The Dirrium kingdom act 11
The carriage waited at the edge of the palace gardens, its black lacquer reflecting the dying light of the gala. The distant swell of the orchestra was fading, replaced by the rhythmic chirping of crickets and the crunch of gravel.
"You move with such purpose for someone who claims to be a mere student, Leornars."
The voice was like silk stretched over a blade. Leornars stopped, his hand on the carriage door. He didn't turn around immediately. Behind him stood Crown Prince Lumiya, the kingdom's golden prodigy. Lumiya's white-and-gold regalia shone under the moonlight, his posture radiating the effortless arrogance of a man who believed he owned the chessboard.
"Your Highness," Leornars said, turning slowly. His expression was a void of polite indifference. "I wasn't aware the Royal Family took such an interest in the departure of their guests."
Lumiya stepped forward, the shadows of the weeping willows dancing across his face. "I took an interest the moment I realized you weren't just auditing books. The 'Divine Tonic,' the secret shipments to the northern provinces, the private meetings with Count Vane... You aren't fixing this kingdom, Leornars. You're dismantling it to see how the pieces fit in your palm."
The air between them grew heavy, a sudden pressure that would have made a lesser man choke. This wasn't a conversation; it was a collision of two superior intellects.
"A bold claim," Leornars replied, his thumb grazing the clip of his silver pen. "But a claim without evidence is merely... poetry."
Lumiya smiled, a thin, dangerous line. "The evidence is in the patterns, as you so often say. The discrepancy in the grain weights, the sudden 'recoveries' of seized ships. I don't need a signed confession to know I'm looking at a wolf in a student's coat. I will expose you, Leornars. I will watch the King—my father—strip the skin from your back."
Leornars let out a short, quiet laugh—a sound devoid of humor. "Then I look forward to the trial, Highness. But do be careful. In the dark, even a Crown Prince can lose his way."
The Strategy of Erasure
An hour later, the "Lady in Pink" and the "Boy in Black" were back in the cold, industrial silence of the warehouse. The gown and the tuxedo were discarded, replaced by their functional dark tunics.
Stacian sat on a crate, sharpening a combat knife with a whetstone. Screee. Screee. Screee. The sound was the only music in the room.
"Lumiya is a variable we didn't account for," Stacian said, her eyes like chips of frozen sea. "He's not like Vane. He doesn't want gold. He wants the throne, and he sees you as a stain on his inheritance."
"He's clever," Leornars admitted, pacing the length of the warehouse. He was staring at a chalkboard covered in names, arrows, and chemical formulas. "He recognized the pattern because he thinks like I do. He's not looking at the crimes; he's looking at the intent."
"He said he would expose us," Stacian noted. "A direct threat is an invitation to a strike. How do we remove him without making him a martyr?"
Leornars stopped pacing. He looked at a small vial of the refined Pollium—the batch with the extra ounce of Nightshade.
"If Lumiya dies by an assassin's blade, the King burns the city to find the killer. If he dies of a 'heart defect' caused by the tonic, it's a tragedy," Leornars mused. "But Lumiya is too smart to drink a gift from me."
"Then we don't give it to him," Stacian said, the knife's edge gleaming. "We give it to someone he loves. We force his hand."
"No," Leornars countered, his crimson eyes flashing. "That's too emotional. Too messy. Lumiya's strength is his logic. We must use that logic against him. We need to create a scenario where the only 'logical' way for him to save the kingdom is to commit a crime so heinous that his own evidence against me becomes his death warrant."
He began to write on the board, the chalk screeching.
"We don't get rid of the Prince, Stacian. We make the Prince get rid of the Crown. We'll leak the 'Divine Tonic' through the Ducal Houses. When Lumiya tries to intercept it to prove my guilt, he'll find himself holding the very poison that kills his father. He won't be the whistleblower; he'll be the regicide."
Stacian stopped sharpening. A grim, appreciative shadow of a smile touched her lips. "An IQ test he's destined to fail. Because he believes in justice, and we believe in results."
Leornars clicked his pen, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the empty warehouse. "Exactly. Let's see how he likes the pattern I've drawn for him."