The chamber the Prime Minister led Hiral to was nothing like the grand palace halls.
It was dimly lit, lined with bookshelves that sagged under the weight of scrolls and tomes, and smelled faintly of parchment, ink, and dried herbs.
A single lamp burned low on the desk between them, casting their faces into sharp relief—two players seated for a game only one of them realized had already begun.
The Prime Minister folded his hands, his eyes narrowing with a scholar's precision.
"You have won Her Majesty's ear. That alone makes you dangerous. Tell me, merchant, what do you truly want from Ro?"
Hiral tilted his head, the faintest smile touching his lips. His southern accent draped his words in a melodic warmth.
"What every merchant seeks, Your Excellency—opportunity. Prosperity. A market to thrive in."
The Prime Minister snorted softly. "Spare me the trinkets of your trade tongue. Men who win favor with queens do not merely peddle wares."
Hiral's gaze softened, as though humored by the sharpness. He leaned in, voice low, guiding the conversation as he had long anticipated.
"Then perhaps, Excellency, let us speak of matters you value more than trade."
He gestured idly to the books surrounding them.
"I have seen the weight you carry. How the nobles bleed the citizenry with their taxes, twisting laws meant for the kingdom into coins for their coffers. How the crown sits idle, leaving you to wrestle the tide alone."
The Prime Minister's expression hardened, though his silence betrayed that the wound had been struck true.
Hiral continued, weaving sympathy like silk.
"A nation is not its crown, nor its nobles. It is its people. They till the land, march in the armies, build the roads. They are the foundation upon which all else rests. And you, Excellency—you above all know this truth. You alone stand as their shield."
The Prime Minister's cup trembled slightly in his grip, though his voice remained even.
"And yet you are a foreigner. Why should the plight of my people matter to you?"
Hiral's smile deepened just enough to feel sincere.
"Because we of the South have long known hardship. We understand what it means when rulers forget their duty to the people. And we do not wish Ro to fall to the same sickness. That is why I trade here, why I bring remedies, why I extend my hand."
He let the words hang before striking the quiet chord he had prepared.
"If you truly care for the people, Excellency, then you must see the rot festering in your ruling class. And rot, once it spreads too far, can only be cleansed with decisive force. For that, a man needs more than books and laws. He needs a loyal hand—one willing to act where others hesitate."
The Prime Minister's eyes sharpened, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"You suggest treason."
"I suggest duty," Hiral countered softly, the accent smoothing the edge of the word.
"Not to a crown that sits idle, but to the people who cannot wait for their masters to remember them."
For a long moment, the Prime Minister studied him, the lamp's light catching the storm in his eyes. Finally, he exhaled, slow and weary.
"You are clever. Too clever. You twist my frustrations into your melody. And yet…" His gaze drifted to the shelves, to the silent records of all his battles with the nobles' corruption. "…you are not wrong. The ruling class acts with arrogance, without duty. Their place is… undeserved."
Hiral inclined his head, not pressing further, his smile patient and understanding.
"Then I have said enough. The choice is yours, Excellency. I am but a merchant. I trade in goods, and sometimes in ideas. The rest belongs to you."
When Hiral left the study, the Prime Minister remained seated, fingers steepled, his mind heavy with dangerous thoughts.
The southern merchant's words echoed like whispers of truths he had long buried but never silenced.
Hiral walked into the night air with unhurried steps, his expression calm. Inside, however, he knew he had planted the seed.
The Prime Minister would turn it over in his mind again and again—until the choice no longer felt like treason, but inevitability.
****
Hiral moved through the city of Ro with the same ease as though he were a true native of the south—measured steps, a polite bow here, a thoughtful word there.
To the nobles, he was the elegant foreigner who knew how to flatter just enough, who spoke well of their families in front of others, and who always carried himself with dignity that cost them nothing to tolerate.
To the merchants, however, he was something else entirely.
Using his newly granted status as royal merchant, Hiral began speaking to nobles in carefully chosen tones.
At banquets and tea gatherings, he let slip how certain tariffs weighed heavily on the market, how easing them would not only win applause from the common folk but also increase trade flow and profit.
The nobles—greedy for approval as much as gold—listened. A word placed here, a suggestion dropped there, and soon small taxes were reduced, little by little.
The result rippled outward faster than most expected. Daily necessities—grain, oil, cloth—dropped in price.
Not much, but enough for the people to notice.
Enough for the people to ask, why now?
And though the Queen's decree made him exempt from merchant taxes, Hiral did not parade the privilege.
In the markets he would say, "If it were my choice, I would gladly pay the same as my peers. The burden should be shared."
The tax officials, bowing to the crest of the crown, refused to collect a single coin.
What could have painted him as arrogant privilege instead turned into a mirror of noble bias.
The common folk were no fools—they saw clearly who bent the rules and for whose sake.
Whispers spread in the taverns and workshops: "The southern merchant lowers prices, yet our nobles only raise them."
"If he is exempt, why are we crushed beneath fees? Where is the justice?"
The discontent grew sharper with every week. With uncertainties of the war, and worries of the families of the soldiers heighten by every passing day made the patience and calm of the people fray.
Families who once muttered in resignation now spoke boldly, demanding explanations.
Hiral remained serene in the storm, never claiming credit, never stirring anger with his own hand.
Instead, he allowed the people to believe the realization was theirs alone.
He smiled in the marketplace, bowed to commoners and nobles alike, and his reputation blossomed—trust from both the loftiest and the lowliest, woven together by his invisible hand.
But in the grand chambers of government, unease curdled.
The Prime Minister stood at his desk one late evening, a dozen reports scattered before him.
The lines on his face deepened as he read complaint after complaint: citizens refusing to pay exorbitant war taxes, guilds demanding transparency, murmurs of unfair bias.
He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, recalling Hiral's words about cleansing rot, about the duty owed to the people.
At the time, he had dismissed them as clever rhetoric.
Now, he saw the foresight behind them—discontent rising from a gap between the treatment of nobles and common citizens.
His words do ring with truths…
The Prime Minister's jaw tightened.
This was spiraling beyond his precaution, beyond even his influence to contain.
He had thought he could observe Hiral, measure him, perhaps even use him. Now he began to realize: Hiral was already three steps ahead.
And somewhere in his quiet safehouse, Hiral tapped his fingers against the table.
His eyes, calm and calculating, followed the threads he had spun. The nobles squabbled, the people fumed, and the Prime Minister was being forced—step by step—into the role Hiral needed him to embrace.
The storm was building. And when it broke, Ro would no longer be ruled by the same voices that had grown fat on complacency.
Hiral leaned back, lips curving in a faint smile.
****
At the castle…
The hall of judgment was stifling with voices.
Gilded beams caught the morning sun, but no light could soften the sharpness of the nobles' accusations.
The King sat high on the throne, his expression carved from impatience, while the noble court lined in rows flung their words like arrows toward the man standing alone in the center—Prime Minister.
"You have failed to hold the merchants in line!" one noble spat.
"Your negligence emboldens the rabble!" another cried.
"Our own subjects now question our divine right—our crown itself—because you are too timid to act!"
But it was not the petty complaints that stirred the King's ire.
His hands gripped the throne's arms, knuckles whitening. What cut deepest was the truth within their chorus: the people were whispering against the crown.
And in his eyes, that was a greater crime than any noble's grievance.
The Prime Minister did not bow his head.
He let the accusations swell, waited until their fury had nearly reached the throne itself, and then his voice cut through—calm, level, unshaken.
"My lords," he said, "your grievances are not with me but with yourselves. For who has bled the coffers dry with your vanities? Who has raised levies tenfold without tending to the suffering beneath them? The people rise not because I neglect them, but because their guardians"—he turned his gaze to the nobles—"have forgotten the duty that binds privilege to responsibility."
A stir rippled through the chamber.
Some nobles bristled in outrage, others flinched as secrets too close to home gleamed in his words. The Prime Minister pressed further, every syllable deliberate.
"Shall I speak of Lord Carvel's estates where soldiers take grain from children's mouths?"
His eyes locked on a pale noble in the front row.
"Or Lady Thyrane's caravans, which pay no tolls because the collectors vanish with silver in their pockets? These are not whispers, my lords—they are facts. And the people know."
Murmurs broke out, accusations splintering against counter-accusations.
Soon, nobles were snapping at each other, old betrayals and hidden frauds spilling like rot from a cracked barrel. The court, meant to stand unified, devolved into squabbling factions.
The King's face darkened, fury mounting as the chamber spiraled beyond control. His voice thundered above the chaos:
"ENOUGH!"
The silence that followed was heavy, quivering with dread. The King rose, pointing his scepter down at the Prime Minister.
"You dare let this bickering reach me? You dare claim justice while failing to shield the throne from doubt? No—this discord is yours, Prime Minister. You are guilty of negligence, of delaying action until the people themselves grow restless. If you had curbed their discontent sooner, their eyes would not have turned toward us!"
The nobles straightened, emboldened by the King's decree.
The Prime Minister felt the weight of injustice burn into his chest.
His jaw tightened, teeth grinding behind closed lips. He had begged, time and again, for the King's support to rein in these very nobles, to cleanse corruption before it festered.
Every time, the King had promised to "think on it." Every time, nothing.
It was only because of Alexis's help that the people were able to be calmed down again and again and their unease never reaching this kind of tension; but now that the King sent Alexis to the for front of the war there was no one to ease the people's fear but him.
But then he was always swamped with work to make sure the nation still runs even with all the weigh of the nobles and royals foolishness unable to spare anymore time for easing the people...
And now, all blame lay at his feet.
He forced himself to bow low, though his hands trembled with restrained rage. His voice, steady though hollow, answered:
"As you command, Your Majesty."
He turned and left, the murmur of smug nobles behind him, not daring to let the King see the fire blazing in his eyes.
News of the clash spread swiftly through Ro. In the market squares and taverns, it became the talk of the day: The King silenced the Prime Minister. The court chose to blind itself to the truth.
And in a modest house far from the throne room, Hiral received the news with a faint smile.
He poured himself a cup of southern tea, the steam curling like smoke from a slow-burning fire.
He rose, smoothing his flawless merchant's robes.
The final pieces of his design were ready to be set upon the board.
The nobles had exposed themselves as parasites, the King as rash and deaf, and the Prime Minister—though wounded—was now a man with rage sharpened into purpose.
Hiral stepped into the street, disappearing into the ebb of the city, every gesture calculated.
The last threads of his web were waiting to be tied.