Reivan was beginning to suspect that fate had a personal grudge against him.

It wasn’t just the assassination attempts, political sabotage, or fabricated wars—though those were, admittedly, annoying. No, what really convinced him that the universe was out to get him was the fact that every time he thought he had a moment to breathe, something even worse fell into his lap.

This time, it was a letter.

Or rather, the second letter.

The first had warned him of an assassination attempt, which had turned out to be a test from the Holy Kingdom. Now, after crushing a so-called bandit army that was secretly backed by both the Church and someone within the empire, he received another.

It was left in his tent, despite the fact that Sylpkx had personally chosen the guards. Despite the fact that Garm had sworn on his oversized sword that no one was sneaking past them again.

Reivan held up the parchment, turning it in his fingers. Unlike the first letter, which had been rushed and smudged, this one was pristine. Thick, high-quality paper, sealed with black wax—which was a nice way of saying "This is either a very important message or an elaborate death threat."

Sylpkx leaned over his shoulder, staring at the letter. "You know, I’d say I’m impressed that someone got past the guards again, but at this point, I think you’re cursed."

"That makes two of us," Reivan muttered.

Garm crossed his arms. "You think it’s a trap?"

"Oh, definitely," Reivan said, carefully breaking the seal. "But since everything in my life is a trap these days, we might as well see what kind of trouble it is."

He unfolded the parchment, expecting vague threats, cryptic nonsense, or maybe a demand to stop existing.

Instead, the message was short and precise.

"Meet me at midnight. The Black Alley. Come alone. Or don't come at all."

There was no signature. No name.

Reivan sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "Okay. So… someone who knows how to set up a dramatic meeting wants to talk. Any bets on whether I die the moment I show up?"

Sylpkx smirked. "You? Probably not. Everyone else in the alley? Maybe."

"Reassuring," Reivan deadpanned.

Garm scratched his chin. "Could be a noble. Could be someone working against the Church. Could be a ghost."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Why would it be a ghost?"

Garm shrugged. "Dunno. Feels like the kind of thing that happens to you."

Midnight arrived, and Reivan, despite his deep, deep reservations about walking into an obvious trap, made his way toward the Black Alley.

He didn’t bring Garm or Sylpkx—partly because the note said to come alone, but mostly because he didn’t feel like listening to Sylpkx’s running commentary about how many ways this could go wrong.

The Black Alley wasn’t marked on any official maps, but everyone in the capital knew it existed. It was the kind of place where people exchanged secrets, illegal goods, and occasionally severed heads.

Which meant whoever had set this meeting up wasn't playing around.

Reivan stepped into the dimly lit alley, taking his time. He wasn’t about to look nervous, even if his every instinct told him that this was a terrible, terrible idea.

The man was already waiting.

Cloaked in shadows, standing perfectly still, his posture relaxed but too controlled to be normal. He wasn’t some back-alley informant—he was someone who knew how to disappear.

Reivan stopped a few steps away, raising an eyebrow. "I assume you’re the one sending me letters? You’ve got an interesting way of getting my attention."

The man chuckled. His voice was low, smooth, and dangerously amused. "And you have an interesting way of handling assassination attempts."

"Well, when you get enough of them, you start treating them like minor inconveniences."

The man stepped forward just enough for the dim torchlight to reveal part of his face. Not enough to be fully seen, but enough that Reivan caught a glimpse of sharp features and eyes that had seen too much.

"A name would be nice," Reivan said.

"Names are dangerous," the man replied. "But you can call me Lazar."

Reivan sighed. "Of course you have a name that sounds like something out of a bad novel."

Lazar laughed quietly. "You’re not what I expected."

"I get that a lot."

There was a pause, a shift in the air. The humor faded, replaced by something heavier.

"You’ve been fighting battles you don’t fully understand," Lazar said. "The Church. The nobles. You think you see the whole board, but you don’t. Not yet."

"Enlighten me, then."

Lazar tossed him a small scroll. "Inside is a record that doesn’t exist. A history that was erased. Read it. Then we’ll talk."

Reivan unfolded the scroll and skimmed the contents.

Then he stopped.

Read it again.

And for the first time in a very, very long time—he was actually surprised.

According to this, the Holy Kingdom hadn’t just been meddling in imperial politics. They had helped shape the imperial throne itself.

Decades ago, the Church had engineered a succession crisis, ensuring that the current imperial line was dependent on their support. The Emperor’s family owed their power to the Church.

Which meant—

Which meant if the Church decided to withdraw that support, the empire itself could collapse.

Lazar watched him. "Now you understand why they aren’t afraid to move against you."

Reivan closed his eyes briefly. "This… changes things."

"It does," Lazar said. "So, tell me, Reivan—what are you going to do with it?"

He could expose it.

If this information got out, the empire would turn on the Church. The balance of power would shift overnight.

But that also meant war.

Real war.

Not just backroom deals and small skirmishes. A war that could shake the foundations of the empire.

Or he could keep this knowledge hidden—use it as leverage, play the long game.

Lazar was watching him carefully, waiting for an answer.

Reivan exhaled, rolling the scroll back up. "I think," he said slowly, "that I need a drink."

Lazar snorted. "Fair enough."

There were too many pieces on the board now. Too many ways this could spiral.

For now, he had a choice to make.

And whatever choice he made, there was no going back.