Varros clapped once.
The sound echoed pleasantly through the salon, sharp and delighted, like punctuation at the end of a sentence only he could read.
"Oh, do look at you all," he said, reclining into a velvet-backed chair while a servant poured wine he had no intention of drinking. "So very serious. You'd think the city was about to tear itself apart."
Several of his guests shifted uncomfortably.
Former church administrators. Civic officials with ink-stained fingers and carefully laundered consciences. Guild liaisons who had survived recent chaos by standing very still and pretending it wasn't happening.
Varros adored them already.
"You're here because you're frightened," he continued lightly. "Which is good. Fear sharpens the mind. And because you've all noticed something important."
He leaned forward, chin resting on his knuckles.
"The monster is gone."
No one argued.
Ardent was gone.
The cathedral lay quiet.
The kind of protection that made archmages hesitate had vanished with him.
Varros' eyes gleamed—not with relief, but calculation.
"Which means," he said cheerfully, "our mutual acquaintances are suddenly… manageable."
---
A representative of the Mage Guild cleared his throat. "We're not proposing anything reckless. Merely oversight. Investigation. The investigator Seris Valen is already a known dissident. Removing her influence would—"
"—remove a variable," Varros finished pleasantly. "Yes. But variables are useful."
He rose, strolling toward the tall windows where the city spread below like a board awaiting new pieces.
"You see," he went on, "I don't want Seris crushed. I want her tested. Pressured. Pushed into revealing who stands with her and who doesn't."
He glanced back, smile razor-thin. "Rivals have a delightful habit of exposing themselves when chaos offers them a convenient excuse."
The room stilled.
Varros gestured lazily. "You, my dear guild friends, will make inquiries. Ask questions. Stir professional outrage."
He turned slightly toward the civic officials. "You will file motions. Raise concerns. Demand safeguards."
Then, almost as an afterthought: "And the Church remnants? They'll howl. Loudly. Desperately. It will be marvelous."
One official swallowed. "And if this… escalation reveals instability?"
Varros laughed softly. "Oh, it will. That's the point."
He spread his hands. "When the dust settles, the city will be desperate for leadership that looks calm, decisive, and—most importantly—untainted by recent embarrassment."
He tapped his chest lightly. "And who, I ask you, has remained conspicuously above the mess?"
No one answered.
They didn't need to.
---
"And the mages who fought Ardent?" another asked. "They know the protection is gone."
"Precisely," Varros replied. "Which makes them brave enough to act and foolish enough to be blamed if things go poorly."
He smiled. "If they succeed, wonderful—our problem becomes simpler. If they fail, even better—dangerous elements remove themselves."
He shrugged. "Either way, the field clears."
A murmur of uneasy agreement passed through the room.
Varros turned back toward the painter. "Do make sure the light catches my eyes properly. Leadership is ninety percent posture."
Behind him, alliances formed not out of loyalty—but fear and opportunity.
---
Seris felt the pressure tighten by the hour.
A merchant refused her coin.
A guard hesitated before answering a question.
A clerk asked her name twice, writing it down far too carefully.
"They're coordinating," she said that evening. "Not officially. But deliberately."
Aiden frowned. "Who's 'they'?"
"Everyone who thinks this is their chance to climb," she replied. "And someone's encouraging it."
Liora crossed her arms. "Varros."
Seris nodded. "Varros."
As if summoned, a knock came at the door—measured, professional.
Three robed figures stood outside, bearing the sigil of the Mage Guild.
"Seris Valen," the lead mage said politely, "we have questions regarding recent anomalies."
Aiden felt a hollow drop in his stomach.
No crushing presence descended.
No reality bent.
Just him.
Just them.
And the understanding that the safety net was gone.
---
High above, unseen, Caelum watched with interest.
"Ah," he murmured. "He's pruning."
His gaze lingered on Varros' domain, then drifted back to Aiden.
"Clever mortal," Caelum admitted. "Using fear to thin the herd."
He smiled faintly. "Let's see who survives the trimming."
---
Back in the salon, the painter made final adjustments as Varros' guests departed one by one. Doors closed softly behind them, sealing bargains in silence.
Only the painter remained.
He wiped sweat from his brow, glancing nervously between the canvas and Varros.
Varros studied the portrait again.
Slowly.
Critically.
"Hmm," he murmured.
The painter swallowed. "Is… is something wrong, my lord?"
Varros stepped closer, tilting his head. "The left eye," he said lightly. "It's just a touch off."
The painter rushed forward, horrified. "I can fix it! I swear—it's only a matter of—"
"No," Varros said gently.
The word stopped him cold.
Varros sighed, almost regretful. "You see, it isn't about the eye. It's about the idea that you noticed something imperfect and thought you could correct it."
The painter stared at him, confused. "My lord…?"
Varros' hand moved.
It was quick. Precise. The blade slid free like a practiced thought.
The painter never had time to scream.
Varros caught the body before it fell, easing it to the floor so it wouldn't stain the carpet too badly. He straightened, adjusting his cuffs with mild irritation.
"Such a shame," he said to the empty room. "You had talent."
He glanced back at the portrait, now unmarred by witnesses.
Perfect.
Varros smiled.
"Leadership," he mused, "is knowing when to remove a flaw before it becomes noticeable."
Outside, the city slept—unaware that one more quiet death had just made its future much more dangerous.
---