The annoying work Nicole had been babbling about was simple, yet it was justified.
I hadn't fully grasped the depth of corruption, missing funds, strange deals, nepotism, and outright theft.
It hadn't even been long since my father's death, yet the dates in these files all began on the very day he passed.
These bastards had wasted no time indulging their greed. I intended to deal with it.
With just over a week before the declaration of war, I decided to nip all of this in the bud.
Sansir stood before me as I dropped the papers across the desk, my eyes shadowed with both frustration and determination.
"Are you serious? No corruption, and yet, over half of the nobles?"
He bowed. "I am sorry. I did not expect the corruption to run this deep. I had handled… some people."
I despised most of the nobles anyway, so I decided not to get too angry.
"Just read these over, and go to each of them. If they refuse to come to the royal court… kill them."
His eyes widened. "Without warning?"
I smiled coldly. "Give them one warning. No more. No less."
He nodded and left promptly. He would carry out my orders before the day ended; I trusted him enough.
I rubbed my temple, straining to comprehend how I had allowed this to continue.
My heart ached from doing work, a genuine contradiction to my very nature.
Clearly, I was still a lazy bastard.
I suppose that's why Mirabel hadn't reacted negatively to Nicole's outburst. How could she, when faced with the truth?
[Nicholas saw the limits of his means. He would let these insults pass.]
I sighed, leaning back. Oh, how cruel this voice in my head could be.
According to these files, Malachi had been the absolute hope of our kingdom.
He had arranged secret yet moral trades with Uthopia and prevented potential wars with Bamdia.
His subtle interventions had kept the kingdom balanced in dangerous times.
Jacqueline was kind, deeply principled, and deeply religious.
We shared many cultural practices with Bamdia, and I wanted to meet her soon.
I grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen; quills were far too cumbersome.
I began writing, detailing trade potentials, looming threats, and the inevitable war.
I also included issues with the Golden Authority.
In Veritas, the Golden Authority was the most powerful organization, a theological nation that funded and controlled the order of oppression.
Bamdia was linked with Fertical, yet Jacqueline despised the misuse of God's name.
She was the founder of Methodology. Which I had now admired.
Her methodology was deceptively simple yet astonishing in depth.
Methods are power, abilities, and ways of acting.
Abilities are power expressed.
Ways of acting are how power and abilities are exercised.
Understanding these distinctions clarified that a source lacking power cannot produce methods beyond its intrinsic capacities.
Power is the fundamental capacity to effect change, to bring something into existence.
It measures potential, the maximum influence a being can exert.
Power is not task-specific; it is the raw essence behind all action.
A being limited in power cannot exceed its inherent potential.
Abilities are the realized expressions of power, the concrete skills a being can perform.
Flight, reasoning, speech, combat, each arises from a source's power, yet manifests in a distinct form.
Ways of acting define the structure and strategy behind abilities.
Two beings may share the same abilities but exercise them differently.
One hunts alone, another cooperates. Both achieve results, but the paths diverge.
From this, Jacqueline argued that the Ultimate Method must exist, the method through which all possible actions can occur.
This method is God.
To understand all methods, one must first grasp the Ultimate Method.
Her reasoning was elegant in its simplicity.
God's power was undeniable, not fully captured in any depiction, yet the concept alone grounded our understanding.
The Silent Court's discoveries had proven that all theories within this world were true, so the logic could not be denied.
This world was reaching enlightenment, a comprehension of God, of ourselves, and of the structures behind reality.
Power at this level was not impossible.
God was not bound, but the trajectory was clear: this level of understanding could be reached.
I finished the letter without concern for formalities, pressing the royal seal, a grand rose, into the parchment.
I lifted my hand, and a bird of darkness appeared.
With a rush of soot, the letter vanished. The messenger system my father had built made such things trivial.
Easy. Convenient. Perfect for someone lazy like me.
All that remained was to wait for her response.
If I was lucky, she would agree to meet.
If unlucky, she would alert Fertical to our preparations. I had given her a wide range of options; any choice would have been generous on her part.
I allowed for her choice.
I decided to write a letter to Ruari, King of Uthopia.
I needed to test him, to see if he would act in cooperation or ignore my summons.
Both outcomes meant little to me.
I knew him well, his actions were never truly for gain, but for intrigue.
They were reflections of his nation, isolated save for Midir, each act shaped by his careful accumulation of knowledge and control.
Uthopia was a dictatorship in all but name, yet its people remained strangely blind to the care, or danger, he embodied.
I doubted he would care.
He was the strongest in this world; nothing could move him.
The letter was written swiftly and sent on a dark messenger. At last, I drew a breath.
It was short-lived. The voice came, sharp and undeniable.
[Nicholas was forgetting something. He was a dead man walking.]
My eyes fixed on the door handle as it turned. And then he stepped in, someone I could almost swear was nothing more than an illusion.
Yet his voice rang clear. "I greet the darkness that shall prevail over light, Nicholas Anstalionah."
It was Griffin.
Gold sigils glimmered across his silky robes. His eyes were gentle, his smile soft.
And yet, beneath that calm veneer, there was a hidden terror, an awareness of every flaw, every secret, every shadow of intention in the room.
His presence alone carried the weight of inevitability, as if time itself bent to his gaze.
He spoke softly, yet each word felt like the strike of a blade.
Every gesture, every motion, precise, but with an undercurrent of menace that whispered: cross me, and nothing in this world would save you.
It was not kindness that lingered behind his eyes.
It was the silent promise that he understood far more than he let on, and the thought alone made the blood in my veins run cold.
I stared, a mix of awe and terror rooting me to the spot. Had he come to kill me?
To slaughter me where I stood?
No. Beside him, Mirabel walked in, her expression calm, almost complacent. Surely it was impossible.
And yet, I was still afraid,, afraid of his words, his presence, afraid even to stand near him. I could not bear to look directly at him.
I was a fool. A weak, insignificant fool.
A lamb who had stumbled into the den of the man who could, and would, devour him without hesitation.