The rest of the day was a study in detached coldness. I attended my classes, I took notes, I even nodded to a few nobles in the hall. My body performed the mundane routines of an academy student, but my mind was far away, in a dark, cold workshop, polishing a weapon of psychological terror. The "Aiden" part of me was screaming, locked in a soundproof room, while the "Lucian" construct—the one I had built for survival—piloted my body with chilling efficiency.
That evening, I did not wait for a summons. I was now a proactive asset, an architect. I went to Damien's door and knocked, my hand steady.
He opened it, dressed in a simple, dark tunic, his black hair slightly mussed as if he had been reading. He raised an eyebrow at my unscheduled appearance. "Lucian. You seem... purposeful."
"I have a plan," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion.
He stared at me for a long, silent moment, his golden eyes searching my face. Then, he stepped aside and gestured me in, a faint, intrigued smile playing on his lips. "By all means. Impress me."
I stood in the center of his cold, orderly room, a place that was rapidly becoming my own personal confessional, and I laid out the blueprint for my damnation.
"The target is Mara Stonecroft," I began, my voice as clinical as a healer reciting a diagnosis. "I've analyzed her. Her primary trait is a defensive loyalty, a 'shield' mentality. A direct attack, verbal or magical, will be a mistake."
"Oh?" Damien leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "And why is that?"
"Because it's what she's built for," I explained. "Attacking her directly only validates her worldview. It reinforces her role as 'the defender.' She will weather the storm, and her bond with Aris will be strengthened by the shared adversity. It's an amateur's move. It's a crude bludgeon, and we are not crude."
I let the compliment, the royal "we," hang in the air. I could feel his approval, a cold, dry satisfaction.
"So," he prompted, "if not a bludgeon, then what?"
"A wedge," I said. "You don't break a rock from the outside; you find an internal fracture and apply pressure. Her loyalty is not a single point of failure. It's divided."
I then laid out the details of my research: "She has a younger brother. Kael Stonecroft. Fifteen years old. He lives alone in the capital's Lower Trades District, apprenticed to a smithy called The Iron Hand."
Damien's smile vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, focused, and predatory interest. He leaned forward, his elbows on his desk. He was no longer a schoolyard bully; he was a general listening to a spy's report.
"The Lower District is not the academy," I continued. "It's unprotected. Vulnerable. She is his only family besides a distant aunt. Her 'shield' mentality is not just for Aris; it's for this boy."
"And your plan?" he whispered, his eyes gleaming.
"We don't touch her. We don't touch Aris. We don't even touch the boy. We simply... make her think he is in danger. A well-placed, anonymous rumor. A 'friendly warning' slipped under her door, perhaps. Something vague but threatening. 'Your brother's shop has crossed the wrong people.' 'Kael Stonecroft should watch his back.'
"The effect," I concluded, "will be catastrophic. Her focus will shatter. She'll be torn between her commitment to Aris and her terror for her brother. Her 'rock-like' stability will become a frantic, paranoid mess. She will be of no use to anyone, least of all herself. It is a clean, psychological victory with zero risk of exposure."
I finished. The room was deathly quiet. I had presented my plan not as a cruel act, but as a masterpiece of strategic sabotage.
Damien stared at me, his expression unreadable. I felt a single, cold bead of sweat trace a path down my spine. Had I miscalculated? Had I overstepped?
Then, slowly, he began to clap.
It was not a loud, boisterous applause. It was a slow, deliberate, and deeply unsettling sound. Clap. Clap. Clap.
"Elegant," he finally breathed, a look of genuine, profound admiration on his face. "Truly, viciously elegant, Lucian. You've uncovered a lever on the other side of the world and devised a way to pull it without ever leaving this island. You are not a scalpel. You are a poisoner, and I mean that as the highest of compliments."
I bowed my head slightly, my heart a leaden weight. "Thank you, Damien."
"The plan is perfect," he said, rising from his chair and beginning to pace. "Perfect, except for one small flaw."
My blood ran cold. "Flaw?"
"It's based on a lie," he said, tapping his chin. "Rumors can be investigated. She might send a letter, her brother might write back that all is well, and the pressure vanishes. A lie is a temporary tool. A truth, however... a truth is a permanent one."
I didn't understand. "What do you mean?"
Damien turned to me, his smile a rictus of pure, inspired malice. "I mean, why settle for a rumor of a threat," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush, "when we can so easily create a real one?"
My breath hitched. "Damien..."
"You've forgotten," he said, "I have resources in the capital. Lady Vesper and the Syndicate are not just for acquiring artifacts. They are also for... sending messages. I can have a word with the local guild boss in the Lower District. Have a few of his men pay 'The Iron Hand Smithy' a little visit. Nothing violent, of course. Just enough to... convince the boy and his master that they are in real, physical danger."
He was looking at me, but his eyes were distant, seeing his plan unfold. "Imagine her panic then, Lucian. Imagine her receiving a genuinely terrified letter from her little brother, begging for help, for money she doesn't have. Imagine her helplessness. That is a crack that will shatter the entire mountain."
I stood there, frozen in a rictus of horror. My "clean" plan, my "bloodless" psychological operation, had just been hijacked and turned into a real, tangible, and monstrous act of criminal extortion against an innocent 15-year-old boy. I had built a perfectly designed trap, and Damien had just replaced the rubber-tipped arrow with a poisoned, steel-tipped bolt.
"That..." I swallowed, my throat dry. "That is a... thorough modification."
"It's a necessary one," Damien said, waving his hand dismissively. "Leave it to me. I will make the arrangements. Your part in this is done. You, my brilliant architect, can simply sit back and watch the beautiful collapse."
He dismissed me. I walked out of his room, my legs unsteady. I had given him the blueprint. He had approved it, and in doing so, had made my crime a thousand times worse. The blood of Thomas's broken spirit was already on my hands. Now, the terror of a 15-year-old boy I had never even met would be on my conscience, too. And I had no one to blame but myself.