The gray morning mist had yet to clear when an unremarkable black carriage stopped at the side gate of the Silent Retreat. It bore no family crest and had no ceremonial escort; everything was concealed in the damp, chilly air.
Veylin was already waiting beside the carriage. The door opened, and Prince Wilander stepped out in a brown coat. He lowered his hood, revealing a somewhat weary face. Years of pressure at the center of the struggle for power had already frosted his temples white.
They looked at each other through the thin mist. Neither spoke first, but both saw deep concern for the future in the other's eyes.
After a brief silence, they walked one after the other into the depths of the retreat.
The study was dim, its heavy velvet curtains shutting out the morning light.
Wilander sat behind the mahogany desk, holding the glass vial of pale golden liquid. He wore no gloves, and his fingers rubbed its surface. Several sheets of parchment lay spread across the desk-the "Holy water composition analysis report" Veylin had prepared overnight.
"You're saying," the prince said softly, his voice betraying neither anger nor pleasure, yet colder than the mist outside, "that half the poor in Zellheim are incubating these things in their bellies?"
"Yes."
Crack.
The prince slammed the glass vial onto the desk.
The chest of the "Silent One," a man renowned for his composure, heaved violently.
"Those lunatics," Wilander said through gritted teeth. "Are they trying to turn the Royal Capital into a nest of worms?"
"Obviously." Veylin tossed the sealing wax up and caught it. "Your Highness, this isn't the time for anger. We need to break this chain of transmission. But I hear the Royalist Faction's reach doesn't extend into the lower city?"
Wilander fell silent for