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Chapter 9 - Chapter 9: Whispers of the Loom

Torvin's streak of "good fortune" became the talk of Dravograd's merchant district. His acquisition of rare fulgurite had indeed turned a significant profit, allowing him to outmaneuver several established rivals. Merchants, ever pragmatic, began to watch him with a mixture of envy and newfound respect. Aizen observed this ripple effect from his quiet perch in the Scriptorium. It was a satisfactory outcome. Torvin, a simple cog, was now turning with more vigor, creating opportunities for further leverage.

Alaric subtly expanded his range. When merchants sought Torvin's advice, they often found themselves subtly inclined to trust his seemingly insightful suggestions, unaware that the quiet boy often nearby had carefully guided their thoughts. Deals that seemed risky suddenly felt like sure bets, and rivalries were inexplicably softened by a moment of unexpected camaraderie. Aizen was weaving a more intricate web, using Torvin as the central strand to connect other, smaller threads.

His intellectual pursuit in the Scriptorium continued with relentless precision. He discovered more fragmented texts hinting at the Conjunction of Spheres – not just the immediate aftermath, but the nature of the veil between worlds. He began to form a nascent theory: if beings from other dimensions could cross, then perhaps the very fabric of reality here was more pliable than its inhabitants understood. This tied into his ultimate goal of transcendence.

His focus also shifted to more contemporary, yet obscure, records. He found detailed reports of the Northern Kingdoms' internal strifes, their ancient treaties, and the subtle, often bitter, rivalries between their monarchs. He cross-referenced these with whispered rumors that occasionally reached Dravograd – murmurs of Nilfgaard's growing military might, of border skirmishes, and the increasingly desperate plight of refugees. The grand chessboard was not static; it was already in motion. His task was to ensure it moved in his chosen direction.

One afternoon, while Elgan was engrossed in transcribing an old prophecy, Alaric decided to test his Kyōka Suigetsu more directly. A minor city official, a portly man named Master Borus, entered the Scriptorium, demanding immediate access to a restricted section containing sensitive military maps. Borus was known for his stubbornness and his short temper.

"Out of the way, boy!" Borus snapped at Alaric, who stood seemingly examining a shelf near the restricted archives.

Alaric merely met his gaze. He projected an aura of absolute conviction, a silent suggestion of unquestionable authority that transcended the boy's frail form. He wasn't telling Borus anything; he was making Borus feel as though he had already been granted permission, that his demand was entirely reasonable and expected. He added a subtle layer of misdirection, making Borus briefly forget why he had initially been denied access to this section.

Borus paused, frowned, then his bluster seemed to deflate. "Ah, yes, of course," he muttered, as if recalling a forgotten agreement. He simply walked past Alaric and, with an almost imperceptible tremor of uncertainty, opened the restricted door himself.

Elgan, startled by the sound, looked up. "Master Borus! That section is--"

Borus merely waved a dismissive hand. "Already handled, Elgan. Just retrieving some old plans. Nothing for you to fret about." He vanished into the archives.

Elgan stared after him, a bewildered look on his face. He felt a vague sense of confusion, as if a piece of memory had simply... shifted. He looked at Alaric, who was now calmly turning the page of an old bestiary, his expression serene. Elgan sighed, attributing his momentary lapse to old age.

Aizen, however, felt a cold satisfaction. Excellent. The level of influence was growing. Not just individual perception, but the manipulation of memory, of conviction itself. He had effectively created a bypass. The archives, previously inaccessible, were now open to him.

Dravograd was proving to be a fertile ground. The small, seemingly isolated events he orchestrated here were merely practice. The true game, the grand, intricate design that would reshape the entire Continent, was drawing ever closer. He had the knowledge, and his tools were sharpening.

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