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Days passed. Weeks.
Ethan faded from the public eye, but his absence was no retreat—it was recalibration.
He spent his time in the hidden chambers beneath the Blackwood Fortress, where the old archives and war rooms were buried. It was here that the real work began.
Amal brought him whispers—discontent among the lower ranks, fear among the mid-level governors, hesitation in Christiana's inner circle. Power had shifted too quickly, too violently. Chris's iron hand had secured order, but it had also cracked the foundation of loyalty.
Ethan studied every report, every whisper. He remembered the names of those who once swore fealty to him, and made note of those now crawling to Christiana. No move went unrecorded.
One night, a sealed envelope arrived—no markings, no name. Inside was a single phrase:
"The Eye watches, but the Fang strikes."
Ethan smiled.
The Fang.
A covert group disbanded years ago. Formed to eliminate threats to the Blackwood bloodline, then buried when peace took root. If they were resurfacing now… it meant more than rebellion. It meant silent war.
He burned the letter in a candle flame and turned to Amal. "Find them. Quietly."
She didn't question. She simply vanished into the night.
The next morning, Ethan stood by the tall window, watching the city wake. Christiana's banners flew high. Her soldiers marched in drills. Her voice echoed through broadcasts with confidence.
But behind every broadcast… behind every command…
Ethan was already laying the next chess piece on the board.
The empire thought him buried.
But seeds thrive in the dark.
And when they bloom—
It's never quiet.
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