Chapter 43: The Siphon's Gambit

　　The silence after General Sorrengail’s departure was more suffocating than her presence. The rain had eased to a persistent, misting drizzle, but the air in the weaver’s attic crackled with unspoken dread. Dawn was a sword hanging over their heads.

　　“She’s lying,” Garrick rasped, breaking the silence. He shifted on his pallet, wincing. “Rhiannon… she’s probably already dead. It’s a trap.”

　　Violet stood rigid by the wall, her knuckles white as she gripped the splintered wood. “She’s not lying,” she whispered, her voice hollow. “She wants me to know she has the power to spare them. She wants me to choose her version of the truth. That’s the point.”

　　Caden’s mind raced, the archivist sifting through the implications. Lilith’s offer was a masterpiece of psychological warfare. It wasn’t just about stopping the rumors; it was about reclaiming her daughter, about forcing Violet to publicly validate the lie and become its most powerful symbol. The truth would die not by suppression, but by adoption.

　　“Xaden is out there,” Violet said, turning to face them, a desperate fire in her eyes. “He signaled. He has a plan.”

　　“What plan?” Garrick’s tone was bleak. “He’s one man. She has the entire Quill.”

　　“He’s a siphon,” Caden said, the words feeling foreign and dangerous on his tongue. “He doesn’t fight like one man.” He thought of the unstable, raw power Xaden had wielded in the Fingers, the way he had drawn on the ambient magic of the Citadel. “He fights with the energy around him. And this city… it’s saturated with power. The wards, the forges, the dragons…”

　　The idea was terrifying. Unleashing Xaden’s full potential in the heart of Calldyr would be like dropping a torch into a powder keg.

　　As if summoned by their thoughts, a soft scraping sound came from the rear of the attic—a section of the damaged roof. A shadow detached itself from the gloom and dropped silently into the room.

　　Xaden.

　　He looked like a creature of the abyss. His clothes were torn and stained, his face gaunt and smudged with soot, but his eyes burned with a cold, focused intensity that was more alarming than any sign of fatigue. He carried the scent of ozone and smoke.

　　“You heard her,” Xaden stated, his voice a low rasp. It wasn’t a question.

　　Violet rushed to him, her hands fluttering as if to assure herself he was real. “You’re alive.”

　　“Barely,” he said, his gaze sweeping over Garrick’s injuries before locking onto Caden. “The offer is a lie. Rhiannon is held in the Citadel’s interrogation block. She’s alive, but they’re breaking her. Lilith will never let her go.”

　　The confirmation was a blow. The fragile hope of a negotiated peace shattered.

　　“Then we’re out of options,” Garrick said, his voice thick with despair.

　　“No,” Xaden said, his gaze turning to Violet. “We have one. But it’s not an option she’s offering.” He stepped to the center of the room, his presence commanding the cramped space. “She thinks she’s backed us into a corner. She thinks the only moves are surrender or a futile last stand.” A grim, predatory smile touched his lips. “She’s wrong. We’re not playing her game anymore.”

　　Caden felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp. “What are you proposing?”

　　Xaden’s eyes glinted in the dim light. “We don’t try to save Rhiannon. We don’t try to hide. We attack.”

　　The word hung in the air, absurd and terrifying.

　　“Attack what?” Violet breathed. “The Citadel?”

　　“The narrative,” Xaden corrected, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Lilith’s power isn’t just in her soldiers. It’s in the story she controls. The heroic general. The loyal daughter. We have the evidence to break that story, but pamphlets in the Warrens aren’t enough. We need a spectacle.”

　　He laid out his plan with the cold precision of a military strategist. It was audacious to the point of insanity. They would not sneak into the Citadel. They would walk in, using the chaos he intended to create as a diversion. But not a diversion to escape. A diversion to be seen.

　　“The Royal Plaza,” Xaden said. “At high noon tomorrow. When the square is filled with people. The Citadel’s public balconies will be occupied. Lilith will be there, projecting strength, watching her city.”

　　“And what will we be doing?” Caden asked, his mouth dry.

　　“We’ll be there,” Xaden said, his gaze fixed on Violet. “You, Violet. You’ll be there. You’ll stand in the middle of the plaza, and you’ll read the truth from your mother’s own scrolls. To her face. To the entire city.”

　　The sheer, breathtaking scale of the gamble left them speechless. It was a direct, public challenge to the throne. It was suicide.

　　“The Quill will cut you down before you speak three words,” Garrick said, aghast.

　　“No,” Xaden said, his smile widening. “They won’t. Because I will be the spectacle.” He looked at his hands, as if seeing the power coiled within them. “The Citadel’s wards are the strongest in Navarre. They draw power from the ley-lines, from the dragons bonded to the royal family. They are a constant, immense source of energy.” He looked up, his eyes blazing. “And I am a siphon. I will draw on them. All of them.”

　　The implication dawned on Caden with dawning horror. Xaden wasn’t planning to fight the guards. He was planning to destabilize the magical foundations of the Citadel itself. He would create a magical earthquake, a blackout, a phenomenon so vast and terrifying that all attention, all power, would be focused on containing him.

　　“You’ll be a beacon,” Violet whispered, understanding lighting her face. “They’ll see you as the only threat. The only target.”

　　“Exactly,” Xaden said. “In the chaos, you walk into the plaza. You stand there, and you speak the words that will shatter your mother’s legacy. While I give you the stage.”

　　The cost was clear. Xaden would be offering himself as a sacrifice. A target so bright and dangerous that it would blind the regime to the quieter, more insidious threat of the truth.

　　“They’ll kill you,” Caden said, the words a statement of fact.

　　Xaden met his gaze without flinching. “Probably.”

　　The attic fell silent. The plan was a symphony of destruction, a final, desperate act of defiance where victory was measured not in survival, but in the scale of the scar they left on history.

　　Violet looked from Xaden’s resolute face to the scroll case in Caden’s hands. She saw the faces of Brennan, of Rhiannon, of all the ghosts of Aretia. She saw the future her mother was building on their graves.

　　Tears welled in her eyes, but they were not tears of fear. They were tears of acceptance. Of resolve.

　　“No,” she said, her voice firm. “We do it together. But not as a sacrifice. As a statement.” She looked at Xaden. “You create the chaos. I speak the truth. And when the Quill comes for us… we face them together.”

　　It was not a plan for survival. It was a plan for a reckoning. The fallen knight, the siphon, and the general’s daughter were no longer fleeing. They were turning to face the storm, armed with a truth that was worth more than their lives. The game was over. The revolution was beginning.

　　Chapter 43 - End