The observatory, upon his return, felt different. It was no longer a tomb, but a command post. With the star-heart pulsing in his chest, his perception had expanded exponentially.
He could feel the city of Solaris now, not just see it through his Scouts. He could feel the low thrum of tens of thousands of lives, the tremors of commerce and conversation, and at the center, the frantic, erratic pulse of Theron's fear.
His Scouts became more advanced. He crafted them now with chips of bog-iron and slivers of the star-iron, making them stronger, faster, and capable of holding a more complex spark of his will.
Some he shaped into the forms of rats and roaches, perfect for slipping into palace walls.
Others he made larger, like mangy dogs, able to carry small objects or create distractions.
He began a new, more aggressive phase. He didn't just whisper to Alaric; he used his Scouts to manipulate the environment around the knight. A loose cobblestone would trip a corrupt official who had publicly praised the King.
A gust of wind would blow the wig from the head of a sycophantic lord, revealing his bald pate to the laughing crowd.
Small, seemingly random acts of mischief that always, somehow, targeted Theron's supporters and eroded the dignity of his court. He also started targeting Theron more directly.
One night, as the King tried to sleep, the royal bedsheets themselves seemed to coil around him like cold serpents, holding him fast for a few terror-filled minutes before slithering away.
Another time, every reflective surface in his chamber—the polished shield, the silver mirror, even his own crown—clouded over, then cleared to show not his reflection, but the image of a single, shimmering, hexagonal tile, which then cracked down the middle.
Theron's paranoia, once a seed, was now a towering, poisonous tree. He trusted no one, slept with a dozen guards in his room, and jumped at every shadow. The cracks in his reign were no longer just political; they were deeply, terrifyingly personal.