Chapter 32: Peace-time Reforms & Rising Backlash
Emperor Arslan Rûmî stood atop the marble balcony of his palace at dawn, eyes sweeping over the awakening City of Light. Below, sunlight spilled along the newly restored aqueducts and glimmered in the basin of the great fountain Soraya and Leilah had engineered a week before. The water spouted crystal-clear, a beacon of hope in the square. Arslan inhaled the morning air—spiced with hearth smoke and orange blossoms from the garden—letting it cleanse the last shadows of war from his lungs.
The city was stirring. Market stall owners rolled up their awnings, children chased each other past temple steps, and a baker's boy balanced trays of fresh bread on his head. Life had returned to Asterion, the City of Light. The scars of siege and rebellion were healing under the mortar of newfound unity. Arslan allowed himself a rare smile as a pair of doves fluttered across the plaza. He had delivered this peace. No longer as John Sullivan, the lost soldier from another world, but truly as Emperor Arslan Rûmî, Lion of the Realm.
A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. "They love you, you know." Lady Soraya bint Karim stepped onto the balcony behind him, her silk slippers whispering on the tiles. The morning sun lit her dusky skin in a gentle glow. Once a harem concubine gifted by a foreign king, Soraya now stood at Arslan's side dressed in a modest emerald robe edged with imperial gold. She followed his gaze to the fountain, where townsfolk were gathering with jars and cups to collect the blessed water. "Thanks to you, they drink without fear."
Arslan shook his head. "Thanks to us. Without you, without all of them—Leilah's genius, Parissa's poetry, Darya's song, Nasrin's diplomacy—none of this would have been possible." He paused. "I only hope the court sees it that way."
Soraya's dark eyes clouded. She laid a hand lightly on Arslan's arm. "The people do. In the streets yesterday, I heard them call Leilah 'water-lady' with adoration. They cheer Darya's name as much as any general's. The common folk accept what their leaders cannot yet imagine." Her tone was gentle but edged with tension.
Arslan covered her hand with his. He could feel the slight tremor in her fingers. "We knew this path wouldn't be easy," he said softly. "Old habits die hard."
Soraya pursed her lips and gave a brief, humorless laugh. "Old habits? The ministers and viziers are treating your new policies as if you announced the sun will rise at night."
Arslan's jaw tightened. He could still see the wary stares of some advisors upon his return to the capital—the same men who had counselled his forefathers now watched him with thinly veiled alarm. "Change frightens them. They've known only one way for generations: an Emperor's harem is for pleasure and politics stays in men's hands. By bringing you—bringing all of you—into matters of state, I challenge the very foundation of their authority."
Behind them, the fountain's waters splashed merrily, oblivious to human concerns. Soraya straightened and squared her shoulders. "Let them be afraid. We earned our place. We bled for this empire just as they did—perhaps more." Her voice steeled, remembering battlefields and narrow escapes on the Western campaign.
Arslan turned to face her fully, lowering his voice. "They'll test us at every turn. Minister Aru barely conceals his displeasure behind polite words. Others like him will scheme in shadows." He reached out and gently brushed a stray copper curl from Soraya's forehead. "I won't let any harm come to you. Or to our sisters."
Soraya searched his face, and he saw both resolve and worry in her eyes. "Nor will we let any harm come to you, my lion." She smiled then—a small but genuine smile that made Arslan's heart ease. "Come. The council awaits. Time to prod the old lions in their den."
In the high council chamber, a hush fell as Emperor Arslan entered with Soraya a step behind. Marble columns lined the walls, inlaid with lapis lazuli and rune-script that glowed soft turquoise. The morning light slanted through a stained-glass dome overhead, painting the gathering of ministers, generals, and scribes in shards of amber and blue.
At the long crescent table below the throne dais stood the imperial council— a dozen of the most powerful men in the empire, and interspersed among them now, five women in veils and elegant court attire. Soraya joined the women at their newly designated seats to the right of the Emperor's chair, a symbolic placement that had already caused murmurs.
Arslan took his carved wooden throne—he never had a taste for the solid gold monstrosity his father favored—and let his gaze drift deliberately over those assembled. General Safid, scarred and broad-shouldered, offered a respectful fist to heart—he had marched with Arslan and Soraya and was firmly loyal. Beside him, Minister Ghalib of the markets managed a courteous nod; the prosperous bazaar after the water project had softened his initial skepticism. Magister Salim, the elderly court mage, leaned on his staff, eyes warm as they settled on Leilah like a proud mentor.
But at the table's far left stood Minister Aru, senior vizier. Aru's face was an unreadable mask of lines, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his dark robe. Only the slight tic at the corner of his jaw betrayed his tension as he avoided meeting Arslan's eyes.
On Arslan's other flank hovered High Priest Basir, dressed in flowing white vestments embroidered with sunbursts. The old priest's lips pressed thin. He had publicly blessed the new waterworks—Arslan's triumph—but in private Basir had voiced unease at the pace of change. He offered a polite bow now, but something guarded lingered in his gaze. Arslan inclined his head in return, respectful. He would need Basir's support in the trying days to come.
Lastly, near Aru, Lord Atash of Qarth watched the Emperor's entrance with keen interest. The foreign ambassador's silk turban and perfumed beard gave him a benign, almost jovial appearance, but Arslan did not trust the small smile that played on Atash's lips. Atash had come to observe, as always, with those hooded falcon eyes of his. The man had delivered the Qarthene concubines as gifts years ago—including Soraya, Leilah, Nasrin, Parissa, Darya, Yvara—but Arslan suspected Atash never imagined those women would now stand as imperial councillors. What did he think of seeing his former "gifts" rise to match him at the table of power? Arslan intended to find out.
A cough from Rashid broke the silence. The chief eunuch stepped forward from his place by the doors, unfurling a parchment scroll. "Council assembly now in session. By decree of His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Arslan, a special agenda shall be heard."
The subdued rustle of curiosity passed through the chamber. Arslan saw Aru's brow arch ever so slightly, and Atash exchange a quick glance with Basir. They were expecting routine matters, perhaps distribution of western campaign spoils or further repairs. Instead, Arslan was about to formalize his concubines' new roles.
Arslan rose from the throne, armor glinting. "Esteemed friends," he began, voice carrying in the vaulted dome. "A week ago, we achieved a great victory within our walls. Not a victory of war, but of peace and enlightenment. The purification of our city's water—long polluted and unfit—now flows clean. This achievement belongs not to one man but to many: the guilds who toiled through the night, the soldiers who labored alongside them, and the brilliant minds who guided the project."
He allowed himself a brief smile toward Leilah, who bowed her head modestly. "Lady Leilah bint Haroun, whose knowledge of runic engineering was instrumental, stands now as an example of what Qarthene wisdom and imperial vision together can accomplish."
Some claps echoed—General Safid's gauntlet against his palm, Magister Salim's cane tapping. Minister Ghalib even gave a "Hear, hear." But Arslan noted Aru remained still, and Atash's smile had thinned.
"In recognition of such service," Arslan continued strongly, "I intend to expand our council beyond its old limits. No longer will wisdom be ignored due to the source it comes from." He looked directly at Basir, then Aru. "I name Lady Leilah as Imperial Scholar-Engineer, advisor on all matters of infrastructure and arcane science."
A louder stir now. Leilah's eyes widened in surprise, though she must have expected something akin. She inclined her head. "I am honored, Majesty," she said softly.
Minister Aru cleared his throat. "Majesty, a question?"
Arslan gestured assent, though he knew to brace. Aru's tone was velvet courtesy over steel.
The vizier bowed slightly, the picture of deference. "None deny Lady Leilah's contributions. They were admirable. However, the Imperial Council's composition is prescribed by tradition and law. Advisors are appointed typically from seasoned statesmen, guild masters, generals... Does His Majesty propose altering that tradition so abruptly?"
Soraya lifted her chin to speak, but Arslan caught her eye and answered first, calm and firm. "I do. Effective immediately. The law empowers the Emperor to appoint special councillors at his discretion. My discretion is to include those most qualified, regardless of gender or origin."
Aru pressed on, a faint sheen on his brow. "Of course, Emperor. Yet, might it not cause… consternation among the court and the populace? Sudden change can be a source of unrest. Perhaps a more gradual—"
"Sudden?" Arslan's voice echoed. He allowed a hint of edge. "There is nothing sudden about rewarding merit and loyalty. Or do you imply the people will rebel because their Emperor seeks the counsel of all his best and brightest subjects?"
Aru opened his mouth, but Nasrin was already gliding forward from Soraya's side. She moved with poised grace, lowering her veil to reveal her elegant features as she addressed the vizier directly. "Minister Aru, as His Majesty says, the people have welcomed these reforms. I have spoken with guild heads and traders daily in the bazaar. They praise the Emperor's vision. Far from unrest, they clamor for more clean water fountains in other districts, more innovation. They see a brighter future." Her voice was melodic yet sharp as a honed knife. "It is only a few here in the palace who cling to the past."
Aru reddened, caught off guard being challenged so openly by a woman. Atash's eyebrows rose in interest at Nasrin's boldness. A whisper ran around the table. Some hid smirks—Minister Ghalib behind his hand, Safid behind a cough.
High Priest Basir interjected now, raising a placating hand. "Change is indeed often righteous, guided by the Light of the Divine." He nodded towards Arslan. "Yet caution is a virtue. We must ensure that in expanding the council, we do not sow confusion. Perhaps if Her Ladyship Nasrin and the others serve in advisory roles outside formal council until the populace adjusts…"
Arslan held up a gauntleted hand, and surprisingly, Basir fell silent. The Emperor's eyes flashed as he looked at the priest. "Holiness, last week you yourself blessed our work as divinely favored. You saw the joy in your parishioners' faces. Would you ask me to hide away the very people who helped deliver that blessing? To pretend their counsel comes to me through closed doors and not at my right hand?"
Basir flushed, fingers worrying the beads of a sunburst amulet across his chest. Before he could answer, Arslan went on, tone softening. "I would never disrespect the Sun Church or our traditions. But leadership requires embracing wisdom wherever it is found. These women you see here—Lady Soraya, Lady Leilah, Lady Nasrin, Lady Parissa, Lady Darya, and Madam Yvara—they are part of this empire's soul now. The people already know their names, sing their praises."
Soraya stepped forward, every inch the imperial partner. "And we remain servants of the empire, not seeki—"
Suddenly the chamber doors banged open. A young guardsman rushed in, panting, and fell to one knee. "Majesty, forgive the intrusion!"
Arslan tensed. The hall's tension spiked at the sight of the alarmed guard. "Speak," he ordered.
The guard rose, face pale. "There is a disturbance in the lower bazaar quarter. A brawl, possibly a riot. Captain Darius requests guidance."
"Darius?" Arslan straightened. The Captain of the Lion Guard was a steady man not prone to alarm. If he sought guidance, something truly unusual was afoot.
"Is it bandits? Another fire?" General Safid barked out, already moving toward the Emperor protectively.
The guard swallowed. "Not bandits, sir. It's… some townsfolk surrounding a pair of women. Screaming that they're witches." He looked uncertainly at Arslan's new female councillors. "They said something about water witches who cursed the fountains."
Leilah gasped softly, and Parissa clutched Darya's hand. Arslan's blood chilled then boiled. So soon. He should have expected backlash wearing a religious mask. His reforms had enemies stoking fear.
Basir frowned deeply, though whether from offense at blasphemy or at the crowd's accusations, Arslan couldn't tell.
Soraya's eyes flashed anger. "Majesty, allow me to—"
Arslan was already descending the dais in a sweep of his cloak. "General Safid, Soraya, with me. Rashid, prepare a detachment." He paused and looked back at the stunned ministers, voice iron. "This council is adjourned until further notice." He fixed Aru with a steely stare, and the vizier dipped his head, expression neutral. Atash folded his arms, watching intently as Arslan strode out with Soraya and Safid.
The last sight as the doors closed was Nasrin's resolute face as she gathered the other women around her, already consoling a shaken Darya. The city might still harbor old fears, but Arslan swore those fears would not harm the ones he cared for. Not on his watch.
Outside in the corridor, Safid barked rapid orders to palace guards to muster. Soraya fell in beside Arslan, matching his urgent strides down the marble steps towards the courtyard. "Witches," she hissed under her breath. "So that's the slur they choose now."
Arslan's face hardened. "They think to break our stride by turning the ignorant against us."
"They might succeed if we're not swift," Soraya warned. "We must show those people the truth before mobs and rumors ferment."
Arslan nodded grimly. Already he could hear distant shouting beyond the palace gates. He gripped the hilt of his lion-headed kilij at his side, feeling the thrum of its runes. "We face lingering shadows of fear, Soraya. If it's a fight they want—" His eyes blazed with determination as they emerged into the bright courtyard, soldiers forming ranks around them. "We'll show them the strength of a new dawn."
Together, Emperor and concubine turned councillor marched to confront the first embers of the conspiracy smoldering in the streets of the City of Light.
Chapter 33: Mob in the Bazaar
Dust swirled in the bazaar's lower quarter as Emperor Arslan arrived on horseback with Soraya and a phalanx of Lion Guard at his back. What had begun as a small market quarrel had swelled into a mob of dozens. Townsfolk brandished sticks and clay jugs, voices heated with panic. The object of their fury: two middle-aged women crouched against a fountain stall, shielding themselves from blows. A bald man in a butcher's apron loomed over them, shaking a carving knife and yelling hoarsely, "Witches! You bewitched the water! My son fell ill after drinking it, curse you!"
The crowd echoed his cries. "Witches!" spat an old crone, waving a rosary of the Sun God. "Dabbling in forbidden runes!" shouted a spice vendor from atop a barrel. Fear ignited their eyes—fear carefully stoked by unseen hands.
Arslan dismounted in one fluid motion, boots striking cobblestone. "Enough!" he roared, voice cutting through the clamor. The mob wavered at the sight of the Emperor himself stepping into their midst, crimson cloak and lion-crested breastplate unmistakable. Sunlight glinted off the rune-etched blade at his side as if the lion pommel were alive with fury.
Behind Arslan, General Safid and Captain Darius fanned soldiers out in a defensive line. Soraya moved at Arslan's shoulder, unveiled, her striking face set in determination.
The butcher whirled, knife raised, chest heaving. For a heartbeat, the throng fell silent, torn between rage and reverence. Here stood their Emperor, the hero who brought peace—yet here too were rumors of witchcraft and danger. Uncertainty rippled through them.
Arslan stepped forward calmly, palms open to show he held no weapon—yet. "What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, gaze taking in the frightened women huddled on the ground. One had blood at her hairline from a thrown stone. They were not witches, just washerwomen still in their work aprons.
A stout baker pointed a shaking finger at the victims. "My neighbor's baby passed out after drinkin' from the new fountain!" he cried. "People say these two put a curse in the water… They were seen near the pipes last night."
One of the accused women sobbed, "We only cleaned laundry at the fountain at dusk! We done nothing!" Her accent was local, her face etched with honest terror.
Soraya's eyes flashed. She raised her voice in clear, authoritative tones, honed addressing camps of soldiers. "And for that you would kill them? On a baseless rumor? What proof have you?"
Murmurs; someone muttered about a whisper in the night that witches would poison their children. The butcher still held his knife aloft. "High Priest Basir ain't never approved no rune sorcery! This water—it ain't natural. Evil hides under its surface, I tell you. We're protectin' our families!"
Arslan knew then: This was no spontaneous panic. Someone had planted these lies, exploiting superstition and the cautious words of priests like Basir. The conspirators were testing him, turning his own people's fear against change. His jaw clenched. Very well, he would answer decisively.
He strode into the center of the mob. "You all know me," he called out, turning in a slow circle to meet their eyes. "I fought and bled for this city. Would I bring you cursed water? Did I not drink from the fountain first in front of all?"
A few in the crowd lowered their heads, recalling the celebration where Arslan himself took the inaugural sip of the cleansed water with a smile. The butcher hesitated, knife faltering.
Arslan pressed a gauntleted hand to his own chest. "If there is any curse, let it fall on me!" In one swift motion, he drew his kilij. Gasps rippled as the Emperor of all the realm brushed dust from her sleeves and handed her off to a waiting palace medic. "No harm will come to you now," he assured them quietly.
Captain Darius's voice boomed as he stepped forward with a dozen armored guards. "Disperse now! By order of the Emperor."
The mob, chastened and confused, began to break apart. The butcher, tears of regret in his eyes, knelt and placed his knife on the ground in surrender. Arslan gestured for a guard to take it. The butcher mumbled, "I'm sorry, Majesty… I thought I was protecting—"
Arslan placed a hand on the man's shoulder, raising him gently from his knees. "Go home. Tend your son. The fever will pass—send for the palace physician, at my expense." The butcher looked up in disbelief and gratitude. Arslan nodded firmly. "Fear has made fools of us all today. But I will not punish a man for trying to defend his child."
The butcher choked out thanks and backed away. As the crowd melted into the alleys, only Arslan's contingent and the two shaken women remained. Soraya exhaled slowly, tension leaving her posture.
Arslan turned to Captain Darius. "Round up anyone who was fervently pushing the witch tale," he ordered in a low voice. "Not the frightened followers, just the agitators who lit the fire."
Darius saluted. He had already discreetly detained a pair of rough-looking young men who had been at the forefront, seizing them as the mob dispersed. They now stood cowed, wrists bound. One had a tattoo of a crescent moon on his inner forearm—Arslan recognized it as a mark associated with the Daughters of Xesh, the cult of assassins that once tried to kill him.
Arslan's eyes narrowed at the sight. Indeed, the conspirators' reach was crawling back from the grave. He addressed the prisoners quietly. "Who put you up to this?"
The man with the tattoo spat at Arslan's feet. "Whore-lover," he snarled, darting a hate-filled look at Soraya. Quick as a viper, Captain Darius slammed the hilt of his sword into the man's gut, dropping him gasping to his knees.
Soraya raised a hand, stopping Darius from further beating. "Answer His Majesty," she demanded of the other captive, a scrawny fellow who appeared more nervous follower than zealot. "Who told you to spread those lies?"
The scrawny man's eyes flickered between the furious captain and Soraya's commanding presence. "I—I don't know names, my lady," he stammered. "A note was left under my door with coin. It said, it said to rally folk against the cursed fountain at sunrise… or else." He swallowed. "We didn't mean real harm. Just scare them a little, to send a message."
"A message from whom?" Arslan pressed.
The man shook his head desperately. "I dunno! Maybe the old priestess's lot? They still want revenge for—for the cult you smashed. Please, mercy, sire. I just needed the coin."
Arslan shared a look with Soraya. The threads were coming together: remnants of the Xesh cult stirring trouble, likely in league with someone who had coin to spare and a desire to undermine the Emperor. Minister Aru's pinched face flashed in Arslan's mind, as did Lord Atash's calculating stare. Traditionalists and foreign agents—an unholy alliance weaving the chaos.
Soraya's jaw was tight. "We will get to the bottom of this," she vowed. She moved closer to Arslan and lowered her voice so only he could hear. "They're probing our defenses. They want to frighten us into halting, or provoke you into overreaction." Her eyes searched his, concerned. He had cut his own palm to quell the crowd; a bandage was wrapped tight around his glove now. "Are you all right?"
Arslan flexed his bandaged hand. The cut was already clotting—he barely felt the sting over the adrenaline in his veins. "I'm fine," he said, then added with a half-smirk, "Though I might need Leilah's salve later, unless you intend to scold me first for self-harm."
Soraya huffed a quiet almost-laugh and squeezed his arm. "You did what you had to." Pride and worry warred in her expression. "But now you see the lengths they will go to. We must hit back cleverly, not just with steel."
Arslan nodded. "We will. But first—" He turned to Safid and Darius. "Lock these two in separate cells. Have the palace interrogator find out everything they know. Quietly."
"Yes, sire!" Safid and the captain barked, dragging the detainees away.
Arslan and Soraya stood a moment amid the now-empty bazaar square. A lonely breeze fluttered scraps of torn pamphlets and spilled spices across the stones. The city felt more subdued, as if chastened by its own outburst. Overhead, the sun continued its climb, oblivious.
Arslan's blood still simmered. The people's fear he could forgive—fear was a weapon cunning men could turn on the innocent. But those cunning men, he would not forgive. "They think I'll cower or compromise," he muttered. "They think using women as targets will weaken my resolve."
Soraya stepped in front of him, gentle fingertips on the emblem of the lion on his breastplate. "They misjudge you. But to stop them, we must know them." Her eyes were hard. "Aru. Atash. Perhaps Basir's hardliner acolytes, or some other snake. We should assume they're working together."
Arslan agreed grimly. He pictured the vizier's carefully blank face as the council ended, and the ambassador's sly interest. The high priest had seemed surprised by the riot news—perhaps not directly involved, but his sermons about traditional gender roles might have indirectly fed such hysteria.
Soraya continued, "We need to draw them out. We need proof." Her mind was already racing ahead; he could practically see the strategies forming behind her eyes.
Arslan took a steadying breath. The anger he felt was laced with a sense of betrayal. These were his counsellors and allies—supposedly. To think they would stoop to fomenting mobs… It wounded him, but he hardened his heart. "I won't let a few jackals tear down what we're building."
He lifted Soraya's hand off his armor and clasped it firmly, their gauntlets clinking. "We'll hunt them in the shadows if need be. But we will outflank these plotters."
Soraya's fierce smile returned. "One move ahead, always."
Arslan nodded, glancing at the bloodstained cobblestones and the now calm fountain. The conspiracy had shown its hand here today and failed. Next time, the enemy would be more dangerous. "Summon Nasrin and Rashid when we return," he said as they headed back toward the palace. "I have an idea."
That midnight, in a secluded wine cellar deep beneath the palace, three figures cloaked in hooded robes convened by flickering torchlight. Outside, a sliver of moon hung in the sky. Inside, the air smelled of spilled ale and mildew—a suitably secret place for traitors to gather.
Minister Aru paced between wine casks, his face half in shadow. "The riot was a blunder," he spat quietly, mindful even stone walls had ears. "The fool instigators lost their nerve and His Majesty himself intervened." Disgust colored the word "Majesty." Aru's normally composed demeanor cracked as he recounted Arslan's dramatic show in the bazaar. "He cut his own hand and charmed them like some storybook hero! Now they love him even more, curse it all."
Across from him, Lord Atash leaned against a cask, arms folded. The Qarthene ambassador's rings flashed in the torch glow as he rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "A setback, yes. But perhaps a valuable one." His voice was smooth and unhurried, carrying the faint accent of the southern deserts.
Aru rounded on him, eyes narrowed. "Valuable? We exposed our intentions prematurely! He'll be on guard now."
Atash arched one thin eyebrow. "The Emperor was always vigilant. Yet now we have tested the temperament of the people. We learned that simple fear-mongering won't turn them against their new savior—at least not yet. No, they adore his heroics too dearly." He almost sounded amused.
Aru clenched his fists. The senior vizier had never before contemplated treason until recent days, but Arslan's radical changes had driven him to desperate counsel. Even so, the failure stung. "Superstitious peasants. We should have used a more credible pretext." He shook his head. "What of the agitators? Were they caught?"
Atash shrugged lightly. "Two, I hear. Low-level thugs, one a leftover from that disbanded cult of the moon goddess." He waved a jeweled hand dismissively. "They know nothing of us. Small risk."
A third voice, raspy and low, emerged from beneath a hood. "I warned you subtlety would only get us so far." From the shadows stepped a gaunt man with a shaved head, half his face covered in burn scars. He wore a simple grey robe with a small embroidered serpent on the sleeve. Though his features were unfamiliar to most, both Aru and Atash knew him as a surviving acolyte of the ousted cult, a liaison from the fanatics who sought restoration of the old order.
Aru sneered. "Your so-called sisters of Xesh accomplished little today aside from rousing the Emperor's wrath."
The scarred man's lips twitched. "Then unleash that wrath fully. Meet fire with fire." He glanced between the vizier and the ambassador, eyes fever-bright. "We have blades eager for the Lion's blood. Call it what it is: assassination."
A hush followed the blunt word. The torches crackled, casting tall shadows.
Atash cleared his throat. "We must consider the consequences. A dead Emperor can be martyred by those wenches he exalts. They might inspire the masses in his name, and then where would we be? Riots, instability… war perhaps."
Aru's gaze dropped to the dirt floor. "We hoped to avoid that. Better to remove him cleanly and replace him with a… more compliant figure, one who can claim legitimacy."
"Yes, your long-lost heir," hissed the scarred cultist. "How goes that little project?"
Aru bristled at the man's tone. The "project" was his ace: an alternative emperor to unite the skeptics and placate the people after Arslan's removal. Aru stepped to a small chest in the corner and retrieved a scroll sealed with an old royal sigil. "The documents are nearly prepared. Birth seals, lineage proof—convincing enough to fool all but the most scrupulous." He allowed himself a thin smile. "When the time comes, we will present the true heir of the Rûmî line. The empire will not be leaderless for even a day."
Atash nodded in approval. "Qarth's networks have located a promising candidate to play the part. A young man of noble blood from the hinterlands, educated and eager for power. He'll do nicely as our puppet king."
The cultist grunted. "Blood of the lion, or some stray jackal dressed in gold—makes no difference to me who warms the throne. So long as Arslan falls."
Aru carefully re-secured the scroll. "Patience. The misstep this morning will make Arslan cautious, but also overconfident that he quelled the unrest." Aru's eyes glinted. "We shall hit him on multiple fronts now, leaving nothing to chance. Fear didn't break the people's love for him, so we must break the Emperor himself."
Atash leaned forward, fingers tented. "You have a plan?"
Aru nodded slowly, clasping his hands behind his back. "Several steps. First, we sow discord within his own court. If we can't sway the masses easily, we target the elite. Some ministers remain undecided—fearful of choosing sides. We feed them lies: that Arslan's changes will bankrupt the treasury or anger the gods enough to bring drought. We lean on Basir's influence subtly to erode support behind closed doors."
The cultist curled his lip. "And while you gossip over tea, my sisters grow restless."
Aru shot him a glare. "Second," he continued, voice colder, "we make an attempt on his life—quietly. Poison. A method that has toppled many a lion."
Atash tapped his chin. "Poison… elegant. Less messy than steel. Do you have a delivery vector?"
Aru allowed himself a thin, humorless smile. "The Emperor has announced a banquet in three nights' time to pardon the western rebel lords who surrendered. A gesture of mercy to quell remaining tensions. All the court will be there drinking and celebrating Arslan's benevolence." Aru nearly spat the last word. "We ensure that a cup is prepared for him—a special vintage from Qarth, perhaps?—that will end the night with a tragic toast."
Atash inclined his head. "I can arrange a potent toxin from Qarth's alchemists. Tasteless, deadly within minutes. And I have just the servant in the palace kitchen who owes me a life debt. Consider it done."
The scarred cultist smiled a crooked, predatory smile. "If that fails?"
Aru's eyes hardened. "If by some miracle he survives or the attempt is foiled, we proceed to open insurrection. That is when we unveil our heir and rally any disaffected garrisons. By then the Emperor will be weakened, suspecting nothing until too late. We will strike at night, eliminate his closest allies—especially those damned harem women—and secure the palace. Come dawn, our puppet is proclaimed sovereign under 'divine will' to restore order."
The cultist bowed his head, satisfied. "Now you speak our language."
Atash pushed off from the cask, adjusting his robes. "It is a bold gambit, Minister. It will require flawless coordination. Qarth will support you—from the shadows, of course. We prefer this empire stable and pliant. But if you mishandle this… there will be great cost." His tone was polite, but the threat underneath was unmistakable.
Aru bristled but nodded curtly. "I understand." He looked to both of them. "We all know our parts. Let us go, before we're missed."
"One last thing," rasped the cultist. "The Captain of the Lion Guard—Darius. He's proven loyal to Arslan. If we move openly, he and his guards will fight. My people can target him early, but be wary. He's skilled."
Aru paused. The name Darius always gave him a pang—something about the captain unsettled him at times, but he brushed it aside. "Distract him. Lure him away when we act. If he dies, so be it."
Atash held up a finger. "Preferably not. A dead Captain of the Guard, widely respected, could rally unwanted sympathy. Better to send him off on an errand outside the city on some pretext before the coup. I may concoct a diplomatic mission that conveniently removes him."
"Fine," Aru conceded, pulling his hood back up. "Now go, both of you. We reconvene after the poison is administered."
The three conspirators exchanged terse nods and made their exit through separate passages—Aru through a hidden corridor back into the palace, Atash out to the ambassadorial carriage waiting by the servants' gate, and the cultist slipping into the labyrinthine tunnels that riddled the city.
In the gloom of the abandoned cellar, the torch flame sputtered and died, leaving only darkness—and the faint echo of treachery in its wake.
Chapter 34: Counter-Plotting
Back within the palace that same afternoon, Arslan wasted no time. In a private solar overlooking the palace gardens, he convened an urgent war council of his own—though not of generals and knights, but of the women whose counsel he trusted most. Soraya, Nasrin, Leilah, Parissa, Darya, and the matronly Yvara gathered around a low table carved with arcane motifs. Rashid hovered by the door, quill and parchment ready, eyes keen behind his gentle demeanor.
Arslan leaned forward, forearms on his knees. A map of the city lay spread before them, tokens marking key locations. He tapped a figurine placed on the bazaar quarter. "Today's riot was no accident. It was orchestrated—likely by Minister Aru and whoever conspires with him. We quelled it, but it's clear our enemies are moving."
Yvara's face was drawn as she poured tea for the group with steady hands. "I cannot fathom that Aru would incite a mob," she said softly. Yvara had seen decades of court intrigue; her voice carried sorrow at the depth of treachery implied. "Yet the proof is before us."
Nasrin's dark eyes flashed. "Aru and his ilk see their power threatened. They will do anything to reclaim it, even burn the city." There was a bite of personal betrayal in her tone—Aru had once been a mentor to Nasrin in court etiquette when she first arrived from Qarth, but clearly that goodwill was gone.
Parissa sat with fingers interlaced tightly. "We must root out their networks—cut off coin and support." The poetess's earlier jealousy had transformed into fierce loyalty; now she brimmed with indignation that anyone would harm her newfound purpose.
Leilah adjusted her spectacles, ever composed. "Do we have evidence linking Aru or others directly? We cannot accuse the vizier of treason lightly without proof to show the council or people."
"Evidence, no," Arslan admitted. "Suspicions, yes. But we intend to obtain proof." He gave Nasrin a nod.
Nasrin straightened. Her diplomatic poise shifted to one of cunning. "I have contacts among the merchants, Majesty. Whispers on the trade winds speak of unusual funds moving—gold spent to hire… unsavory help, bribes to street preachers to denounce the water project and our involvement. The financiers behind these bribes hide through intermediaries, but money trails always leave a scent."
Soraya picked up the thread. "We propose to draw them out—those holding the purse strings." She unfurled a small parchment on which she and Nasrin had sketched a plan while returning from the bazaar. "Tomorrow night, we host a charity auction in the Moon-Market."
Darya looked up from soothing a melody on her lute—she often plucked strings softly when thinking. "The Moon-Market? The night bazaar outside the old citadel?" Her voice was quiet, but curiosity glinted in her eyes.
"Yes," Nasrin confirmed. "It's neutral ground—public, lively, with many attendees. We'll announce it on short notice as a benevolent whim of the Emperor's harem: an auction to raise funds for war widows and orphans." Nasrin allowed herself a small, sly smile. "It will seem like a harmless charitable event. But behind the scenes, every bid, every donor's pledge, will be carefully observed."
Arslan saw the outline. "You hope conspirators will show themselves through their actions at the auction?" He trusted these women, but he wanted clarity.
Soraya explained, "If Aru or his agents are funneling money to undermine us, they might attempt to influence or sabotage the auction. Perhaps they'll try to insert their own funds to gain favor or divert the charity gold to their ends. Or they'll use proxies to make outrageous bids aimed at impressing or manipulating us."
Nasrin's eyes gleamed. "And we will be ready. I have a network of informants among the traders—some owe me favors. They will help us identify any suspicious bidders or attempts to disrupt things."
Parissa added eagerly, "We can employ coded signals. For instance, if a bid comes from someone known to be mere a front for a vizier, we might respond with a specific phrase or gesture to alert our observers."
Arslan felt a swell of pride. Here were his once-sidelined concubines, strategizing like seasoned spymasters. He looked to Rashid. "Arrange everything needed for a grand auction tomorrow night. Discreetly extend invitations to all wealthy guildsmen, nobles, and foreign envoys in the city. Emphasize the Emperor supports this charity fully."
Rashid bowed, a slight smile on his normally impassive face. "At once, Majesty. It shall appear as the most genuine of philanthropic galas."
Soraya raised a finger. "One more element. We'll plant a lure specifically for Aru."
At that, Rashid reached into his robe and produced a thin ledger book. Its cover bore the seal of the Imperial Treasury. Soraya continued, "This ledger is a replica of the palace accounts for discretionary funds—the sort ministers like Aru sometimes dip into. We've taken the liberty of doctoring it."
Leilah's eyebrows rose. "Doctoring it how?"
Rashid opened the ledger to reveal entries in neat script. "It shows a sizable sum apparently allocated to the 'Moon-Market Orphans Fund' by Minister Aru's office, without imperial approval. In short, it makes it look as if Aru has been secretly siphoning funds to support this very event—likely a red flag for any auditor."
Nasrin tapped the page. "It's false, of course. But if Aru or his agents catch wind this ledger will be at the auction, they might panic and try to steal or destroy it to cover 'his' tracks—tracks we created. By reacting, they expose their guilt."
Arslan couldn't suppress a chuckle at the audacity. It was a risky play—baiting the tiger in his den—but Aru's pride and paranoia would likely compel him to take the bait. "Excellent. Just ensure the real financial records are secure elsewhere to avoid any genuine harm."
Rashid nodded. "The authentic ledger is under triple lock in my office, sire. This one is… theatre."
Soraya gently closed the book. "We'll carry out the play in full tomorrow. Parissa and Darya, you'll provide entertainment to set the mood. Keep eyes and ears open as you do—many speak freely when they think only music hears them."
Darya clutched her lute to her chest. "I will compose something lively to encourage generous spirits," she said softly.
Parissa flashed a confident grin. "And I shall perform an original poem extolling charity, lulling any vipers present into complacency."
Leilah gave a small smile. "I suppose my role is minor this time?"
Arslan shook his head. "Not at all. I need you and Magister Salim to quietly ensure no eavesdropping runes or magical mischief is used by others at the event. If Aru has any court mage on his side, they might attempt spells."
Leilah straightened, pleased to contribute. "Consider it done. I'll weave subtle wards around the venue—no one will scry us without our knowing."
With the plan agreed, Arslan stood. Each of them had their part. He placed his hands on the table and looked at each face in turn—Soraya's resolute, Nasrin's keen, Leilah's thoughtful, Parissa's ardent, Darya's determined, Yvara's calm. "Be careful," he said quietly. "Our enemies will not hesitate to harm any of us if they sense what we're doing. But they underestimate us—at their peril."
Yvara smiled kindly, patting Arslan's arm as a mother might a concerned son. "We will be ready, Majesty. Together."
The next night, the Moon-Market lived up to its name. Beneath a full silver moon, the night bazaar glowed with hanging lanterns and enchanted fairy lights. The marketplace, usually a bustling chaos of traders hawking spices and silks, had been transformed into an open-air auction hall. Rich carpets covered the ground. A temporary stage stood at the center, draped in velvet, where the items for charity auction were displayed. Perfumes of jasmine and sandalwood wafted through the cooling air, mingling with the mouth-watering scent of grilled meats from nearby stalls.
Dozens of Asterion's elite and wealthy mingled with curiosity-seekers at the fringes. The event's sudden announcement had caused a stir, but the promise of the Emperor's own concubines hosting and rare treasures on sale drew them in droves. Jewel-bedecked nobles rubbed shoulders with prosperous blacksmiths and guild heads. Even a few foreign envoys circulated—Lord Atash of Qarth was there in a conspicuous embroidered robe, smiling diplomatically as he chatted in a circle of merchants. His eyes, however, kept darting toward the stage and to the veiled women in imperial colors moving through the crowd.
On the dais, Nasrin stood with regal poise, serving as the auctioneer for the night. Clad in a flowing indigo gown with gold filigree, she radiated charm. To her left, Soraya sat in what could only be described as a throne-like chair, observing everything. She was unveiled—tonight she wanted no barrier between her and those whose faces she studied. Her presence lent the event imperial imprimatur, and many guests snuck awed glances at the famed "Lady Soraya" who had ridden to war and now presided over charity.
At the stage's right side, Parissa and Darya provided ambiance. Darya plucked a gentle, enchanting melody on a santur (a dulcimer-like instrument), its notes dancing through the night air. Parissa waited beside her, ready to recite verses between auction lots to extol the virtues of generosity. Leilah drifted subtly at the market edges, ostensibly admiring wares, but in truth she was tracing her fingers along wooden columns and carts, activating small runes she'd inscribed to detect any hidden spells. She sensed none so far; the magical coast was clear.
"Esteemed friends!" Nasrin's voice rang out, clear as a bell, silencing the murmurs. "Welcome to this moonlit gathering of goodwill. Tonight, by grace of His Majesty, we auction rare delights from the imperial vaults and generous donors. All proceeds will aid the widows and orphans of the recent wars. Your kindness tonight will become their hope tomorrow."
A polite cheer rose. Many clapped; a few drunken guildsmen whooped.
Soraya nodded in approval at Nasrin's graceful introduction. Her eyes swept the throng. She noted Minister Aru standing towards the back, half-hidden behind a column. He wore a simple dark cloak as a disguise, but Soraya knew his silhouette and hawkish nose. He had come, likely to observe or intervene quietly. Atash she spotted as well—no disguise at all, he relished the social aspect, though she suspected he too was here with ulterior motives.
In a shadow by the apothecary's stall, Soraya also glimpsed the scarred half-face of the cultist agent, the same man who had met Aru in secret. She restrained a shiver. So all players were present.
Rashid, blending in as an "attendant" by the stage, caught Soraya's subtle hand signal—a casual flick of her fingers. It meant: all key targets sighted.
Rashid gently tapped a coded rhythm on a goblet he held—within earshot of Parissa and Darya on stage. It was an old palace signal. Parissa's ear caught it; she acknowledged by beginning a poem aloud:
"Under moon's silver gaze, hearts reveal
Charity's truth no mask can conceal…"
The words were a cue to the informed. Soraya glanced towards a knot of palace servants mingling as valets—they moved casually to cover each exit from the market, ensuring no quick escapes.
The auction began. Nasrin unveiled the first item: a finely wrought astrolabe, gleaming brass and crystal, said to be enchanted to always point toward home. Bidding started modestly. A guild merchant offered 50 gold dinars. A noblewoman raised to 80. The mood was light, convivial—no one wished to appear stingy under the Emperor's eye.
From the back, a voice cut through: "Two hundred gold." Gasps murmured. The bidder stepped forward: It was Lord Atash, smiling broadly as if making a magnanimous gesture.
"Qarth would contribute to this noble cause," Atash proclaimed. "The widows and orphans of Asterion are friends of Qarth as well." He bowed theatrically toward Soraya and Nasrin.
Nasrin kept her pleasant auctioneer's mask, but Soraya noted the glint in the ambassador's eyes. Two hundred was far above the astrolabe's value. Atash was testing, performing generosity to curry favor—or to inflate totals so his own agents could later claim mismanagement?
"Two hundred gold, from His Excellency Lord Atash of Qarth," Nasrin acknowledged with a gracious nod. "Any advance on two hundred?" The original bidders demurred, shaking heads. "Going once, twice… sold! To Lord Atash." Polite applause followed, and the Qarthene ambassador inclined his head as servants moved to record his pledge.
Rashid made sure to annotate that hefty donation in the ledger for all to see.
The auction continued. A set of damascus steel knives, a bolt of rare shimmering sky-silk, a baby griffin feather said to bring luck—each item drew excited bids. Parissa interjected brief poems praising each artifact's cultural history, charming the crowd further.
Soraya, though outwardly serene, was running through a mental checklist. Atash had played his part: the affable foreign patron. But she suspected darker motives behind his gold. Perhaps to later claim influence, or simply to watch Aru squirm as Qarth overshadowed him even in treachery?
Her gaze flickered to Aru. The vizier in disguise hovered near the refreshment tent where wine and sherbets were served. A servant passed near him carrying a tray of dates. Aru caught the servant's elbow under the pretense of taking a date, and whispered something. The servant, a young man with a nervous look, nodded and moved on—toward the stage. Soraya's heart quickened. That must be Aru's agent.
As the servant neared Rashid, Soraya signaled subtly with a turn of her wrist. Rashid adjusted course to intercept. The young man tried to slip behind the stage curtains—where the ledger chest was kept. In a flash, Rashid was at his side. "Can I help you, lad?" he asked kindly, resting a hand on the man's shoulder in a gesture that was simultaneously friendly and iron.
The servant gulped, caught off guard. "I—I'm here to retrieve the donations ledger for the record-keeper, s-sir," he stammered, eyes flicking towards where Aru lurked.
Rashid smiled, all courtly grace. "Of course. I can handle that. Why don't you fetch some water for our auctioneer instead? She must be parched." Without waiting for answer, Rashid guided the man firmly away from the backstage area, relieving him of the notion entirely.
Soraya hid a smirk behind her hand. Aru's man foiled so easily; the vizier would be stewing.
Indeed, Aru's face darkened in the shadows as his servant shuffled back empty-handed. The vizier clenched his jaw. Plan B, Soraya could all but hear him thinking.
On stage, Nasrin announced the next lot: "A collection of illuminated manuscripts from ancient Carth, starting at one hundred gold."
A corpulent textile magnate shouted "One-fifty!" Another raised to one-seventy.
Then came a silky voice: "Five hundred gold."
A collective gasp. Minister Aru stepped forward, hood thrown back to reveal his identity, a false smile plastered on his face. "Forgive my eagerness," he said smoothly into the stunned silence. "But as Imperial Minister, I cannot stand idle while others display such generosity. I offer five hundred gold for our empire's widows."
The sheer size of the bid—and coming from Aru, known for penny-pinching—sent whispers rippling. Soraya's eyes narrowed. This was bold; Aru was up to something. And if she guessed right, it wasn't about charity at all. Five hundred was meant to dominate all contributions—perhaps to later accuse the harem of wasting funds, or to dissuade others from donating further so the event looked like a flop aside from his magnanimity.
But Soraya adapted swiftly. She rose from her seat, gliding to Nasrin's side. "Truly, a noble gesture!" Soraya proclaimed, voice bright. "How fortunate the empire is to have Minister Aru's support."
Aru stiffened; he had not expected public praise. The crowd clapped uncertainly, unsure if Aru's surprising appearance meant the Emperor endorsed this or if it was political theater.
Soraya took the manuscripts in hand and descended the stage toward Aru. Every eye followed. "Please, Minister, come accept your prize."
Aru had no choice but to step forward. Soraya leaned in as if to show him one of the manuscript pages, and whispered so only he could hear, "The Emperor will be so pleased by your personal investment, my lord. We shall be sure the widows know whom to thank." There was a subtle bite in her tone that promised to unravel Aru's false virtue.
Aru's nostrils flared; his smile tightened. He responded under his breath, "Enjoy this performance while it lasts, Lady Soraya."
Soraya drew back, smiling warmly for onlookers as she handed the manuscripts to him. "We thank you, Minister Aru, for your most gracious contribution," she said aloud.
As Aru retreated, flustered at being put in the spotlight he hadn't truly wanted, Soraya caught Nasrin's eye. Nasrin gave the slightest nod. The plan was working—Aru was rattled. Likely he came tonight planning to sabotage quietly, but now found himself entangled in a public show of generosity he never intended. It would be harder for him to claim the Emperor's women were misusing funds when he had personally donated a king's ransom and been applauded for it.
Parissa began another poem to soothe the odd moment, praising unity between ministers and harem alike for the good of the realm. The crowd relaxed once more, the incident turning into a feel-good story rather than conflict.
Behind the scenes, though, another drama unfolded. That same young servant, rebuffed by Rashid earlier, had circled round behind a tapestry near the stage, eyeing the small chest where the charity ledgers and scribbled notes of bids were kept. He believed this chest contained the incriminating ledger implicating Aru, not realizing it was a plant. The servant waited until Rashid moved off to coordinate the final items, then made his move.
In one swift motion, the servant darted from behind the tapestry, grabbed the leather-bound ledger from the chest, and bolted towards the alley behind the market.
He did not get far. A tall figure stepped from the alley mouth like an apparition. It was Captain Darius, lurking unseen until now as extra security. Darius clotheslined the fleeing servant with one muscular arm, sending the smaller man sprawling in the dust, ledger flying from his grasp.
Before the servant could scramble up, Darius had a boot on his back and the ledger in his hand. "Going somewhere with that?" he growled quietly. In the moonlight, the captain's scar across his cheek looked particularly menacing.
The servant whimpered. "I… I was told… my master—"
Darius hauled the man up by his collar and frog-marched him back towards the market square. The servant's struggles ceased as he realized powerful arms held him.
Meanwhile, the last auction item was concluding—a pair of exquisite pearl earrings donated by Soraya herself, sold for a high sum to a noble house matron. Nasrin declared the evening a success, thanking all participants. Polite goodbyes were being said and guests beginning to disperse into the pleasant night with hearts warmed by philanthropy and entertainments.
Aru had already vanished, likely eager to extricate himself after his performance. Atash too took leave, offering effusive farewells and promises to send the gold promptly.
Soraya, stepping down from the stage, regrouped with Parissa, Darya, and Leilah. "Well done, everyone," she murmured. "We have given them much to think about."
Parissa chuckled, fanning herself. "Minister Aru looked like he swallowed a lemon when you praised him."
Darya allowed a small proud smile. "And our code signals went unnoticed by all but our targets."
Leilah added, "No spellcraft detected aside from my own. They tried nothing arcane here, it seems."
Soraya exhaled in relief. One battle of wits won, but the war was not over. "Let's find Nasrin and Rashid to—"
"Looking for me?" came Nasrin's voice as she and Rashid approached, flanking the subdued servant that Captain Darius had caught. Darius walked behind, the confiscated ledger tucked under an arm.
"We caught a little mouse," Rashid said quietly, pushing the young man forward. In the throng of departing attendees, no one took special notice of this aside, mistaking it for an unruly servant being disciplined.
The servant trembled before the circle of imperial allies. Nasrin's gaze was as cold as the moon above. "Who sent you for the ledger?"
The man's eyes darted, perhaps seeking Aru's shape in the crowd, but the vizier was gone. "I… I serve Minister Aru," he admitted in a shaking voice. "He ordered me to retrieve any records of… of donations." He hung his head, knowing he was caught.
Nasrin plucked the ledger from Captain Darius's hand and flipped it open. She gave a soft amused snort. "This is a list of tonight's bidders and their pledges. Nothing scandalous at all." She raised an eyebrow. "Why would the Minister be so keen to get this, hmm?"
The servant opened and closed his mouth. "I—I do not know. He just said bring him the book that was in the chest."
Soraya stepped closer, her voice like silk hiding steel. "Run back to your master, little mouse. Tell him you found nothing but lists of charity pledges. Can you remember that?"
The man nodded frantically. "Yes, my lady! Nothing but pledges, yes." Relief mixed with fear in his face.
Captain Darius released his grip slightly. "Go." He gave the servant a light shove and the man scurried into the alley, disappearing like a rat into the night.
Parissa frowned. "You let him go? He'll tell Aru we were onto him."
"Precisely," Soraya said, watching the alleyway where the man vanished. "Aru will grow more anxious, thinking what else we might know. He'll likely push his timetable forward, become reckless."
Arslan emerged then from the side of the stage. He had remained largely out of sight during the event, trusting them to run it. Now he'd heard enough. "Well executed," he commended softly. He looked at each of them—especially Soraya—with open admiration. "You drew out Aru, and gleaned confirmation of his schemes."
Rashid held up the false ledger. "Our trap was taken, sire. The fish is nibbling at the hook."
Arslan nodded gravely. "Then it's time to reel him in."
He motioned for them to gather closer, speaking low. "I suspect they plan something more direct soon. We must be ready. Leilah—tomorrow, I need you to prepare the ley-grid trick we discussed."
Leilah's eyes lit behind her spectacles. "The eavesdropping warding? Yes, Majesty. I'll be prepared by nightfall."
Arslan turned to Parissa. "There is a banquet in two evenings—a formal pardon ceremony. I have reason to believe our enemies will attempt something there. Parissa, I may need you to perform with a very particular message, if I give the signal."
Parissa bowed her head, understanding at once. "My pen is at your service, sire. I can weave warning into wonder."
Arslan looked to Darya. "And you—if trouble breaks out, you know what to do." Darya swallowed but set her jaw and nodded. She knew; her steady rhythm or sudden change in melody could rally the right people if chaos struck.
Lastly, Arslan offered his arm to Soraya. "And you, my lady. Keep doing as you have—staying three steps ahead of them. Your wit is as vital as any blade I carry."
Soraya accepted his arm, a smile touching her lips. "We've got the shadows on the run, Arslan. They won't know where the next light shines from."
In the distance, the final guests drifted away under the moonlight, laughing lightly, unaware of the quiet battle that had played out among them. The Emperor and his unlikely council of former concubines walked together from the Moon-Market, unified in purpose. The night breeze was cool and refreshing after the heated intrigues, and above, the moon shone bright—a silver coin in a sky of promise and peril.
Chapter 35: Eavesdropping on Treason
Midnight found Leilah bint Haroun standing at the heart of the Grand Ley Nexus beneath the palace— the mystical engine that powered Asterion's lights and enchantments. The vast circular chamber hummed with energy. Arrays of rune-inscribed obelisks encircled a central well of blue-white light that pulsed like a living thing. Faint arcs of luminescence crackled between the stones, illuminating Leilah's determined face in ghostly radiance.
Arslan and Soraya watched from the periphery of the nexus chamber alongside Magister Salim and Captain Darius. They maintained a respectful distance as Leilah worked; even Arslan, who had helped repair this nexus in a previous act of heroism, knew better than to disrupt a runesmith at her craft.
Leilah stood at an obelisk etched with complex sigils representing sound and secrecy. She rolled up the sleeves of her scholarly robe and carefully traced new symbols between the existing ones with a piece of chalk infused with silver and crushed lapis. As she drew, she murmured incantations under her breath, ancient words causing each fresh mark to glow then sink into the stone.
Beads of sweat formed on Leilah's brow from the concentration. Tiny motes of light—like fireflies—gathered around her fingertips, dancing with each stroke. She was braiding spells into the nexus itself: weaving silence and listening in tandem. The goal was daring—to mute certain areas of the city to the conspirators' hearing while transmitting their voices back here, to the Emperor.
Soraya clasped her hands tight as she observed. Though she had no gift for runes, she admired the quiet confidence in Leilah's movements. The bookish concubine looked almost otherworldly, auburn hair escaping her hood to float in static-charged air. This was Leilah's battlefield, and she met it without fear.
At last, Leilah pressed both palms to the obelisk and spoke a final word of power. The entire ring of stones flared in unison, then dimmed to a steady, subtle glow. Leilah stepped back, a little breathless. "It's done," she announced softly.
Arslan moved to her side, concern in his eyes as he offered an arm to steady her. "Are you well?"
Leilah nodded, though her breath came quick. "Yes… just a bit winded, Majesty. The nexus always tests one's limits." She managed a faint smile. "We've tapped into the two largest ley-lines crossing the palace and the vizier's quarter. Any secret gathering or communication there should echo here now. And they won't sense our presence—my silence-runes will cloak our eavesdropping."
Magister Salim stroked his white beard, examining the glowing runes with admiration. "Exquisite work, my dear. You've surpassed my teachings." Leilah flushed at the praise.
Arslan gently squeezed Leilah's shoulder in thanks, then motioned to Rashid, who waited by a carved pedestal in the center of the chamber. Atop the pedestal sat a wide shallow basin of polished silver—an amplification dish used for nexus monitoring. "Rashid, begin attunement," Arslan ordered.
Rashid nodded and poured a small vial of mercury into the dish. The silvery liquid pooled and shimmered. He whispered a trigger phrase Leilah had given him, and the liquid began to ripple, forming patterns in response to distant vibrations.
The nexus chamber fell silent as all listened. For a long moment, only the soft thrum of magical energy was audible. Then, gradually, voices emerged from the dish—distorted at first, like hearing through water, but then clearer as Rashid adjusted a dial of runic symbols at the pedestal base.
"…telling you, we must strike at the banquet without fail," came a terse whisper. Arslan recognized Aru's curt cadence at once.
Another voice answered, refined and unhurried—Atash. "Everything is prepared. The wine will flow, and with it, the venom. He will be dead before the first course is cleared."
Soraya and Arslan exchanged a tense glance. Even expecting this, hearing it confirmed sent a chill through them.
In the silver basin, the mercury swirled and cast an image above its surface—a hazy projection of a lamplit interior. Three figures were discernible: Minister Aru pacing in a long robe, Lord Atash seated with legs crossed, and the scarred cult agent lurking by a doorway. They appeared to be in a private study—likely Aru's own, given the shelves of ledgers and law books on the walls.
"I still advise eliminating the harem witches at the same time," hissed the scarred man. "If they live, they'll rally others to avenge him. My knives can cross the palace on signal."
Aru raised a hand sharply, trying to maintain control. "And they will. But first the Emperor dies—quietly, with plausible deniability. We've gone to pains to make it look like a tragic accident. An aging cask of Qarthene wine turned to toxin, how unfortunate." His lips curled in a cruel smile. "With Arslan gone, panic will do the rest. In the confusion of grief, our operatives—your 'knives'—will dispatch the women and any other key loyalists who might challenge the succession."
Captain Darius stiffened at Aru's words, hand drifting to the pommel of his sword. Arslan placed a calming hand on his arm. They needed to hear everything first.
Atash leaned forward, fingers tented. "The High Priest has been invited to give a benediction at the banquet, correct?"
"Yes," Aru said. "Basir will be there, but he's not part of this. He's too pious to dirty his hands. Still, when our heir comes forward in the aftermath, Basir will come around to bless him to avoid chaos."
The cultist made a low, displeased sound. "Basir's absence in planning is a loose thread. Unpredictable."
Atash waved it off. "The old priest cares about stability above all. Once our new emperor is presented, Basir will bless him rather than see the empire leaderless. Fear not."
Soraya's hand found Arslan's in the semi-darkness of the nexus chamber and gripped it. A sign of solidarity as they listened to their enemies plot his murder.
In the projection, Aru stopped pacing and unrolled a small scroll on his desk. "Our 'prince' is safely hidden at the old summer pavilion outside the city. He'll be brought in at dawn after the deed, escorted by a cadre of household guards we've bought." He tapped the scroll. "The documents here will establish his identity as my late Emperor's elder son—concealed at birth for safety, now come to claim his rightful crown." His tone was bitterly sarcastic on the word rightful.
Atash's smile was thin. "You play a dangerous game forging the royal lineage, Minister."
Aru shot him a venomous look. "It was your idea to use a puppet heir, Lord Atash. And it will work—Rashid and the scribes won't have time to dispute in the chaos. By the time any realize the papers are forged, it will be too late. Our man will be on the throne with the backing of the capital garrison and Qarth's endorsement."
Atash inclined his head, conceding. "Yes. Qarth's gold has lubricated the right palms among the palace guard and city watch. They will step aside when the moment comes. A few might even join our cause outright, hoping the new regime favors them."
The cultist interjected, voice eager and chilling, "What of the Lion Guard? Captain Darius and his men?"
Aru drummed his fingers on the desk. "The good captain is being sent on a wild goose chase." He permitted himself a small chuckle. "At tomorrow's dawn, he departs the city leading a contingent to investigate a fictitious bandit resurgence in the western hills. By the time he realizes there are no bandits, our business here will be finished."
In the nexus, Darius cursed under his breath, anger and frustration evident. Arslan squeezed his shoulder. "They won't get rid of you so easily," Arslan promised in a low whisper. Darius gave a determined nod, vowing to be present no matter the ruse.
Back to the disembodied voices: Atash stood in the projection, preparing to leave. "Poison at the banquet. Assassins in the night. The heir at dawn." He brushed invisible dust from his robes. "By noon tomorrow, Emperor Arslan will be a memory, his creatures purged, and a new era dawn."
The cultist's lips peeled in a death's-head grin. "All praise to that."
Aru nodded briskly. "We convene one hour before the banquet in the antechamber to ensure all final details. The wine will be uncorked at the third toast. Be ready."
The conspirators began to disperse. Atash moved toward the door, the cult agent melting into a side passage like a phantom. Aru remained a moment, staring at a portrait hanging on his wall—a stern depiction of Arslan's father, the late Emperor. Aru bowed his head slightly to it, murmuring, "Forgive me, old friend, but your cub must be put down for the good of the empire." With that, he snuffed a taper on his desk, and the room plunged into darkness.
The image in the mercury bowl wavered and faded as the nexus relayed no further sound. Silence fell in the chamber save for the crackle of energy and the breathing of those present.
Arslan realized he had been holding his breath. He released it slowly, eyes burning with focused wrath. They had just overheard each step the traitors would take. The trap was laid—but now, forewarned, he would turn it on their heads.
Soraya was first to speak, her voice hushed but fierce: "We have them. They think tomorrow night will be their triumph. Instead, it will seal their doom."
Arslan nodded. "We know their plan intimately now: the poison, the assassins, the false heir… even the timing. It's almost too much good fortune." A grim smile tugged at his lips. "But I'll take it. Now we must move swiftly."
He turned to Captain Darius. "They aim to send you away at dawn, Captain, likely with some official letter commanding you to chase phantoms. When that order comes—"
"—I'll feign compliance," Darius interrupted, eyes blazing. "Then circle back with my men under cover of night. We'll be hidden but near the palace when needed."
"Exactly," Arslan said. "Leilah, can your runes mask the movements of Darius's Lion Guard platoon? Keep them from being detected by any watchers or spells?"
Leilah wiped her brow, fatigue tempered by determination. "I can extend a dampening field to their approach paths. Their armor and arms will make no more sound than a kitten's footsteps, and no scrying will spot them. But I'll need to inscribe talismans for each man—tonight."
Magister Salim stepped forward. "I will assist Lady Leilah. Together, we'll have those talismans ready by dawn." The old mage's voice was firm; despite his age, his loyalty burned bright. This was clearly beyond mere politics now—this was about protecting the realm from treachery.
"Thank you," Arslan said gratefully. "Rashid, you'll quietly tighten security around the harem and key loyalists come tomorrow evening, but make it appear routine. We don't want to tip them off that we expect trouble."
Rashid bowed, a hand over his heart. "I shall have the eunuch guard on high alert discreetly, sire. And I'll see to it none of the conspirators' agents get near the harem wing."
Arslan's mind raced down the list. Poison at the banquet: they'd have to neutralize it without alerting the plotters prematurely. Assassins at night: ensure defenses and traps to catch them. The heir at dawn: expose the fraud publicly to strip the traitors of legitimacy.
"Soraya, Parissa," he said, turning to them, "the banquet will be our first battleground. We must foil the poison in a way that reveals the traitors or at least preserves evidence."
Soraya's eyes glinted. "We already laid groundwork. Parissa's poem can carry a covert warning to our loyal guards among the guests. Once she signals, we can have a cupbearer swap the tainted wine or intercept it."
Parissa nodded. "I'll craft an acrostic or hidden message that our men will understand, telling them which decanter is poisoned perhaps." Her poet's mind was already whirring. "Or better yet, a line that prompts a trusted taster to volunteer at just the right moment."
Arslan grimaced at the idea of someone tasting poison, even a taster, but Soraya interjected, "We have antidotes from the royal apothecary for many known toxins. If Atash sources a Qarthene poison, we likely have its countermeasure on hand. We'll dose a taster in advance just in case, to be safe. He'll survive even if he sips."
Arslan accepted that plan with a curt nod. "Good. As soon as the poison attempt is exposed or fails, Aru may panic and call in his assassins earlier than planned. We'll need eyes in the dark."
Darya stepped forward now, quiet but resolute. "I can ensure the entire palace hears the alarm, Majesty. I'll be in the harem wing with my drums and horn. At the first hint of attack, I'll sound a rhythm the eunuchs know means emergency. We practiced after the last attempt." She glanced at Soraya, who gave an encouraging nod.
"Perfect," Arslan said. "Meanwhile, Safid will have his loyal soldiers strategically placed around the banquet hall and palace corridors, under guise of standard honor guards." He paused, then faced Darius and Safid together. "When the moment comes—when poison is revealed—have your men quietly bar exits. We don't want our conspirators slipping away in the confusion. But do it subtly until I give a signal to openly move."
General Safid, who had been listening intently, saluted. "We'll be as shadows, sire. When you signal, we'll lock the palace down like a fortress."
Arslan took a deep breath, looking at each ally assembled under the nexus's glow. They were ready to turn the tide. "One more thing: the false heir. They will present him at dawn to win the people. We cannot simply capture or kill him outright without making our case, or the story could twist against us."
Soraya's chin lifted. "We'll expose him for the fraud he is. Rashid, you've overseen the royal lineage records for years. You can testify no such elder son was ever born."
Rashid smiled thinly. "Indeed, I can. I was present at every one of the old Emperor's child blessings—there was never an undisclosed heir." He tapped his temple. "Furthermore, I have in the archives the birth registry. If they forged documents, I have the originals to refute them."
Captain Darius stepped forward, clearing his throat. "Majesty, if I may…" All eyes shifted to him. His voice was careful. "This false heir they tout— they likely intend to claim he is the firstborn of your father, yes? A supposed brother."
Arslan considered it. The conspirators hadn't explicitly named the puppet, but it fit Aru's words about the 'late Emperor's elder son.'
"It would be the easiest fabrication," Soraya agreed. "The previous Emperor's queen lost a child early in marriage, did she not? Perhaps they'll claim that son lived in secret."
Rashid frowned. "That infant died a day after birth, it was no secret and no survival."
Darius removed his helmet, running a hand through his hair. He seemed to weigh something internally, then looked Arslan in the eye. "I bring it up, sire, because… because I carry a claim of a different sort. As you know, I am Darius—namesake of the last prince of the old dynasty before your father took power. The cult sought to use me once for my bloodline. Perhaps that is irrelevant now, but if their puppet heir story falters, some might look to me."
Arslan regarded the man who had become his stalwart ally and friend. He recalled vividly the night he freed Darius from the cult's sacrificial altar in Act II, and how Darius had sworn fealty afterward despite technically being a rival claimant by ancestry. "Do you think they know who you truly are?"
"Unlikely," Darius said. "The knowledge that I am the ousted dynasty's scion is limited to a very few. To most, I'm simply Captain Darius, a loyal soldier." He lifted his chin. "I would keep it that way. I chose to serve you, Emperor, because I believe in what you're building. I want none of the throne—my line lost that right when they lost the people's trust. I mention it only in case rumors surface. If they try to muddy the water by invoking the old dynasty, I will publicly denounce any claim. I'll stand by you."
A warm pride filled Arslan. The measure of a ruler could often be seen in those willing to follow him even at cost to themselves. Darius exemplified that. "Thank you, Captain. Your support means more than any blood claim ever could. Let us hope it doesn't come to that confusion. Our goal is to end this before any false prince can sway hearts."
The plan was set. Arslan looked around at them all, illuminated in nexus-light: Soraya, fierce and brilliant; Leilah, weary but triumphant in her sorcery; Nasrin, calculating as she mulled final details; Parissa, quietly mouthing lines to weave into tomorrow's ode; Darya, calm as the eye of a storm; Rashid, efficient and vigilant; Safid, hand on sword pommel eager to strike traitors; Magister Salim and Yvara slightly apart, both pillars of wisdom and stability. These were his people. This was his strength.
"Tomorrow," Arslan said, voice ringing softly against stone, "they move to shatter the empire. But we are the stronger for our unity and foresight. Let us give them just enough rope to hang themselves, then yank it tight."
Soraya stepped to his side, eyes shining with confidence. "The Lion Emperor will roar, and the jackals will scatter."
Leilah sealed the nexus listening spell with a wave of her hand, plunging the chamber back to its normal low hum. "Their own shadows will betray them. We've seen to it," she murmured.
Arslan took Soraya's hand openly, resolve hardening within. "Get some rest if you can, all of you. Tomorrow night will be long. We meet at the banquet and play our roles to perfection."
As they began to file out, Arslan lingered a moment, gazing into the softly glowing nexus core—the lifeblood of the city that he had helped revive in a time of darkness. It pulsed steadily, a reminder of what was at stake: an empire he had come to love, a world he was forging anew with compassion and strength combined.
"They think me a mere cub," he whispered, recalling Aru's parting words to the portrait. "They forget the cub has the heart of a lion."
With that, Emperor Arslan Rûmî turned and ascended from the nexus chamber, prepared to face the final trials of this long night and the promise of dawn beyond it.