Moonlight filtered through the latticework windows of the Trillian Estate's grand salon, gilding the white marble columns in silvery light. Soft strains of a string quartet drifted beneath lofty frescoes of mythic battles, lending an air of cultivated refinement to the gathering of Ardwell's elite. Lucent Wynn stood at the edge of the spectators' balcony, his pale eyes drifting over the circle of nobles assembled below. Chamberlain Vespere, the host, held court in the center—his dark cloak billowing like a shadow, his laughter echoing through the vaulted room.
Lucent's invitation had come sealed with the Trane crest—a gesture of gratitude for his recent "service." He'd arrived under the guise of a celebrated guest performer, a rare honor in such august company. Tonight, he would give them a show: subtle skill and whispered persuasion, enough to leave them dazzled but never uneasy. He'd worn his finest doublet—ink-blue velvet shot with threads of storm-gray—and his stage mask, fashioned from burnished copper, concealed the toll of midnight rehearsals and whispered debts.
He glanced down at the ledge before him. Below, a circle of gilded chairs and lounges formed concentric rings around a small stage, half-hidden by broad drapes of wine-red velvet. A single footman stood to one side, awaiting the signal. Lucent lifted a silver lantern, its candle glowing like a captured star. The quartet hushed at his cue; ripples of attention swept toward the raised dais.
Lucent descended the short flight of steps, feet muffled on the thick carpet. He moved with actor's grace, mask angled to catch the light, cape fanning in his wake. As he stepped onto the platform, noble eyes found him—men with bejeweled staves, women draped in silks glimmering with arcane runes, even a pair of Convocation liaisons in their austere black-and-white surcoats.
A hush fell.
He gave a low bow. "My lords, ladies, honored guests: tonight, a tale of love's sacrifice and the price of truth." His voice, carefully modulated, wove through the salon like a gentle wind. He paused, letting the silence stretch. In that moment he "Whispered," the familiar tug on half a dozen minds: He is a master of his art. A small spark that would gild his performance.
He began, telling the story of a betrayed knight and the woman he loved. With every turn of phrase, every flourish of cloak, he let belief trickle outward. A chandelier pulley groaned; he "suggested" it was his command—and for a heartbeat, it swayed. A distant servant believed he was hearing a lamenting horn and paused mid-step in the hallway. In the flicker of candlelight, his spectators saw not an actor but a conjurer of emotions, every sigh and glance weighted with uncanny truth.
At the climax, Lucent knelt at the edge of the stage, hand over his heart. "And thus, the knight offered his life for a lie forged in love's name." He drew an ornate dagger—an actor's prop, its steel tempered for show—and raised it before him. An involuntary gasp swept through the crowd.
Then, a crack sharper than any sabre slash split the hushed tension. Lucent froze as he heard—not in his mouth, but in his mind—the distant crack of real steel. On the floor beneath the chandelier, Chamberlain Vespere spun, eyes widening in shock. A dark line blossomed on his doublet where a slender blade had pierced through silk and flesh.
Chaos erupted. Vespere staggered backward, clutching at his chest as blood seeped between his fingers. Noble ladies shrieked, shattering the quartet's fragile harmony. Gilded chairs overturned; lords and bodyguards surged forward.
Lucent pressed his back against the velvet drape, heart pounding. In that instant, every eye turned to him, as though the blade's trajectory were drawn in his direction. He felt a cold squeeze in his gut. Someone—another Beliefshaper—had sowed a suggestion in dozens of minds: Wynn is the killer.
A Convocation inquisitor, pale as the moonlight, barked an order. "Seize him!"
Two guards lunged up the stairs. Lucent knew he could not rely on "Whisper" alone; in the presence of so many focused minds, subtle influence might splinter and betray him. Instead, he plunged into the trick of "Chorus." He ignited a pulse of suggestion in the crowd: He is not the murderer. He has done nothing wrong.
It rippled outward—ten, twenty, fifty minds catching the spark—but each mind was tempered by panic and bloodlust. Half-belief is no barrier to a mob's fear. The guards reached him.
Steel rang off steel as he parried their blows, cape swirling. The guards' eyes flickered with uncertainty—did they hesitate because he willed it, or because the storm of violence confused them? He could not pause to unravel their doubts. He sprang backward, over the edge of the balcony, landing in a scattering of silk gowns and marble floor tiles below.
Screams followed him as he struck the ground. Bodies scrambled; a noblewoman toppled, her jeweled bracelet shattering on the floor. Lucent rolled free, drawing a slender rapier concealed at his side. He struck once—more to warn than to wound—and pivoted toward the back corridors of the estate, where servants' passages wound like veins.
Behind him, shouts rose to a crescendo: "Stop him! He's the assassin!" Every footfall threatened to close around him. Lucent's mind raced: the estate had no secret exit this far in; pathways branched and converged like a labyrinth. He could hear the steady footsteps of armored guards echoing behind his own uncertain steps.
At a fork in the corridor, he seized a torch from its sconce and held it aloft. Warm light flickered across damp stone walls, revealing a door half-hidden by a tapestry of an ancient conquest. Lucent threw the torch aside and pressed through the doorway—into the Trane family's private chapel.
The chapel's vaulted ceiling soared overhead, carved with angels entangled in vines. Candles burned in iron sconces, but their light was dim against the press of shadows. An altar stood at the far end, a single alabaster statue of a winged figure gazing down in frozen compassion. Lucent closed the door behind him and sank to one knee, drawing in ragged breath.
He listened. First, only the steady drip of water from a broken pipe. Then—footsteps. A pair of guards, armor clanking, voices low but certain. They paused at the tapestry, drawn by the torch light in the corridor. One said, "He couldn't have gotten far. Check everywhere."
Lucent rose, mind whirring. He could attempt another "Whisper," bending their thoughts to believe he escaped through a hidden panel—but he had no time to find it. Instead, he moved toward the statue, hand trailing along its cold marble. Door mechanics, hinges—any secret.
In the flicker of a passing candle, he saw it: a narrow seam traced along the base of the statue. Heart pounding, he pressed his shoulder against the marble. It swung inward, revealing a cramped passage lined with centuries-old masonry. The scent of damp earth and mold seeped through the gap.
Footsteps approached. Lucent slipped into the hidden corridor and sealed the statue behind him. The sound of hinges clicking shut reverberated in the stone tomb. He crouched, listening as guards flitted past the chapel door, disappointed grunts signaling their search's failure.
In the narrow tunnel, he moved swiftly, boots slipping on loose stones. The corridor trended downward, deeper into the estate's foundations—ancient cellars and forgotten drains. The air grew cold and the walls slick with condensation. Strictly no gas lamps here; only the scant glow of moonlight wheezing through grates high above.
At last, he reached a rusted iron ladder descending into the mud-choked water of an underground canal. Lucent paused, the memory of his first escape flashing through his mind: the chill of the canal, the dank rush of water, the way the current held him as he let go of fear.
He descended. Feet met the cold water; leather buckled and hissed. With a single breath, he submerged his mask's ribboned ties, then pulled his head beneath the surface. Darkness swallowed him as he released the ladder. The current seized him, carrying him toward the city's bowels.
Above, torches flared in the chapel hallway. He heard muffled curses as guards realized he had vanished without a trace. Lucent's lungs burned; he kicked steadily, letting the water cradle him through grated tunnels until the world above faded into distant echoes.
When at last he emerged into an abandoned dock—wooden planks slick with algae—he broke the surface, gulping air. Steam from the nearby canal pipes curled in the chilly night. He pulled himself onto the platform, water cascading from his cloak and doublet, mask still in place. The stained fabric clung tight, but no one remained to see it.
He pressed a hand to his chest, heart thundering. Blood pounded in his ears, but he felt more rage than fear—rage at the rival Beliefshaper who had set the frame, at the Convocation's blind fury, and at the vulnerability that came with every stolen edge of belief.
Lucent shook himself, as if shedding the remnants of the water. He stepped onto the dock and slipped into the shadows, cloak trailing like a dark tide. Somewhere upstream, servants would discover Chamberlain Vespere's body, the noble guests would scatter in terror, and the Convocation would issue new orders: find Wynn and kill him on sight.
He allowed himself one small, fierce smile. Let them hunt. There was power in fear, and in every rumor they spread of his guilt, he sowed the seed of his next illusion. He would leverage their suspicion as fuel for his schemes.
Damp and dripping, Lucent Wynn disappeared into the night, leaving only the faint echo of his laughter—the promise of belief's endless possibilities, and the terror that true power could inspire.