Dawn's hazy light crept through the shuttered windows of the Eastgate Plaza, illuminating the wrought-iron fountain at its center. Steam hissed from hidden grates in the paving stones, and in the early hush, tendrils of mist curled like silent spectators. Lucent Wynn stood at the edge of the square, cloak drawn back to reveal a simple courier's tunic—navy wool, emblazoned with the Convocation's pale-blue sigil. At his hip hung a metal trumpet, lacquered black with a single silver seal: the official horn of summons.
He inhaled, tasting anticipation on the chill air. Today's target was minor—a lowly Convocation clerk named Aldric Fenmore, whose duties lay in the dusty archive beneath the city registry. Fenmore was harmless by most accounts, a man more enthralled by paperwork than politics. Yet Lucent had discovered, through Guild interrogations and stolen scrapings of rumor, that Fenmore possessed a fragment of a banned chronicle—a single passage on the Veil's instability. Enough to threaten the Inquisitors' monopoly on reality.
Lucent raised the trumpet to his lips. With the barest "Whisper," he threaded a suggestion through the winds: Hear me now, citizens of Ardwell. The Convocation's agents have uncovered seditious texts. Gather and bear witness to the arrest of Aldric Fenmore, traitor to the faith.
The summons drifted from the trumpet's bell like a ripple, caught in the morning breeze. Lucent had paid his dues: he'd forged the warrant, the Inquisitor's seal, the clerk's confession—all meticulously prepared to survive even the closest scrutiny. Now, he only needed belief.
Moments later, the marketplace doors burst open. Townsfolk spilled into the square: fishwives slipping baskets of mackerel from their arms, dockhands still carrying coils of rope, even a pair of children trailing a battered drum. All paused, eyes widening at the sight of the trumpet's bearer in official garb. Whispers spread like a contagion: They've found him. He must answer for heresy.
A small cluster of city guards materialized in his wake, drawn by the trumpet's call and the conviction ringing in their brows. Lucent lowered the horn and let their uncertainty settle. His posture, his uniform, even the weight of the trumpet on his hip—each detail reinforced the narrative.
He swept a hand toward a tremoring figure at the fountain's lip: Aldric Fenmore, quill still clutched in ink-stained fingers, eyes wide with disbelief. Fenmore's tunic bore the same pale-blue mark. He trembled as Lucent approached, mouth opening and closing like a trapped mouse. The crowd surged forward, hungry for drama.
Lucent's voice was firm, measured: "By order of Inquisitor Halwyn, you are charged with disseminating forbidden lore. Hand over the texts, or be judged for treason."
Fenmore stuttered, "I—I—I have nothing but my ledger!"
A gaunt woman in the front row—a fishmonger whose family Fenmore's records had condemned to heavier tithes—stepped forward, teeth bared: "He lies! He's the reason I lost my son's dowry!"
Another voice rose: "He consorts with heretics in the Undercity!"
Lucent stoked the murmurs, weaving each complaint into a tapestry of outrage. He "Chorused" through the crowd, a swell of suggestion: He is guilty. He betrayed us all. The feeling rippled outward—a tide of indignation that set every heart pounding with righteous fervor.
Fenmore's face went pale. He opened his cloak, revealing a rolled parchment—Lucent's forgery. "It's—the Staff of Hours, written here!" he choked, voice cracking under the weight of the Magistrate's seal stamped in violet wax. The crowd recoiled as though struck—mass belief in action—shadows twisting across their features.
A guard snapped his gauntleted fingers. "Seize him!"
Two soldiers grasped Fenmore's arms. He yelped as they hauled him forward. The murmur of approval swelled to a roar. Lamps atop the registry gates reflected in Lucent's eyes—his performance complete.
He tucked the trumpet under his arm, cloak falling into place over the seal on his breast. A young scribe—one of Fenmore's assistants—darted forward, pleading: "Sir, wait! He's innocent!"
Lucent lifted a gloved finger. "Silence," he intoned. Then, softer, "Return to your work, and speak of this no more."
He let a final "Whisper" drift into the scribe's mind: This man is culpable; loyalty to the Convocation demands silence. The scribe's shoulders slumped; she retreated into the registry.
With Fenmore's shackled silhouette dragged through the square, Lucent allowed a private smile. One foothold secured. A fragment of the forbidden chronicle now belonged to him alone—and the public had a new villain to pursue.
But power exacts a price. As the crowd dispersed, Lucent felt a familiar ache at the edges of his mind—the strain of a thousand small lies, of coaxing belief that never asked permission. He closed his eyes, recalling Fenmore's tear-blurred gaze and the tortured laments of innocents caught in the frenzy. Each manipulation sharpened the fracture in his sense of self.
He opened his eyes to find Corinne Everveil waiting at the plaza's rim, her silver hair gleaming in dawn's pale light. She inclined her head once, approving. In her hand glinted the cell key that would free Fenmore once Lucent had extracted the chronicle's secrets.
Lucent offered her a curt bow. "He'll sing soon enough."
Corinne's lips curved. "Good. The Convocation's wrath will be aimed at their own. We'll have a narrow window to strike."
He sheathed the trumpet and touched the pale-blue seal on his tunic—now a false badge of authority. "Then we move. But first…" He paused, voice careful. "We must ensure Fenmore's confession is complete. I want every belief anchored in ink and blood."
Corinne nodded. "I'll fetch Marrow and the vial."
Lucent stepped into a narrow alley, cloak swirling like midnight. He permitted himself a moment of quiet triumph: the first foothold in the city's heart, a minor agent set to bear the blame for far greater deeds. Tomorrow, the Guild would retrieve the chronicle. The Convergence cipher's next pillar awaited—and with it, the promise of power no institution could deny.
But as he vanished into Ardwell's slumbering streets, Lucent felt the murmur of the Veil behind his eyes, reminding him that every foothold carries the risk of a fall—and that belief, once set in motion, may never truly be contained.