The royal palace of Ilvandor, grand and magnificent, was more than a center of power—it was an arena of gazes, whispers, and invisible traps. Kaelian knew this all too well. He had awoken in a body too young, in a life too fragile, but with the sharpened mind of a seasoned strategist. And that morning, as the golden sun poured over the marble columns of the eastern wing, he began the next phase of his survival: intelligence gathering.
From the outside, the palace gardens seemed serene—birds chirping, leaves fluttering—but Kaelian had already learned that appearances lied in Ilvandor. The walls listened. The flowers sometimes hid surveillance glyphs. Even the decorative statues were rumored to conceal magical sensors or enchanted eyes.
Feigning aimless curiosity, Kaelian strolled through the pathways, an old book open in his hand: "On the Balance of Power in the Vaelon Empire." But his eyes weren't on the page. He observed. Every guard's uniform, every routine, every nervous glance was a note in his mental ledger.
Two guards in particular caught his attention. One constantly touched something at his left hip—not his sword, but a small amulet glinting with faint magical energy. A communication charm, perhaps. The other, stationed near the junction between the west wing and the royal quarters, kept casting subtle glances toward Queen Virella's windows.
Queen Virella. She hadn't made a direct move against him since the enchanted mirror incident, but Kaelian wasn't fooled. She was watching. Calculating. Waiting.
He would outmaneuver her.
That evening, Kaelian slipped into the palace kitchens—one of the most chaotic, talkative places in the entire compound. Over the past week, he had become something of a shadow there: helpful, humble, quiet. Tonight, he decided to speak.
"Tante Yorra," he asked the broad-shouldered head cook as she kneaded dough, "who decides which meals go to which members of the royal family?"
Yorra paused, frowning, flour on her face. "Why d'you ask that, little prince?"
"Just curious," he replied with feigned innocence. "My bread tasted bitter yesterday."
She grunted, wiping her hands. Though she hadn't known him long, she had come to hold a cautious respect for the sharp-eyed boy. Leaning in, she muttered, "That'd be Dame Velmara. One of the Queen's handmaidens. Always overseeing things, even when there's no need. That bread? Came from her."
Kaelian nodded slowly. A name. A thread. He thanked Yorra with a smile and returned to his chambers.
That night, by the light of a flickering candle, he retrieved a worn-out piece of enchanted parchment—something the former occupant of his body had stashed away. He inked several lines:
Objective: Build an Internal Observation Network
Identify the Queen's agentsLocate magical surveillance pointsEstablish a secure communication loopConvert at least one spy into a double agent
He stayed up late, watching from his window as a hooded figure crept through the north corridor. The figure paused, placed a small stone at the base of a column, then disappeared into the shadows.
A signal? A beacon? He needed to investigate.
The next morning, under the pretense of study, Kaelian entered the royal library. He maneuvered past the old mage-librarian and quietly slipped into a restricted section. A thin wall, magically warded, blocked his path. He whispered a rune phrase onto a blank scroll, infused it with a thread of mana, and passed through the barrier like a phantom.
Inside, dust and silence reigned. He pulled out an ancient volume: Glyphological Applications in Political Espionage. Among the diagrams, he spotted one that matched the stone from the corridor—an auditory beacon. Range: twenty paces. Activation: by coded rune.
He returned to the north corridor at dawn. The stone was still there. Whispering the runic phrase, he felt a sudden warmth, a buzz of energy—and then a voice.
"…the bastard's more cautious than expected. The Queen says to wait."
It was a communication channel. Kaelian deactivated it quickly, swapped the stone with a replica, and disabled the glyph.
He smiled. First piece of the game—captured.
Over the next week, he located three more beacons. One hidden in the evening lecture hall. Another near the servants' stairwell. A third at the entrance to the royal baths. Each time, he documented, neutralized, or replaced the glyphs. In his quarters, he created a small enchanted lockbox where he kept the originals. He studied them, modified them, even experimented with their configurations.
Simultaneously, he began building human assets.
Two young servants, Fral and Minna, drew his attention. Fral was inquisitive and talkative; Minna, shy but perceptive. Kaelian offered to teach them to read—on the condition they report any unusual behavior around the royal apartments.
Minna soon proved invaluable.
"I saw her, Master Kaelian," she whispered one evening. "Dame Velmara. She met with a messenger in the Hall of Mirrors. He gave her a list. She smiled—then burned it."
No coincidence. Nothing in Ilvandor was.
One night, Kaelian tailed Dame Velmara. She was careful, far more than he expected—but so was he. His past life had been a continuous campaign of backstabbing politics and wartime deception. When she approached a forgotten door at the end of an unused hallway, he was already hidden behind a dusty tapestry.
A hooded figure emerged from the door. The exchange was brief: an object, a purse, a whispered word.
"…the bastard enters the Academy in two weeks. Accelerate the plan."
Kaelian noted everything. The final detail caught his breath—a black raven on a silver ring. Not a royal sigil.
An external faction?
He barely slept that night. Instead, he drew a new plan, marked with unfamiliar heraldry. If the Queen was dealing with outside agents, the game had entered new territory.
And Kaelian loved complicated games.
The final day of the week, he summoned Fral and Minna to the now-empty kitchens. He handed them each a bracelet of smooth black beads—his own design.
"These will let us communicate discreetly," he explained. "If you feel it warm, find a mirror, whisper my name. I'll hear you."
They hesitated. Fral looked uncertain. Minna clutched the bracelet tight.
"I'll keep you safe," Kaelian said softly. "But you must prove useful to someone stronger than you. I am your best chance."
It wasn't a lie.
That night, as the curfew bells tolled, Kaelian stood at his window. In his hand, one of the intercepted listening stones pulsed faintly. Before him, a parchment map of the palace bore red dots—each one a surveillance point he had turned against its master.
He was no longer merely prey.
He had become a silent predator.
And the hunt—barely begun—promised to be bloody.
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