The first sign was not a person.
It was a fluctuation.
Kezzes noticed it while seated alone in the northern library annex, a place so underused that even the mana-lamps seemed uncertain of their purpose.
The shelves here were older than most noble houses, their spines cracked, their titles long out of fashion—records of taxation reforms, transit laws, and obsolete mana tariffs no one bothered to read anymore.
Kezzes read them anyway.
Not because they were important.
But because patterns hid best in boredom.
He had been tracing marginal annotations left by a clerk two decades dead when the mana-lamp above his table flickered—not dimmed, but recalibrated.
The artifact adjusted its resonance as if responding to a foreign frequency passing through the palace lattice.
Kezzes's pen stopped.
That adjustment wasn't random.
Broadcast artifacts, speaker arrays, illumination crystals—every basic device in the palace was synced to a shared mana rhythm. When something heavy moved through that rhythm, the system compensated.
Someone important had arrived.
Kezzes closed the ledger slowly.
He did not move at once. Instead, he reached inward—carefully, sparingly—and brushed the faint edge of pure mana that answered only when he was deliberate.
The illusion it formed was thin.
Fragile. No shape, no image.
Only awareness.
For a heartbeat, his perception extended beyond the room—not far, not clearly, but enough to feel the disturbance. A dense mana signature moved through the western transit corridor, escorted, contained, deliberately muted.
Old mana.
Disciplined.
Expensive.
Kezzes exhaled through his nose.
"A duke," he murmured.
Confirmation came later, as confirmation always did: indirectly.
Varien arrived just before dusk, his steps unhurried, his expression carefully neutral. He closed the annex door behind him and leaned against it, arms folded—not in relaxation, but containment.
"You were right," Varien said.
Kezzes didn't look up from the parchment he was now pretending to read.
"About?"
"The guest."
Kezzes turned the page. "Which one?"
Varien clicked his tongue quietly. "You're insufferable."
"And you're late."
"A few hours," Varien admitted. "The Duke of Elyrth arrived under merchant classification. No heraldry. No declaration."
Kezzes finally set the parchment aside.
"Northern tower," he said.
Varien paused. "Yes."
"Three nights."
"Yes."
"Rotated escort?"
"Twice."
Kezzes smiled faintly.
"Good," he said. "He's nervous."
Varien approached the table and set down a thin folder. Inside were copied transit manifests, guard rotation schedules, and a single expense authorization stamped with an internal treasury seal.
Private accommodation.
Northern tower.
Three nights.
"He didn't request an audience," Varien said.
"No," Kezzes agreed. "He's waiting to see if I'll allow one."
Varien studied him. "You're certain he's here for you?"
Kezzes folded his hands together.
"Elyrth has falsified tax yields since the Second Adjustment Reform," he said calmly. "He hides behind mana depreciation clauses meant for border provinces. It's clever. Legal-looking. And unsustainable."
Varien frowned. "Only internal auditors—"
"—and me," Kezzes finished. "As of two months ago."
"You never said—"
"I never needed to," Kezzes replied.
"Information is only valuable once someone else realizes you have it."
Varien was quiet for a long moment.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
Kezzes leaned back in his chair.
"I want him to come here," he said. "Thinking he still has choices."
The Duke of Elyrth requested the meeting less than an hour later.
He arrived without ceremony, without insignia, without the weight of his title visible in anything but posture. His coat was dark, finely tailored, threaded with mana-reactive fibers subtle enough to escape casual notice.
His face was lined, his eyes sharp, his presence heavy with the authority of someone long accustomed to rooms
bending around him.
Kezzes did not rise.
The Duke noticed.
"Prince Kezzes," Elyrth said evenly. "I appreciate your discretion."
"I appreciate your punctuality," Kezzes replied. "Sit."
The Duke hesitated—just enough to register—then obeyed.
They faced one another across the desk.
"You know why I'm here," Elyrth said.
"I know why you think you're here," Kezzes corrected.
Elyrth's eyes narrowed.
"You believe you have leverage."
"I have context," Kezzes replied. "Leverage is what you brought with you."
Silence stretched.
"You're young," Elyrth said at last. "Too young to be threatening dukes."
Kezzes smiled faintly. "Then this should be easy for you."
Elyrth leaned forward. "Expose me, and you destabilize half the eastern grain network."
"I know," Kezzes said. "That's why I won't."
The Duke paused.
"Then what do you want?"
Kezzes didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached out and touched a dormant speaker artifact on his desk. The device did not activate—but Elyrth felt it.
A brush against his senses.
Awareness.
Kezzes withdrew his hand.
"I want access," he said. "To the Masked Noble Meeting."
The Duke laughed.
Not mockingly.
In disbelief.
"That's impossible."
Kezzes waited.
"That meeting decides policy before policy exists," Elyrth continued. "You have no rank. No land. No authority. Even some dukes are excluded."
"I know," Kezzes said again.
"You're asking me to destroy my standing."
"No," Kezzes replied calmly. "I'm asking you to sponsor relevance."
Elyrth stood abruptly. "This conversation is over."
Kezzes did not stop him.
"Your eastern shipments were rerouted last winter," he said mildly. "Not due to weather. Due to a falsified yield report submitted under your seal."
Elyrth froze.
"I didn't submit that report."
"No," Kezzes agreed. "Your steward did. Without your knowledge."
The Duke turned slowly. "That implicates—"
"You," Kezzes finished. "Entirely."
Silence pressed down like weight.
"You're bluffing," Elyrth said.
"I don't bluff."
"You're mad."
"Possibly."
Elyrth returned to his seat, breathing controlled.
"Why that meeting?" he asked quietly.
Kezzes leaned forward.
"Because laws are not made in public," he said. "They are rehearsed by men wearing masks."
Elyrth shook his head. "You'd be crushed."
Kezzes met his gaze.
"I don't intend to stand," he said. "Only to speak."
Minutes passed.
"No," Elyrth said. "I refuse."
Kezzes nodded. "Very well."
He reached for a document.
Elyrth's eyes widened.
"That seal—"
"An audit trigger," Kezzes said. "Filed. Not submitted."
The Duke swallowed.
"I refuse," he said again, weaker.
Kezzes waited.
At last, Elyrth closed his eyes.
"…If I do this," he said slowly, "you will owe me."
Kezzes smiled faintly.
"No," he said. "You'll survive."
A bitter laugh escaped the Duke.
"Very well," he said. "I'll do it."
Kezzes inclined his head.
"Welcome," he said softly, "to the invisible court."
When the Duke left, Kezzes remained seated.
He did not celebrate.
He did not smile.
One mask had shifted.
Soon, others would follow.