Three months passed. The palace was now a fortress of paranoia. The Civil War had reached a stalemate, with Alaric holding the throne room and Kaelen holding the outer walls, while the princesses played a deadly game of poison and politics in between.
Livius, now disguised as a common mercenary named "Lin," frequented the taverns of the Gray District. It was here that he first heard the rumors of the Vigilante.
"They say he moved like smoke," a drunk soldier whispered to his companion. "The tax collector for the Seventh Princess... he was found hanging from the city gates. All the gold he'd stolen from the weavers was piled at the feet of the orphans. They found a mark on his head—a web."
Livius sipped his cheap ale, his hood pulled low. This was the birth of his public persona. He couldn't act as a Prince, but he could act as a force of nature. By targeting the "low-hanging fruit"—the corrupt minor nobles and greedy officials—he was building a base of loyalty among the common people that no amount of Imperial gold could buy.
One evening, while tracking a corrupt captain of the guard who had been selling palace secrets to foreign spies, Livius felt a presence behind him. It wasn't the clumsy footfalls of a thug. It was steady, rhythmic, and calculated.
He turned into an alleyway, drawing a short, blackened blade from his belt. "You've been following me for three blocks. Either you're very brave or very stupid."
Out of the shadows stepped a boy around his own age. He wore the dusty uniform of a palace clerk, his spectacles perched precariously on his nose. He looked exhausted, but his eyes were sharp with a terrifying amount of data.
"I'm neither," the boy said, holding up a stack of ledgers. "I'm Cian. And I believe you're the one who's been 'correcting' my accounting errors at the East Gate. I've come to ask if you need a professional to handle your paperwork. Your recent sabotage of the grain shipments was brilliant, but your math on the distribution was off by three percent."
Livius lowered his blade, his golden eyes narrowing. He had expected an assassin. He hadn't expected a boy with a ledger and a complaint about his math.
"You're a clerk," Livius stated.
"I'm the only clerk who noticed that the 'Ghost' isn't just a thief," Cian replied, stepping closer. "You're building an empire, aren't you? And an empire needs more than a sword. It needs a spine."
Livius felt a rare spark of amusement. He realized that while he had been watching the world, the world—or at least a very observant part of it—had been watching him.
"Come with me, Cian," Livius said, sheathing his blade. "Let's see if your spine is as strong as your tongue."