Far away in Viremont, Lord Eryndor Voss smiled.
The smile came easily now.
He stood in a private chamber lined with red-veined marble, fingers tracing the rim of a goblet he had no intention of drinking from.
"The first shipment passed without issue," a cloaked messenger said, kneeling. "The palace suspects nothing."
Eryndor's eyes gleamed. "Excellent."
"And the king?"
"Still in council."
Eryndor laughed softly. "He always was too fond of diplomacy."
He turned to the shadows. "Prepare the second phase. Once the palace destabilizes, the Elders will demand intervention."
"And if Lucien resists?"
Eryndor's smile sharpened. "Then we call it failure of leadership."
---
Lucien felt it then.
The unease that had followed him since leaving the palace sharpened into something unmistakable.
Rage.
He rose abruptly from the council table, the sound cutting through the hall like a blade.
"This meeting is concluded," he said coldly.
Malrec scowled. "We were not finished—"
