4 courts.
3 secrets.
2 sides.
1 war.
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Leila Bhat-Bayza, The Liar.
She will do anything to keep the life she left behind in the First City secret.
If it means murder, then murderer she will be.
If it means sacrifice, she is ready to risk it all...
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WRAITH
Aelrich Darionis, the greatest courtesan born in the Empire of Kaesah before its legendary fall, was once asked why his strategies to entrap the hearts of princes and commoners always succeeded without fail.
How had he, a man born to a family of unsuccessful wool merchants, destined to lead an unremarkable life following in the footsteps of his forebearers, become so adept at scheming? How did he remain unswayable in his ability to manipulate the whims of the rich and powerful, so much so that with the slight rise and fall of an enigmatic eyebrow, great lawmakers stuttered and changed their policies to suit his desires and immediate needs?
His answer was one that most simple-minded individuals had read in passing in compilations of winding philosophical scripts that made up the required reading for many Schools of Thought. Most of these High-Born sons and daughters paid no mind to the warning within his words, the power entrapped within them waiting to be utilized by those with senses sharp enough to sniff out their truth.
"I am a simple man," Aelrich had confirmed, "born without Gift or means. My greatest fortune comes not from studying the human mind, but rather, the human heart. Some call it a fickle organ, but better a fickle organ than one made of stone. Once a man's mind is made up, changing it requires an ability equal to moving mountains. I have no such power."
"Time has taught me the grace and ferociousness of water, how the slightest kiss between stone and river can carve canyons through mountains. A war of wills is not won by attempts at swaying opinion. It is done by manipulating sentiments. The moment you comprehend your opponent's wants, their fears, the substance from which all their dreams and aspirations hail, you inevitably fall in love with them. And once they see the ardent way you root for them, your purest affection and regards in all matters that concern them, they succumb to you. In this way, the mountain always yields to the flowing stream, and once that is done and your victory is assured, one small matter still remains."
"You take the love they reciprocate, that true, honey-sweet love, and you chain them with it. Their love becomes the fetters, shackles, and noose that tugs them under, and you, sweet executioner, have a god's power to turn them hither and tither. You, dear pupil, choke them with their own love. That is how I've never lost. That is how I will never lose."
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Wraith remembered the day he'd come upon those words, or rather, their overarching summary. In a cell so tiny his aching, broken body couldn't fully stretch out, made of cold stone and carved to make the miserable souls of the damned feel a thousand times more wretched. In the waning light of his jailer's torch, for he needed to be checked on every half hour due to his severe wounds, he caught those words carved into the rough surface of the wall in front of him. When the light had faded away entirely, he pushed a trembling hand against the uneven surface, chafed skin searching for the indentations and tracing the letters that made up those holy words, a delirious attempt at putting meaning to the half-sentence he'd read.
