Chapter 95: Beneath Still Leaves, Power Waits
It was just after dusk when the second message arrived.
Not a letter. Not a summons.
Just a folded slip of parchment inside Isaac's coat pocket—placed there without him noticing—and a single silverleaf pinned to the back.
He found it in the quiet of their upstairs room at the Shattered Tooth Inn. Lira was half-dozing on the bed, her arm thrown over her eyes, boots still on.
Isaac turned the paper over. The handwriting was elegant, composed.
"You asked for space. You earned it.But power must be seen as much as felt.Come.Wear no weapon you cannot conceal.Gladewatch Garden, first moonrise.—S.T."
Isaac read the lines twice, then set the note down on the desk. His fingers hovered near the silverleaf pin.
A token.
Not a threat. Not even a request.
A door, quietly opened.
The Gladewatch Garden had changed.
Where it once felt like a serene elven sanctuary, it now hummed with poised conversation and silver lanternlight. Clusters of figures stood among vine-covered archways and white-stone walkways, dressed in muted finery and robes that whispered status. Some wore masks. Others bore subtle crestwork worked into their sleeves.
This was no party.
This was a gathering of players.
Isaac entered without fanfare. His coat was plain, enchanted only for mobility. His only weapon—a short dagger tucked into his boot—remained hidden, exactly as instructed.
A masked attendant bowed low without a word and gestured him forward.
They passed through several winding garden paths. The deeper they went, the quieter the air became. Even laughter seemed calculated here—soft, reserved, never careless.
Then the path opened onto a wide moonstone terrace.
At the far end stood Sylvalen Thalara.
She was dressed not in courtly armor, but in soft dusk-blue silks. Her circlet gleamed with a subtle glow, and her posture was more regal than relaxed tonight—shoulders squared, spine straight, voice cool and deliberate.
She was speaking with three others.
The first: a southern elf in sun-marked robes, the scent of sand and fire clinging to his presence.
The second: a noblewoman in a half-mask of goldleaf and an arm wrapped in ceremonial black silk. Her accent was eastern—sharp and clipped.
The third: a human woman with deep-set eyes and the insignia of a Velkarth guildmaster sewn into her collar.
Isaac didn't interrupt.
He simply approached—and stood still, precisely three steps behind and one step to the right of Sylvalen's position.
She didn't turn. Didn't acknowledge him.
But the others did.
Their conversation didn't stop, but the rhythm changed. Their tones slowed. Their eyes occasionally flicked toward him, measuring his distance, his posture, his silence.
Sylvalen continued her dialogue without missing a beat.
"…the eastern border holds for now," she said calmly, "but if House Melyren continues to fund mercenaries instead of treaties, it will shift from pressure to provocation."
"We've received no proof those mercenaries were sanctioned," said the eastern noblewoman.
"No proof," Sylvalen agreed. "Only consequences."
The guildmaster cleared her throat lightly. "And what of the… asset behind you? Shall we pretend he's part of the landscaping?"
Sylvalen's expression didn't change.
"He stands where he chooses," she said simply. "And I allow him to choose near me."
A long pause.
Then the southern elf gave a small nod, as if accepting an unspoken message.
"Curious company, Princess."
"Effective company," Sylvalen replied.
They did not press further.
Later, after the crowd had thinned and conversations shifted into distant alcoves, Sylvalen stepped beside Isaac.
"You stood exactly where I hoped you would," she said quietly, her tone more relaxed now.
"You told me to wear no banner. So I didn't," Isaac replied. "But it feels like everyone here is wearing one anyway."
"They are," she said. "In this garden, banners are spoken through posture. Power is measured in who arrives, who bows, and who pretends not to notice."
"And I arrived… uninvited."
"You arrived unclaimed," she corrected. "That's rarer."
They walked slowly through the garden, the moonlight filtering through crystalline leaves above.
"I didn't say a word," Isaac murmured.
"But you didn't have to," Sylvalen said. "You stood behind me, Isaac. Close enough to suggest alignment, far enough to avoid implication. That silence told them what they needed to know."
"And what, exactly, did they learn?"
She looked over at him.
"That a dangerous anomaly with no crest, no house, and no guild walked into a court gathering under my protection… and didn't need to draw a weapon to shift the air around him."
Isaac sighed, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I came here to avoid attention."
"And you've succeeded in avoiding the wrong kind," she said. "For now."
He stopped walking.
"Sylvalen. Why invite me here at all? You said you'd shield me, not parade me."
She turned, facing him fully now.
"This wasn't a parade. This was positioning. You don't want chains. I'm not offering any. But make no mistake: you are no longer just a man who survived a ruin. You're something the world has to account for. And tonight…" She gestured lightly toward the quiet garden. "They began to."
Isaac was quiet for a long moment.
"Is this what being 'safe' looks like now?"
Sylvalen's smile was soft—and tired.
"No. This is what power with dignity looks like."
They stood together beneath the lantern-lit leaves.
And for once, Isaac didn't feel hunted.
Just… seen.