The first sign of trouble came in the form of silence.

Not the expected, calculated political silence where nobles schemed in hushed whispers, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. No, this was an unnatural quiet, a space where words should have been exchanged but weren’t.

Reivan noticed it the moment he stepped into the noble quarter. The usual greetings—**forced pleasantries and shallow flattery—**were absent. Conversations hushed when he passed, and the ever-present court gossips whispered behind fans with pointed glances in his direction.

The rumors had done their work.

The Holy Kingdom’s envoys had only just left, but already the damage was spreading. Some nobles had openly distanced themselves from him, while others lingered in indecision, waiting to see which way the wind blew.

And then there were those who were actively pushing the whispers forward.

Reivan resisted the urge to sigh. He hadn’t even done anything yet, and already they were trying to exile him from polite society.

He caught Garm’s bored expression as they made their way through the palace corridors. “So, do I get to punch someone yet, or are we still playing nice?”

“We’re still playing nice,” Reivan muttered, though he felt the same way.

Garm grumbled something about "cowards in silk robes" under his breath but otherwise kept his complaints to a minimum.

Sylpkx, walking just a step behind, was unreadable. She always was in places like this—where her half-beastkin blood was scrutinized, even if never mentioned aloud. But Reivan knew she noticed the shift as much as he did. Her golden eyes scanned the nobles like a predator sizing up prey.

“Give me a name,” she murmured low enough that only Reivan could hear. “Someone is moving against you faster than the rest.”

He already had a few names in mind.

That was the problem with power—it attracted those who either wanted to claim it or destroy it.

The meeting with the Emperor’s war council had been planned days ago, but now it felt like a battlefield before the first strike.

By the time they entered the hall, the tension was thick enough to cut with a blade.

Duke Varion was already there, his sharp gaze flicking to Reivan with something unreadable—approval, amusement, perhaps both.

Count Estienne, however, was practically radiating smugness.

That was never a good sign.

The war council was a collection of some of the most powerful figures in the empire—dukes, military generals, high-ranking nobles. Men and women who controlled armies, trade routes, and influence.

For Reivan to be invited at all was a sign of his growing power.

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For half the room to now see him as a liability was a sign of a different problem.

The Emperor was not present—he rarely was for these initial debates. But his absence didn’t make the stakes any lower.

Varion was the first to speak, leaning forward in his chair with the ease of a man who had spent his life navigating both war and politics.

“Reivan,” he said, his voice calm but carrying across the hall, “you’ve been quite busy lately.”

Reivan smiled faintly. “Not by choice.”

“Perhaps. But the rumors surrounding you have become… concerning.”

Estienne scoffed, barely waiting for his turn. “Concerning is an understatement. A merchant playing at war, allying with mercenaries, gaining unnatural influence over the army—and now whispers of heresy? Tell me, Reivan, how long do you intend to pretend you’re not a threat to the empire?”

Reivan took a slow breath. He had expected this—but expecting a dagger didn’t make it sting any less when it was plunged in.

There were many ways to handle this. He could argue—but that would mean acknowledging the accusations. He could threaten—but that would only prove their point.

Or he could do what he did best.

He could make them regret underestimating him.

He tilted his head slightly. “Tell me, Count Estienne, are you still overseeing the empire’s grain supply?”

The question caught the noble off guard. “What?”

“The grain supply,” Reivan repeated, as if he hadn’t just shifted the conversation entirely. “I only ask because I heard there was… an issue.”

A few heads turned at that.

Estienne’s lips pressed into a thin line. “There are no issues.”

“That’s a relief,” Reivan said pleasantly. “Because if there were, say, a shortage caused by mismanagement, and the empire suddenly needed alternative supply routes… Well, that could be quite the scandal, wouldn’t it?”

A flicker of hesitation.

And just like that, he had control of the room again.

Estienne wasn’t stupid. He knew exactly what Reivan was implying.

If he kept pushing too hard, Reivan would push back in a way that actually mattered.

Varion’s mouth twitched, as if holding back amusement.

The rest of the nobles were watching carefully now.

Reivan continued, his voice even. “I have no intention of playing politics for the sake of politics. My concern is simple—stability. If the Holy Kingdom’s interference is left unchecked, the empire weakens. And if the empire weakens, so does your power.”

That got their attention.

Because at the end of the day, nobles cared about one thing above all else.

Their own survival.

Silence stretched before one of the older generals spoke, rubbing his chin. “So you suggest we do what? Ignore these rumors?”

Reivan let out a quiet chuckle. “Ignore them? No. That would be a waste of an opportunity.”

Now he had them.

Let them think he was desperate to defend himself.

Instead, he was about to weaponize their own fears.

He leaned forward. “Let the rumors spread. In fact, encourage them.”

Estienne frowned. “You expect us to fuel accusations of heresy?”

Reivan smiled. “No. I expect you to let those who are spreading the rumors reveal themselves. People who whisper behind backs always want something. Some are doing it because they’re loyal to the Church. Others? Because they’re being paid to.”

Another pause.

Another calculated silence.

The realization settled over them.

If they let the rumors run their course, they could trace them back to their source.

Varion exhaled. “You’re proposing a trap.”

Reivan shrugged. “I prefer to call it strategic patience.”

There was a shift in the air.

Nobles loved traps—as long as they weren’t the ones caught in them.

Estienne’s expression was still dark, but he wasn’t arguing. He couldn’t. Not without revealing his own involvement in pushing the rumors forward.

The meeting ended soon after, with uncertain tension but a lack of immediate action. Which meant, for now, Reivan had won.

As they left, Sylpkx was silent for a long time before finally speaking.

“You could have crushed him,” she said.

Reivan sighed. “And then what? Another noble takes his place? No, I need him exactly where he is—angry, but not desperate enough to act recklessly.”

She studied him, something unreadable in her gaze.

Then, finally, she smirked. “You’re learning.”

Reivan snorted. “I don’t have a choice.”

The game wasn’t over.

It was just beginning.