The chandeliers of Buckland Palace dripped light like frozen gold, casting fractured reflections across the marble floor. In the heart of the royal apartments, a man stood before a gilded mirror, staring into eyes that were not his own. Or rather, they were his now—Prince Edessak Augustus of Loen, second son of the king, the "spare heir" destined for a coffin draped in the kingdom's flag.
Two years, he thought, fingers tightening around the carved armrest of a velvet chair. Two years until the Great Smog chokes Backlund, and I'm the corpse that sparks it.
His name—his old name—was gone, dissolved like mist in the flood of memories that weren't his. A 21st-century software engineer, binge-reading Lord of the Mysteries on a rainy night, now trapped in the body of a prince marked for death. The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd laughed at Klein's bad luck, waking up in a world of gods and monsters. Now here he was, in a worse spot: a royal pawn in a game where the board was rigged.
Edessak's new memories painted a grim picture. The Loen court was a nest of vipers—nobles scheming for favor, secret societies whispering of rituals, and his brother, Crown Prince George III, orchestrating a catastrophe to ascend as a Black Emperor. Edessak's death, canonically, was the match that lit the fuse. Assassinated by the Psychology Alchemists or Adam's pawns, his murder would plunge Backlund into chaos, paving the way for George's apotheosis.
Not if I can help it, he vowed, straightening. His reflection showed a man in his mid-twenties, sharp-jawed, with ash-blond hair and eyes like storm clouds. The royal blue doublet felt heavy, as did the weight of the potion he'd ingested weeks ago—Sequence 9, Arbiter. It thrummed in his veins, sharpening his senses to lies and malice.
A knock broke his reverie. The door creaked open, revealing a valet in crisp livery. "Your Highness," the man said, bowing low, "Lord Vetinari requests an audience. He awaits in the Sapphire Hall."
Edessak's gaze flicked to the valet's hands. They trembled slightly, clutching a silver tray. His Arbiter intuition stirred—a thread of hostility, faint but unmistakable, woven into the man's deferential tone.
Already? Edessak's pulse quickened. Canon hadn't mentioned specific assassins, but the Psychology Alchemists were masters of subtlety. A valet could slip poison into wine or a blade between ribs. He needed to test this now.
"Before you go," Edessak said, his voice cold as a judge's gavel, "swear on your spirit: are you hired to watch me?"
The valet froze. Sweat beaded on his brow, glistening under the chandelier's glow. The air seemed to thicken, as if invisible chains coiled around him. Edessak's Arbiter power pressed down—not a physical force, but a weight on the soul, compelling truth.
"I… I swear I am not," the valet stammered, eyes darting to the floor.
Lie.
The word burned in Edessak's mind, sharp as a blade. His potion churned, digesting faster with the confirmation. One small victory, he thought, but his smile was grim. Let's see how deep this goes.
"You're dismissed," he said, waving a hand. "Inform Lord Vetinari I'll join him shortly."
The valet scurried out, leaving Edessak alone with his thoughts. He crossed to the window, gazing at Backlund's spires piercing the morning fog. Somewhere out there, George III was laying the groundwork for his ritual. Somewhere, a young Klein Moretti was still an ordinary scholar, unaware of the Fool's tarot card waiting for him. And somewhere, a blade was being sharpened for Edessak's throat.
Two years to change fate, he thought. Step one: don't die today.
The Sapphire Hall
Lord Vetinari was a lean man with a hawkish nose and eyes that seemed to dissect everything they saw. He stood by a towering fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, his black coat immaculate. Edessak knew him from the prince's memories—a minor noble with ties to the Steam Church, ambitious but not reckless. Or so it seemed.
"Your Highness," Vetinari said, bowing. "I come with concerns about the East End. Riots are brewing—workers claim the factories poison their air."
Edessak sat, gesturing for Vetinari to continue. His Arbiter senses scanned the man's words. No overt lies, but a faint undercurrent of… something. Evasion, perhaps. He's testing me, Edessak realized. But for whom?
"Poisoned air?" Edessak raised an eyebrow, leaning forward. "A bold claim. Have you evidence, or is this the rabble's fancy?"
Vetinari hesitated, a flicker of unease crossing his face. "Reports from overseers, Your Highness. Smokestacks clog the skies, and illness spreads."
Half-truth, Edessak's intuition whispered. The potion in his blood pulsed, urging him to press harder. He stood, pacing to a window overlooking the palace gardens. "Lord Vetinari," he said, voice low, "swear on your spirit: are these reports your true concern, or do you seek to stir unrest for another's gain?"
The room grew still. Vetinari's jaw tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides. The Arbiter's power coiled tighter, a spectral gavel poised to strike. "I swear," Vetinari said, voice steady but strained, "my concern is for Loen's stability."
Lie.
Edessak's heart raced, but he kept his face impassive. Got you. The potion surged, its icy burn spreading through his chest. Digesting an Arbiter potion required enforcing truth and fairness, and exposing Vetinari's deceit was like swallowing a double shot of espresso. But he couldn't confront him directly—not yet. A prince accusing a noble without proof would spark scandal, and Edessak needed allies, not enemies.
"Very well," Edessak said, turning with a practiced smile. "I'll dispatch inspectors to the East End. We'll root out the truth—together."
Vetinari's relief was palpable, though his eyes remained wary. "As you command, Your Highness."
As the lord departed, Edessak sank into his chair, mind racing. Vetinari was a pawn, likely tied to George III's smog preparations or the Psychology Alchemists' schemes. The East End "riots" smelled like a staged distraction—perhaps a test of Backlund's defenses for the Great Smog. If I disrupt this now, I might delay George's ritual, Edessak thought. And buy myself time.
But time was a luxury he didn't have. The valet's betrayal, Vetinari's lies—these were just the opening moves. Somewhere in the shadows, Adam's gaze might already be turning his way. And if the Evernight Church caught wind of a prince sniffing out secrets with uncanny precision, they'd send Nighthawks to "investigate."
Edessak glanced at the mirror across the hall, his reflection now a stranger's. I'm not just a prince, he thought. I'm a Justiciar. And this court is my first trial.