The safehouse beneath the clock tower was silent, save for the scratching of a quill against parchment. Cian had been there for three days, and in that time, he had transformed the chaotic pile of Nexus's intelligence reports into a streamlined ledger of corruption.
Livius stood over him, watching the boy's hand move with mechanical precision. Cian didn't have the Dragon's blood, nor did he have the raw mana of a high mage, but he possessed a mind that categorized the world into assets and liabilities.
"The Third Prince is bleeding gold," Cian said, not looking up from his work. "He's paying his mercenaries double because they're afraid of him. If we intercept the shipment from the Southern Mines, his army will desert him within a week. Not because they hate him, but because they can't buy ale with fear."
Livius leaned against the stone wall, his golden eyes reflecting the candlelight. "And the First Prince?"
"Alaric is a different problem," Cian replied, finally setting his pen down. "He has the support of the Church of the Dragon. They see him as the 'legitimate' heir because he's the eldest. To topple him, you don't need to cut his coin—you need to cut his holiness. You need to prove the Dragon God hasn't chosen him."
Livius touched the locket around his neck. "The Dragon God doesn't choose. The blood dictates. And Alaric's blood is thin. He can barely manifest a wing, let alone a roar."
"Then show them," Cian challenged, his eyes sharp behind his spectacles. "The people are tired of shadows, Livius. They want a miracle. If you want to be more than a vigilante, you have to become a myth."
Livius turned toward the training area where Grog was drilling the new recruits. He knew Cian was right. Nexus was a tool for information, but to rule, he needed a symbol. He needed to step into the role of the "Vigilante Prince" with more than just a mask. He needed to be the judgment the gods refused to provide.