professional killing.
"Lord Vaeron has arrived," Aldric noted, nodding toward the main doors where House Fenn's contingent entered with practised grandeur.
"And he appears to be looking for you."
Caelan allowed himself a small smile.
"Then let's not disappoint him."
Moving with deliberate slowness, he made his way deeper into the throne room, stopping occasionally to catch his breath—all part of the performance.
Several nobles glanced his way, but most dismissed him as unimportant.
The fallen house of Albrecht held little interest for those enjoying the king's favour.
As he approached the centre of the room, whispers followed him.
"The Albrecht boy...still alive somehow..."
"...heard he can't even dress himself..."
"...bedridden for years..."
"...house will end with him..."
Perfect.
Exactly the reputation he wanted them to believe.
A herald announced the king's imminent arrival, and the crowd parted to form a respectful aisle from the throne to the great doors.
Caelan positioned himself carefully—visible, but not prominently so, exactly where a minor noble of diminished status should stand.
King Edmond IV entered with the measured steps of a man who had spent decades cultivating an image of strength despite advancing age.
His white beard was immaculately trimmed, his crown polished to blinding brilliance.
Behind him came his advisors, including Lord Baelen Kress, the Royal Treasurer, whose seal Caelan had found on the slave trading documents the night before.
Kress looked nothing like a man involved in human trafficking.
His face was kindly, almost grandfatherly, his smile gentle as he acknowledged the bowing nobles. Appearances were deceiving—a lesson Caelan understood better than most.
The formal proceedings began with the king's address welcoming his "loyal lords and ladies to this gathering of unity."
Caelan listened with half an ear, more focused on mapping the power dynamics in the room.
He noted who stood near the throne, who whispered together in corners, and which lords kept their hands near their weapons despite the peaceful occasion.
And, most importantly, he watched Lord Vaeron Fenn, resplendent in green and gold, his eyes occasionally drifting to Caelan with poorly disguised contempt.
When the king completed his speech and moved to mingle with his nobles, Caelan knew what would come next.
He had scripted this encounter in his mind, calculated every response, prepared for the public humiliation Lord Fenn would undoubtedly attempt.
He did not have to wait long.
"Well, well," came Vaeron's voice, loud enough to draw attention.
"The last Albrecht graces us with his presence. I had thought you too ill to leave your crumbling manor, boy."
Caelan turned slowly, allowing a slight tremor to enter his hands as he leaned more heavily on his cane.
"Lord Fenn," he replied, his voice deliberately soft, forcing Vaeron to step closer to hear him.
"I would never miss His Majesty's summons, regardless of my health."
"How admirable," Vaeron said, his voice dripping with mockery.
"And have you brought what you owe me? The tribute is long overdue."
A hush fell over the nearby nobles, attention drawn to the confrontation.
Exactly as Caelan had predicted. Vaeron was too proud, too confident, to resist publicly asserting his dominance over the fallen house.
"I fear recent bandit attacks on Albrecht villages have made it difficult to gather the full amount," Caelan replied, his eyes downcast in a picture of helplessness.
"I humbly request a short extension—"
"Extensions?" Vaeron laughed, cutting him off.
"Your father made the same excuses before his treason was discovered. Perhaps dishonesty runs in Albrecht's blood?"
The watching nobles shifted uncomfortably.
Even in court, there were lines of propriety.
Mentioning Lord Magnus's alleged treason to his son's face crossed one of them.
"My father was never proven guilty," Caelan said quietly.
"He died awaiting a trial that never came."
"Because his guilt was beyond question," Vaeron replied dismissively.
He turned to the gathering crowd.
"My lords and ladies, witness the last gasp of House Albrecht—a sickly boy who cannot honour his debts, just as his father could not honour his oaths to the crown."
Several nobles laughed, eager to align themselves with House Fenn's rising power.
Others looked uncomfortable but remained silent.
"Lord Vaeron," Caelan said, allowing his voice to crack slightly.
"I have sold family heirlooms to raise part of the tribute. If you would grant me a small—"
"I've granted enough," Vaeron interrupted again.
"Three hundred gold sovereigns was the agreed amount. If you cannot pay, then perhaps it's time the crown reassigned the remaining Albrecht lands to more... capable hands."
The trap was set.
Now Caelan would spring it.
"I see."
He straightened slightly, as if gathering the last of his dignity.
"Then I must appeal directly to His Majesty's mercy."
Vaeron's smile faltered.
He hadn't expected this.
"The king has more important matters than your petty debts."
"Yet the king's justice extends to all his subjects, does it not?"
Caelan turned toward the throne, where King Aldric was now watching the exchange with interest.
"Your Majesty, I beg a moment of your time."
A murmur ran through the crowd.
This was unprecedented—a minor noble directly addressing the king during a social gathering.
But Caelan had calculated this risk carefully.
The king, wanting to appear magnanimous before his court, would at least listen.
"Approach, Lord Albrecht," King Edmond said after a moment's consideration.
Caelan made his way slowly toward the throne, each step a visible struggle.
Behind him, he could feel Vaeron's furious gaze.
Aldric remained by the wall, watching with carefully concealed pride.
"Your Majesty," Caelan said, bowing as deeply as his "frail body" would allow.
"I apologise for this impropriety, but I find myself in desperate circumstances.
Lord Fenn demands payment of three hundred gold sovereigns as tribute for lands once belonging to House Albrecht."
"Lands forfeit due to your father's crimes," Vaeron interjected, having followed Caelan to the throne.
The king raised a hand for silence.
"Continue, Lord Albrecht."
"My household resources are depleted, Your Majesty. Bandits attack the few villages still under Albrecht's protection.
I have no soldiers to defend them.
I've sold family treasures to raise what I could, but I require a short grace period to gather the full amount."
"How much have you raised?" the king asked.
"One hundred and twenty sovereigns, Your Majesty."
"Less than half," Vaeron scoffed.
"Typical Albrecht promises."
Caelan swayed slightly, as if the effort of standing before the throne was overwhelming him.
A calculated movement that drew sympathetic glances from several courtiers.
"How long would you need to gather the remainder?" the king asked.
"Three months, Your Majesty," Caelan replied.
"By then, the harvest will be in, and my tenant farmers can—"
"Three months!" Vaeron interrupted again.
"The boy mocks your generosity, Your Majesty. House Fenn has waited long enough for what is rightfully ours."
The king's eyes narrowed at Vaeron's tone.
"You presume to tell me what is generous, Lord Fenn?"
A hush fell over the throne room. Vaeron realised his mistake too late.
"Of course not, Your Majesty," he backpedalled quickly.
"I merely meant—"
"I know what you meant."
The king turned back to Caelan.
"Lord Albrecht, I grant you two months to pay the remainder of your debt to House Fenn. During this time, Lord Vaeron will refrain from making further demands."
"But Your Majesty—" Vaeron began.
"That is my decision," the king said firmly.
"And while you are both here, I expect there to be no further incidents between your houses.
This conclave is meant to promote unity among the nobility, not further discord."
"Thank you, Your Majesty," Caelan said, bowing again.
"House Albrecht remains loyal, as always."
As he turned away from the throne, Caelan allowed a brief moment of eye contact with Lord Vaeron—just long enough to see the fury building behind the nobleman's polite mask.
The trap had worked perfectly.
By pushing Caelan publicly, Vaeron had overplayed his hand, appearing petty before the king and court.
"You'll regret this interference," Vaeron hissed as they moved away from the throne.
"Your grace period won't save you."
"Perhaps not," Caelan replied mildly.
"But it gives me something you lack, Lord Fenn."
"And what might that be?"
"Time," Caelan answered simply, before merging into the crowd of courtiers.
For the next hour, Caelan circulated carefully through the gathering, maintaining his facade of weakness while listening to court gossip.
No one mentioned Cordus Thane to his face, though he caught snippets of conversation about the merchant's murder.
Most speculated it was the work of a professional assassin, possibly hired by a business rival. Some whispered about the silver raven found clutched in the dead man's hand—a detail that had not been in the memory crystal's instructions.
"A clever touch, my lord," Aldric murmured when they briefly converged near a refreshment table. "Though perhaps risky."
"Calculated risk," Caelan replied.
"It creates a ghost story—the Raven's vengeance reaching even the capital."
"Some are already connecting it to the 'Raven's Ghost' tales from the villages."
"Let them. Stories spread fear more effectively than actions alone."
As the evening progressed, Caelan noticed a young woman watching him from across the room.
Unlike most of the court, her gaze held neither pity nor contempt, but something closer to analytical interest.
She was perhaps twenty, with auburn hair arranged in an elegant style that marked her as nobility without being ostentatious.
Her gown, in muted blue and silver, similarly suggested wealth without ostentation.
"Who is that?" Caelan asked Aldric discreetly.
"Lady Elara of House Thorne," the servant replied.
"Their lands border Fenn's eastern estates. There has been... friction between the houses recently."
"Interesting."
Caelan filed this information away.
"The enemy of my enemy..."
"...may still be an enemy," Aldric cautioned.
"House Thorne has a reputation for playing both sides of conflicts."
The evening began winding down as the older nobles departed and the remaining courtiers broke into smaller groups.
Caelan, having maintained his performance of frailty for hours, was genuinely tired when Lady Elara finally approached him.
"Lord Albrecht," she said, her voice pleasantly modulated.
"I hope I find you well despite your long journey to the capital."
"As well as can be expected, Lady Thorne," he replied, offering a small bow.
"Though I fear court functions drain what little strength I possess."
"Then perhaps we should speak somewhere you might sit comfortably?" she suggested.
"The gardens are quieter at this hour."
Caelan hesitated, then nodded.
"That would be most appreciated."
The royal gardens were indeed quieter, with only a few courtiers strolling the lantern-lit paths.
Elara led Caelan to a secluded bench where they could speak without being overheard.
"Your confrontation with Lord Fenn was masterfully handled," she said without preamble.
"Few have made him appear the villain before the king."
Caelan maintained his weak facade.
"I merely spoke the truth of my circumstances, my lady."
"Did you?"
Her eyes, shrewd and perceptive, studied him carefully.
"House Thorne remembers when Albrecht stood tall. We also remember who cut you down."
"You speak dangerously," Caelan observed.
"These are dangerous times."
Elara adjusted her gloves—a casual gesture that nonetheless allowed her to survey their surroundings for eavesdroppers.
"House Fenn's ambitions extend beyond the Albrecht lands. They press against our borders as well."
"And what does this have to do with me, my lady?"
"House Thorne remembers its friends, Lord Albrecht. And its enemies."
She smiled slightly.
"We may be able to help each other."
"I have little to offer in an alliance," Caelan replied carefully.
"As you've seen, my house is diminished."
"Perhaps."
Elara leaned slightly closer.
"Or perhaps the Raven is not as grounded as it appears."
Caelan kept his expression neutral, though his mind raced.
Did she know something?
Or was this merely a fishing expedition?
"House Albrecht endures," he said, neither confirming nor denying her implication.
"Though our wings are indeed clipped."
"Wings can heal, my lord. Especially with the right allies."
She rose gracefully.
"Think on it. We will speak again before the conclave ends."
As she walked away, Caelan allowed himself a small, genuine smile.
The day had gone better than expected.
Lord Vaeron had been publicly checked, if only temporarily.
The king had granted a reprieve. And now, it seemed, a potential ally had emerged.
The weakest in the room may be the most dangerous, he thought, recalling an old lesson from Marcus Chen's training.
Everyone watches the strong wolf but forgets the viper at their feet.
And the Raven's Ghost had just found its first potential ally in the nest of vipers that was the royal court.