A Candle in the Darkness (Closed)

[Aerion]

[OOC: CLOSED, NARRATIVE, RATED R]


Palace District
Astevane
Grand Empire of Aerion

In the gathering dusk, Astevane pulsed with the fevered rhythms of its thirty million souls. The ancient capital of Aerion had long since devoured the sacred plains that once girded its walls, spreading like molten glass across a hundred miles until it lapped at the feet of distant mountains. Here and there, emerald fragments of parkland punctuated the urban expanse, alongside the hanging gardens of wealthy arcologies—oases of green amid the steel and chrome desert of the megalopolis.

The city rose in layers, each stratum a world unto itself. Roadways spiraled upward through the canyons of steel and glass, weaving between skyscrapers that disappeared into the clouds. The Imperial Financial Tower reigned supreme among them, its four hundred stories piercing the heavens like a silver needle threading through silk. As darkness fell, rivers of light coursed through the city's elevated arteries—streams of vehicles below, VTOL craft above, their navigation lights painting ephemeral constellations across the urban sky. Imperial City might claim the crown as Aerion's new capital, but Astevane's heart still beat with the lifeblood of empire.

At the city's core lay the Palace District, an island of shadows in a sea of light. No VTOL craft dared cross its hallowed airspace without imperial dispensation; those few that did carried the most exalted members of society, their passage marking moments of grave import. The district sprawled across ten miles, ringed by a five-mile zone of enforced architectural humility—a moat of low-rising structures that served to frame its centerpiece: the Ardashir Palace, three times the size of Versailles, illuminated by floodlights like a museum piece frozen in amber.

The Palace wore its abandonment like a widow's weeds. Where once it had blazed with the light of countless celebrations, now its windows stared blindly into the night, curtained or shuttered against the modern world. Entire wings slumbered behind locked doors, their grandeur shrouded in dust cloths and silence. The gardens, once alive with the rustle of silk and whispered intrigues, now echoed only with the song of nightingales and the mournful calling of owls. Occasionally, these natural sounds yielded to the synthetic—the whisper of maintenance drones, the hiss of automated sprinklers, or the measured tread of a lone Palace Guard, serving what was widely considered the most thankless posting in the Imperial service.

Inside, the Palace's desertion felt more acute. Cleaning robots whirred through darkened corridors like mechanical ghosts, their programmed paths a pale echo of the servants who once rushed through these halls. Only two wings remained truly alive: the Grand Wing, preserved as a museum for carefully vetted visitors, and an east wing that housed the Empire's unwanted—distant relatives of the Imperial Family and courtiers who had earned the Padshah Empress's displeasure. These exiles hosted occasional soirees in their modest apartments, but true revelry had long since abandoned these halls for the new Imperial Palace.

On this night, a different sort of ghost moved through the Palace grounds. From the former hunting lodge—now the provincial chapterhouse of the Sisterhood of Abeshala—came a small, elderly figure in black robes. Grand Matron Superior Roanshella wore her office in the indigo lappets that hung from her headdress, each bearing the three phases of the moon. The symbols granted her freedom to wander the grounds at will, though her destination might have raised eyebrows had any been present to observe.

She moved with surprising grace for her years, navigating the hedge maze with practiced ease before slipping into the shadows near a servant's entrance. The security pass that would grant her access had been acquired through means—a novice's romantic entanglement with a high-ranking guard had proved useful.

The door's ancient hinges protested as she entered the disused wing. Here, even the ubiquitous cleaning robots rarely ventured; dust lay thick upon sheet-draped furniture, and cobwebs festooned the corners like ancient lace. Her flashlight beam caught motes of dust dancing in the air as she made her way to the study she sought. A tapestry depicting wolves and celestial deities concealed her goal—a wall safe whose combination she had extracted from the Sisterhood's deepest archives.

Within lay a wooden chest containing letters and documents, among them a sealed proclamation bearing King Ardashir X's own hand. As she read, her breath caught in her throat. The truth, so long buried, lay bare before her: the King had sired a son with a secretly wedded mistress, a line whose claim to the throne might prove stronger than the Padshah Empress's own. Her hands trembled as she clutched the evidence. Here, perhaps, lay salvation from tyranny—if the heir still lived, and if he could be protected long enough to press his claim.

In the darkness of the abandoned study, surrounded by the ghosts of empire, Grand Matron Superior Roanshella held the future of Aerion in her weathered hands.

[Aerion]

Sisterhood of Abeshala Provincial Chapterhouse
Ardashir Palace
Astevane
Grand Empire of Aerion


Dawn crept across the gardens of the Ardashir Palace, its first light catching the dew on immaculate rosebeds while the megalopolis of Astevane continued its perpetual hum beyond the grounds. Within the former Royal Hunting Lodge—now the Provincial Chapterhouse of the Sisterhood of Abeshala—only the most devout sisters stirred, their whispered prayers in the chapel floating like incense through the morning air.

The Sisterhood's presence in this palatial mansion spoke to the capricious nature of imperial favor. Once a mystery cult of initiatory priestesses, the order had evolved through centuries of cultural cross-pollination. Buddhist monastics and Catholic nuns had brought their traditions, transforming the ancient mysteries into something more structured. Matron Superior General Shulahala, herself a converted Makan Buddhist, had reshaped the Sisterhood into a disciplined religious community, while Matron Superior General Claire the Rulemaker—once a Catholic abbess—had codified their practices into the Rule of Claire. The modern Sisterhood stood as a testament to this evolution: its sisters now held advanced degrees, administered universities, and moved with practiced ease through both sacred and secular spheres.

In her chambers, Grand Matron Superior Roanshella's sleep-deprived heart hammered against her ribs. Three days had passed since her clandestine excavation of secrets from the Palace's closed wing, and each day she had walked past their hiding place with affected casualness, checking, always checking. The Polaroid photographs she'd taken—an archaic technology chosen for its immunity to digital surveillance—rested in a sealed envelope against her breast, their weight as constant as her anxiety.

Today would bring a meeting she dreaded: Imperial Advisor Duke Zaerey Azar awaited her by the Grotto of Rabeshala, where falling water would mask their words from listening devices. The irony of meeting near the shrine of the goddess of secrets and mysteries did not escape her.

---

In his own palace a kilometer distant, Duke Zaerey Azar awakened to the aftermath of debauchery. His bloodshot eyes, legacy of a cocaine-fueled night, surveyed the tangled sheets where two mistresses still slumbered—one eighteen, the other claiming the same though her face suggested otherwise. The previous evening's entertainment had served its true purpose: gathering compromising material on various corporate executives who believed themselves to be enjoying imperial hospitality.

Azar's bathroom mirror reflected a man at odds with himself: Eastern Aerionian features, military-cut black hair retreating from his forehead, and the muscled physique he maintained as religiously as his power. His green eyes, sharp despite their redness, belonged to a predator. As one mistress attended him in the shower, he reminded her of her place with casual cruelty, her fearful pleas amusing him—he was above such crude methods as murder.

His servants dressed him in his trademark black court uniform, the golden epaulettes catching the morning light. The shining boots—his personal modification to protocol, a reminder of his Imperial Security Agency days—completed the ensemble. He emerged onto his helipad like a dark bird of prey, four Imperial Guards falling into formation around him as he boarded his Adinas Star VTOL craft.

From above, Astevane spread before him like a metal forest grown from human suffering. The Garden District's green oasis surrounded the Ardashir Palace, beyond which the city's skyscrapers stretched to the horizon. Millions lived their surveilled lives below, and Azar regarded them with the contempt of a man who had climbed from their ranks to stand upon their shoulders.

---

The meeting by the Grotto unfolded like a play neither participant wished to perform. The waterfall's constant rush provided cover as Grand Matron Superior Roanshella passed the envelope with trembling fingers. Azar's rage at receiving mere photographs rather than original documents manifested in his grip on her hand—a gesture of power she met with trained serenity.

"Listen here, you old witch," he hissed, his façade of civilization cracking. "We had a deal."

"Not if we kill you first," she replied, her calm voice belying the gravity of her words.

They parted like duelists, each knowing the next exchange might draw blood. As Azar's figure receded through the rose garden, Roanshella turned to the Grotto of Rabeshala. Before the curtain of falling water, she offered a prayer to the shadow aspect of Abeshala, seeking guidance through the treacherous waters ahead.

In the distance, a Ardashir Palace Guard's hat bobbed between the hedges—a reminder that in Astevane, someone was always watching.

[Aerion]

Financial District
Astevane
Grand Empire of Aerion

Evening bled across Astevane's steel horizon, the setting sun fracturing into countless reflections across the megalopolis's endless towers. Duke Zaerey Azar's thoughts turned bitter as his VTOL craft threaded between the skyscrapers, the memory of his encounter with Grand Matron Superior Roanshelle still rankling like a wound. The Sisterhood of Abeshala—superstitious fools with the Empress's ear—represented everything he despised about the old order, yet he found himself caught in their web.

Two Imperial Gendarmerie craft flanked his vessel, their warning lights painting crimson streaks across the rain-slicked buildings. Inside his cabin, four carefully chosen Imperial Guards stood watch—he'd engineered the removal of his less trusted men with surgical precision. Even now, surrounded by carefully vetted loyalists, he felt exposed.

The Black Sky Capital tower rose before them like an obsidian ziggurat against the darkening sky, its landing pad extending from the two-hundredth floor like a metallic tongue. Rain peppered the deck as Azar emerged, his personal valet holding an umbrella overhead. The corporate security force stood rigid in their black uniforms, while a sleek Eastern Aerionian woman in corporate attire waited to receive him. Her carefully styled appearance spoke of Black Sky's attention to detail—even their receptionists were chosen to project power.

The tower's interior unfolded in layers of calculated opulence. White marble gave way to obsidian inlays, the company's eponymous black rays stretching across the atrium floor like reaching fingers. Black Sky Capital had survived where other hedge funds had fallen, managing trillions in assets with the deftness of a juggler handling knives. Under CEO Count Kaspar Kada-Urtzi, the firm had become a shadow empire within the Empire, its influence extending far beyond its Orshilan roots.

Count Kaspar's office suite occupied a space large enough to swallow two basketball courts whole. The decor spoke of carefully curated excess: modernist paintings shared space with ancient artifacts of questionable provenance, while a chandelier of blood-red crystals cast its glow across marble floors veined with gold. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, Astevane's lights twinkled like fallen stars.

The Count himself projected careful disdain, his Taxilhan features arranged in studied neutrality as he led Azar to a hidden room. Behind a sliding panel lay a sanctuary of paranoia: a glass box nestled within sound-dampening walls, preceded by an array of security measures that would have impressed even the Imperial Security Agency.

"Did you get the package?" Kaspar's question cut through the sterile air inside the glass chamber.

Azar's response drew a grimace from the Count. "Photos? They mock us with photos?" The trillionaire's composure cracked slightly. "I told you to get me evidence that bitch Empress is not legitimate."

The conversation spiraled into barely contained violence until Kaspar played his trump card: on the table's built-in screen appeared four views of a child's bedroom. A young girl played with toys, unaware of her role as hostage to fortune.

"Parvaneh," Azar whispered, his daughter's name falling from his lips like a prayer.

The revelation of his vulnerability transformed Azar from predator to prey. His rage manifested in a cracked table and impotent threats, while Kaspar remained unmoved, protected by the dead man's switch encoded in his pulse chip. All of Azar's power, all his connections, had failed to locate his daughter—Kaspar's encryption and loyal staff had proved impenetrable.

"Don't worry," Kaspar's words dripped false comfort. "She has a tutor, receives the best care."

Their parting crackled with potential violence. As Azar stalked out between Kaspar's Epheronian guards, the Count adjusted his collar and permitted himself a small sigh of relief. He knew the statistics: Azar's body count, the hundreds tortured under his command during his ISA career. The dossier made for chilling reading.

If Azar strayed, Kaspar knew, there would be only one solution: the Duke's death, arranged to look natural, and his daughter's disappearance into one of Aerion's courtesan houses. Money, after all, could buy almost anything in the Empire—even a man's soul, properly priced.

[Excalbia]

Imperial City, Grand Empire of Aerion

The Excalbian Imperial Embassy in Aerionian capital was not particularly large, certainly not as large as those in the Caldan Union or Knootoss, nor was it as small as some, such as those in Providencia or Mont de la Lune. It was a rather quiet, business-like post. Relations between the two empires had never been either particularly warm or particularly adversarial; rather they were proper, correct and somewhat stiffly formal. Nonetheless, there was a fair amount of commercial relations between the two and a number of Excalbians visited Aerion - and tended to need considerable consular support given the great differences in the two societies’ cultures and laws.

Given the normally prosaic nature of the Excalbian Mission to the Grand Empire, it came as something of a surprise when codeword captioned messages began coming in from the Citadel. Unusual activity had been detected by satellite and routine hypersonic overflights, and a Citadel already shaken by an impending civil war in Snefaldia suddenly had an urgent need to know what was going on in the upper reaches of Aeronian state.

Naturally, the Imperial Intelligence station within the Embassy had its own methods - knowing and unwitting agents, and various technical means - to try to answer the Citadel’s questions. However, the nature of Aeronian society, not to mention its own advanced technology and somewhat obsessive security procedures, limited the success those methods enjoyed. This left the tried-and-true method of working contacts as the Embassy’s best tool for gaining the information the Citadel wanted.

All of this led Gordon Bertans, the Embassy’s Political and Economic Counselor, to a well-known, high-end coffee shop in the Imperial City’s Entertainment District. It was the favorite of one Bertans’ key contacts - an old friend he had first met during his first overseas assignment as a Vice Consul in the Embassy’ consular section. He met his friend and contact, then a mid-level Aeronian bureaucrat, at a diplomatic reception where they discovered a similar taste in music. When Bertans returned later as a mid-level political officer, his friend had risen to the top ranks in the Aeronian bureaucracy, and had become a useful contact. Now, this individual was a senior official within the bureaucracy; well positioned to know - as they say - where the bodies are buried. His contact might not know exactly what might be going to alarm the Citadel, but he was sure his friend would know if something was going on - and would hopefully point him to someone who might know even more.

So, Bertans slowly sipped his coffee waiting for a “chance” encounter with his contact and the opportunity to offer a “spur-of-the-moment” invitation to come and listen to some new music at his home in the Embassy District.

[Aerion]

The Gilded Cup nestled among the Entertainment District's crown jewels: galleries showcasing priceless artworks, restaurants where month-long waiting lists were considered fashionable, and boutiques whose price tags resembled small fortunes. A botanical garden perfumed the air with exotic blooms, its carefully curated wilderness providing a counterpoint to the district's polished opulence.

Inside the coffee shop, white marble countertops gleamed like fresh-fallen snow, while obsidian walls reflected the warm glow of Art Deco fixtures—golden goddesses forever frozen in graceful poses, their eternal lamps casting patterns across the velvet-upholstered curves of custom furnishings. High-resolution screens transformed blank walls into shimmering galleries, digital artworks morphing seamlessly between menu displays that quoted prices in Gold Leaves with unabashed pride. Thirty Leaves for the simplest cup—a sum that could feed a common family for days.

Yet the queue of patrons stretched on, their attire a studied exercise in refined excess. Men wore three-piece suits cut with mathematical precision, their bow-ties and vests suggesting a 1920s revival filtered through a lens of futuristic sophistication. Women floated past in dresses of muted silk, their elaborate hats and fascinators defying gravity and convention in equal measure. Here and there, jewels caught the light: a diamond brooch large enough to purchase a modest apartment, a strand of pearls that could fund a child's education.

Technology whispered its presence in subtle ways. Smart glasses adorned elegant faces, their lenses streaming data in gossamer threads of light. Phones folded and unfolded like mechanical origami, transforming from pocket-sized slivers into expansive tablets with fluid grace. Each device represented another small fortune, another marker of status in a society where wealth determined not just comfort, but identity itself.

Through these rarefied heights strode Firuz Leravan, Chief of Staff to the Assistant Deputy Minister of Operations in the Ministry of the Interior. His lanky frame carried a French-cut business suit like armor, the black fabric emphasizing his Eastern Aerionian features. Behind stylish glasses, his eyes held the careful calculation of a man who had climbed the bureaucratic ladder one precisely measured step at a time. His proper goatee, maintained with surgical precision, completed an image of someone who understood that in the Grand Empire, appearance was its own form of currency.

As Firuz approached the marble counter, his presence barely rippled the morning's choreographed display of wealth. Here, in this temple to excess, he was merely another supplicant, waiting to exchange Gold Leaves for the privilege of belonging—however briefly—to the Empire's glittering elite.

[Excalbia]

Gordon Bertrans noticed Leravan as soon as he entered the coffee shop but did not give any indication that he did. The Political and Economic Counselor returned his attention to the book lying open beside his coffee, being careful to track the Aeronian’s progress in making his order.

Just as Leravan was finished placing his order, Bertrans looked up and seemed to notice the other man for the first time. He left his coffee and his book and approached the Aeronian.

In a nod to Aeronian fashion, Bertrans wore a brown three-piece suit. His glasses, however, were simple prescription lens; the Embassy did not prevent unauthorized electronic devices in sensitive areas, so smart glasses were simply not an option for a man in his position. He approached Leravan with a smile.

“Firuz,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the background noise, but not loudly enough to attract attention, “how nice to run into you.” He gestured to his table nearby. “Would you care to join me?”

[Aerion]

Firuz Leravan stepped over to where Gordon Bertrans was sitting. He extended his hand to shake it, and then after presumably shaking hands, he took a seat. He crossed one leg over another. He seemed rather relaxed, but it seemed to be a false state masking something more.

A young man wearing a dark burgundy paramilitary-style uniform with hat stepped into the shop. He was about sixteen. The uniform resembled that of an officer's uniform with a peaked cap. The uniform was the uniform of an officer within the Imperial Organization for Aerionian Glory (IOAG) Youth Corps. More of these young men and women in uniform could be seen lately as the youth of all classes flocked to the IOAG Youth Corps for opportunity. They were indoctrinated into reverence for the Padshah Empress, and into the unique views of the Imperial Organization for Aerionian Glory, that spoke of the greatness of Aerion and autocracy.

[Excalbia]

Bertrans gave Leravan’s hand a hearty shake and smiled as the Aeronian took his seat. “It’s so nice to see you. It’s been… what? A couple of months at least? Too long.”

The diplomat sipped his coffee, making a mental note that something seemed just slightly… off about his old friend. He also noted the young IOAG Youth Corps member strutting in and wondered at the possible connection. Filing that thought away for later, he leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you if you’ve heard the newest album from the Gunnlaugs Trio.” He waved his hand in the air. “I know it’s been available for streaming for a couple of months now, but - as you well know - other than a live performance there’s nothing like old-fashioned vinyl. I finally received the record in the pouch the other day and I was thinking I should share it with someone who would appreciate it.”

He paused for a moment, then continued. “Are you free this weekend?”

[Aerion]

Leravan looked around the cafe. He responded calmly, "That sounds delightful. I have not heard their album on vinyl yet. Of course. I am free this weekend. I can come over for a visit?" He knew what the visit would likely entail and hoped that the Excalbians would sweep for the various types of bugs and devices used by the Grand Empire.

[Excalbia]

"This weekend would be perfect," Bertrans said with a smile. "Let me know what time works best and I'll have everything ready."

[Aerion]

Inner Court
Imperial Palace
Imperial City
Grand Empire of Aerion

Imperial City's night sky cradled the Imperial Palace like a jeweled crown, its pyramid form rising from concentrically walled districts in defiance of earthly constraints. Along its perimeter, Imperial Standards snapped in the evening breeze—living pennants proclaiming the Pādshah Empress's presence in her seat of power. Within the Inner Court, occupying the pyramid's upper reaches, lay the sanctum of those who wielded the Empire's true might. Here, ten levels below the Imperial Residence that crowned the summit, navigating corridors of power and privilege, lay the domain of Duke Dr. Revane Kassvar, Chief Imperial Advisor to the Pādshah Empress.

Some whispered he was the power behind the throne, though none dared voice such thoughts within earshot of the ISA or loyal imperial subjects. He was their generation's Cardinal Richelieu, their John Dee—a comparison he neither encouraged nor denied. When domestic issues arose, certain factions found it useful to direct blame his way rather than toward the Pādshah Empress, a practice he seemed content to permit.

Through these hallowed halls moved Baroness Ranet Cajsef, Director of Surveillance for the Imperial Security Agency. Her path led through an antechamber where an Eastern Aerionian receptionist—chosen as much for her beauty as her discretion—acknowledged her arrival.

"Duke Kassvar is expecting you," the receptionist murmured. Dr. Kassvar's personal valet was in another office nearby.

The corridor beyond presented an almost ecclesiastical austerity: white marble and plaster illuminated by shadowless light, a studied simplicity that served as prelude to the calculated grandeur beyond.

Dr. Kassvar's office opened like a temple to power itself. The two-story chamber married scholarship with authority: ancient rugs softened marble floors, while carved figures and esoteric symbols animated wooden walls that stretched toward a circling balcony. Massive digital screens dominated two walls—one displaying provincial statistics, the other monitoring the Western Atlantic—their modern analytics hidden at will behind tapestries that aped ancient cartography. Here sat artifacts that belonged in national museums: the wooden Abeshala, mother goddess rendered in ancient hands; the dagger of the first Persian settlers; a crown whose provenance spoke of histories better left unexplored.

The man himself reclined in his armchair like a spider at the center of an elaborate web. Smoke curled from his long pipe, wreathing his square-cut white beard in temporary halos. His features—a blend of Eastern Aerionian, Persian settler, and Caucasian heritage—seemed to embody Aerion's complex bloodlines, while his eyes held the quiet calculation of one who had made statecraft his art.

"Your Grace," Baroness Cajsef bowed, her cat-like features and cold green eyes betraying nothing.

"Let us go somewhere more private," Dr. Kassvar suggested, rising from his chair. Several Imperial officials possessed SCIFs in their offices, in an empire where surveillance was currency, such precautions were essential. Even the great houses of intelligence—the ISA and Imperial Intelligence—maintained elaborate webs of surveillance on each other.

Though Kassvar maintained other secure locations—a Makan Buddhist monastery outside Imperial City, a ceremonial office beyond the Palace walls—meeting here would draw less attention. He reserved those distant sanctuaries for particularly sensitive encounters or those whose social status precluded entry to the Inner Court.

A hidden button revealed a stark corridor leading to two doors. Beyond lay the SCIF, its glass box interior a testament to paranoia elevated to science. Within this TEMPEST room, wrapped in Faraday shielding and soundproofing, even whispers died stillborn.

Once sealed inside, Ranet exhaled softly. "It is becoming difficult to maintain my secret surveillance of Azar from Director-General Naderpour. He is becoming suspicious."

"Let me take care of that," Kassvar replied, his wizened voice carrying the weight of authority.

"Duke Azar visited Black Sky Capital headquarters once again," she continued. "They must have spoken in a secure room as they both went off the radar. This is the fifth time in two months."

"That is his job. He gathers valuable kompromat on the corporate elite in Astevane for Her Imperial Majesty. It could be simply another operation."

"He also made a curious visit to Ardashir Palace that was not part of his official schedule."

"The palace gardens are one of his favorite meeting spots for off the record meetings. That is typical. Who did he meet with?"

Ranet sighed, conscious of the Pādshah Empress's ordered reduction in Ardashir Palace surveillance. "We don't actually know."

Kassvar stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Any funds transfers between Count Kaspar and Azar's Mont de la Lune bank accounts or any other offshore accounts?"

"Not that we can find."

"Any other exchanges?"

"None."

Kassvar shrugged, his shoulders carrying the weight of empire. "Kaspar is the owner of one of the largest hedge funds in the Empire. Her Imperial Majesty wants him watched closely. He is also a very dangerous man because he behaves in such an autonomous way. We have little to no kompromat on him and he is known to have kompromat on Imperial officials. His wealth and influence in the corporate sphere is the only thing that has protected him. I have contemplated advising Her Imperial Majesty of having him arrested, stripped of his titles, and seizing his assets..." His voice trailed into contemplative silence.

Ranet raised an eyebrow. "The ISA is ready to do that at any time. He could be labeled as a traitor in bed with foreign interests. But?"

"Too influential in the corporate sphere," Kassvar shook his head. "It might cause a rebellion among the corporate elite. We can't push that sector too far."

"We have kompromat or at least influence on probably more than half the C-suite executives in Aerion. Just apply pressure."

"It is a delicate ecosystem. We rely on the corporate elite to maintain the economy."

He leaned forward, his next words measured carefully. "Continue to report on Azar's activities only to me. Use my couriers to continue to relay hardcopy reports for my eyes only. I know you will continue to inform me of any ISA machinations on my office. I feel the need to ask again. Are any of my couriers compromised?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"We will continue with my plan for the Empress to appoint you as Director-General. We just need more time. She still receives direct reports from Naderpour. Much to my... displeasure. I know I continue to have your loyalty though."

"Of course, Your Grace. I owe the life I live to you."

"That does remind me. Do you have the dossiers on the contenders for the Chamber of Commerce Presidency? We need to be sure that a loyalist is installed. Someone we have kompromat on."

"I will send those over."

"Very well. Good work my girl. We will have you made Director-General yet. Patience is a virtue as they say."

After Ranet's departure, Kassvar remained in his glass fortress, surrounded by Imperial secrets marked for His Imperial Majesty's Eyes Only. A thin smile played across his lips as he considered Ranet's own surveillance—his people watching his spy who watched his rivals. She remained unaware that some of her direct staff reported to him, another layer in his web of control. In the Empire, trust was a currency too precious to spend freely, and information flowed like blood through the body politic.

The night deepened outside his sanctum, but within the Imperial Palace, the great game continued its eternal dance. For in Aerion's halls of power, secrets were the true coin of the realm, and Dr. Kassvar was its most skilled banker.