I moved through the crowded streets, eyes flicking to the business card Miss Snow had given me, searching for the right address. She was a journalist, sharp and determined, with a willingness to pursue a good story even if it meant danger. She was key to the first phase of my plans with Valois, and I needed her cooperation.

Dressed in a plain gray coat and worn trousers, I blended in easily with the bustling crowd. The city's crime was worsening by the day, and anything refined could make me a target. Most security had been reassigned following the assassination attempt on Ludvig. I could have asked Oskar for protection, but I needed autonomy—this plan required absolute discretion.

After several side streets, I found the unit—a small space wedged between a pawn shop and a narrow, grimy alley. The peeling door and dingy window looked unimpressive. I double-checked the address before pushing the door open.

The bell above chimed as I entered. The room was cramped, stacked with papers, half-empty bookshelves, and a desk barely visible under a mess of open folders and notebooks. The air smelled of ink and dust—a space that felt alive with words. For a moment, I hesitated. Was this really the place?

A voice called from behind the mess, startling me slightly. "Who’s there? I don't do walk-ins. If you want to sell a story, take a number and wait."

"Miss Snow?" I called, stepping forward.

Her head popped up from behind the desk, her eyes narrowing at first, then widening in recognition. She stood straighter, her voice edged with amusement. “Well, well, look who decided to show up.”

We sat in creaking chairs, barely fitting between stacks of books and papers. She poured us tea from a chipped ceramic pot, her eyes never leaving mine. I took a sip, glancing at the clutter. Noticing my gaze, her cheeks flushed slightly.

“Please ignore it," she said, embarrassed. "I just moved here.”

“Where from?” I asked casually.

She smiled, sharp and knowing. “A small town in Lorianne. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

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I tensed, masking my reaction quickly. It was true—I had investigated her. We needed allies in the local press, and Miss Snow stood out. She wasn't just any journalist; she was an ex-leader of Lorianne's writers' guild, an underground organization that had defied the empire's censorship.

The writers' guilds had been havens for those challenging the status quo, publishing everything from subversive fiction to exposés on corruption among the elite. During the monarchy, only writings that exposed scandals among the ruling class were truly feared and suppressed. With our rise to power and the declaration of freedom of the press, these guilds began emerging from the shadows. Many members left to work independently, tasting freedom without the need for secrecy. Miss Snow was one of them—someone whose voice still carried weight, even outside the guild's confines.

She studied me, her gaze unrelenting. “Is that why you’re here?” she asked directly.

I set my teacup down. No point in lying. “Yes. I know your influence in Lorianne. Valois is a threat to the freedom we fought for—including the press. We need your help to counter his narrative.”

She leaned back, skepticism etched on her face. “And you want me to spread your version of the truth?” There was disdain in her voice, but also curiosity.

“To a certain extent, yes,” I admitted. “The central government is making difficult decisions regarding Valois. When that happens, the right story needs to be told.”

Her expression hardened. “If you’re planning war, then this meeting is over.”

I shook my head. “No war. Our actions will be peaceful and for the people of Lorianne. I can’t share more details, but I assure you of our intentions.”

She scrutinized me, then nodded, though tension remained. “Some writers support Valois. But I’ll see if I can get the guild to stay neutral.”

Relief washed over me, but her gaze sharpened. “However,” she said, her tone cutting through the momentary relief, “if this turns into anything resembling the old ways, the guild won’t stand by. We serve the people. Don’t expect propaganda.”

I nodded. “I understand.”

She moved on briskly. "Alright, let's talk compensation."

I leaned back, prepared for this. “I can provide exclusive information—first-hand, before anyone else. You’ll have the inside track on all developments with Valois.”

She considered this, then spoke. “I want access—direct insight into your activities. Not everything, but enough for exclusive coverage. My assistant is a photographer; he’ll need access too. And I want frequent interviews with you.”

I admired her boldness. “That can be arranged,” I said.

We concluded our terms with a handshake, her eyes locked onto mine.

Securing influence from the press was merely a requirement—a necessary cog in the larger machine I was building. Now that this piece was in place, I could finally put my plan in motion.

The real work was about to begin.