The night in Valeria had more whispers than it did people. Maxim Sylmaris walked alone through the lesser quarter, his dark cloak pressed close against the ribs of the city. He was not the kind of man who craved recognition—indeed, his power was strongest when his name never left another’s lips. To most, he was simply another noble son grown pale and bookish, better suited to libraries than the games of court. But within the shadows, the truth of him was a spider’s web—each silken thread pulled, binding mouths and ears, hearts and ambitions. Tonight, the web quivered. In a low-beamed tavern where smoke clung to the rafters, his agents had already begun their play. The place was a common haunt of caravan masters and minor officials—men who served as the bloodstream of the empire, carrying messages, wares, and gossip alike. Maxim leaned in the doorway, watching. Two of his spies sat at different tables, unremarkable men who might pass for farmhands or washed-out mercenaries. They were careful to never acknowledge one another. Instead, they spoke too loudly, as if half-drowned by drink. "I heard it plain from a Draken’s own mouth," the first slurred, swaying over his mug. "Said the second prince sells the empire’s secrets across the border. That’s how he’s kept his coffers fat, you mark my words." A ripple of laughter met the claim, yet the listeners leaned closer all the same. One man scoffed, another shook his head, but Maxim saw the hook set in their eyes. Doubt was not a fire, not yet—but it was a spark, glowing in the dark. At the other table, the second spy let slip his "accident." He stumbled to his feet, pretending at clumsiness, and a folded scrap of parchment tumbled from his belt pouch. It fluttered onto the rush-strewn floor beside a merchant’s boot. The merchant picked it up, intending to return it—until his gaze caught the seal. It was broken already, of course; Maxim had seen to that. But the mark was close enough to resemble a Draken crest. The merchant’s eyes darted, greedy and suspicious, as he skimmed the first lines before quickly tucking it away. The bait was swallowed. Maxim turned from the doorway, satisfied. The rumor would spread faster in drunken mouths than in any proclamation. The following morning found him in the bright crush of the marketplace. Here the air was different—perfumed with roasted nuts, dye vats, and sweat. He passed unnoticed, a single cloaked figure in the tide of buyers and sellers. His spies worked the crowd with the same precision a surgeon might cut into flesh. A flower vendor leaned across her stall, whispering to a noblewoman’s maid. "Strange, isn’t it, how gold comes so easily to some. My cousin swears he saw Draken merchants slipping past the northern gate under Imperial escort. Guess whose colors flew above the gatehouse that night?" The maid covered her mouth, eyes widening, and scurried away. Elsewhere, a one-eyed beggar clinked his cup and muttered half-mad ramblings of "a prince who bends knee to dragons." Children laughed, tossing him coppers, but the words settled in the ears of passing scribes and servants. Maxim watched it all with a faint smile. Rumor was not a hammer, but a slow poison. It needed time to sink into the veins, time to fester. And when the moment came to reveal the truth—oh, how swiftly the infection would rage. The work extended beyond streets and taverns. No household, however noble, was immune to the quiet erosion of doubt. Kitchens, laundries, stables—all were fertile ground for whispers. Maxim’s people moved there unseen, wearing the guises of scullery boys and washerwomen, faceless and forgettable. In the kitchens of House Deloran, a cook hummed as she kneaded dough. To her fellow servants she murmured a story she claimed to have overheard from a passing guardsman—that Sylas had received a casket of wine imported from the Draken coast. Rare vintage, said to be gifted only to kings. The scullions gasped, their hands pausing in their work. None dared repeat such a thing directly to their mistress, of course. But their silence was not safe. Words slipped, as words always did, until they found a noble ear. In House Ralvere’s stables, a stablehand muttered while currying a horse. "They say the Draken envoys don’t fear him like they should. Maybe they don’t fear him because he’s theirs." The other lads spat, swearing, but they remembered the line. That was enough. Maxim himself reserved the more delicate gestures. He believed in the power of performance—an accident arranged so carefully that it seemed no performance at all. That evening, he entered a quiet shrine in the noble quarter. Candles burned low around small wooden icons, the air heavy with incense. Few came here after dusk, save household stewards or pious daughters. Moving silently, he set a folded parchment among the prayer slips. Its ink was subtle, the letters coded—meaningless to the untrained eye. But the placement was no accident. By morning, when Lady Verenne knelt in prayer, she would find the letter hidden beneath her household’s own offerings. She would see the Draken cipher, the faint outline of Sylas’s name. She would not understand it fully, but she would believe it was not meant for her. An omen. A secret unveiled where it should never be. Such things gnawed more deeply than any drunken tavern tale. Later, Maxim returned to his chambers, lighting a single lamp. The room was bare, almost austere. He kept little in the way of personal trappings—only maps pinned across one wall, with threads of crimson and black stretching between them. Points marked taverns, noble estates, barracks, and merchant guilds. Each thread represented a tongue bent, an ear sharpened, a rumor loosed. The web pulsed with quiet life. He traced one line with his finger, following it from the docks to the bronze quarter, then upward toward the high district. He could feel the tension growing, the tremor that ran through every cord. "Not yet a storm," he murmured to himself. "But the wind is changing. By the week’s end, the noble district stirred uneasily. At first it was laughter—scoffs over wine goblets, dismissals at the gaming tables. But laughter was thin, and behind it, unease. Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡~𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚~𝙣𝙚𝙩 House Deloran’s matriarch paused before sealing a contract with one of Sylas’s men, suddenly uncertain of his reliability. House Ralvere withdrew from hosting the prince’s retinue for the equinox feast, citing "urgent family matters." House Verenne lit twice the usual candles in their shrine, whispering to their Flamekeeper about "omens of betrayal." Each doubt was a drop in water, but water could wear down even stone. In the web Maxim wove, every tremor was felt. He stood in the shadows of his chamber, listening as if the city itself whispered to him. And it did: in the shifting patterns of rumor, in the hesitation of noble hands, in the silence that followed Sylas’s name. The ripples had begun. And Maxim, patient spider at the center of the web, smiled into the dark.