The carriage rattled along the meticulously paved streets of Byzantium, carrying Lord Valerius towards the Royal Citadel - a monument to Theron's absolute control. Inside, King Theron sat upon his throne, a figure sculpted from ambition and cold calculation. He ruled with an iron fist disguised in polished brass and intricate clockwork mechanisms. His smile was a carefully calibrated performance – devoid of warmth, radiating power.
Theron listened to Valerius's drunken ramblings with the patience of a predator assessing its prey. The Lord's mention of "the Whisperwood Weaver" triggered a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes - not fear, but a calculated assessment of risk. He had spent years systematically dismantling any trace of Whisperwood influence, branding them as threats to Byzantium's carefully constructed order. But the rumors persisted – like a persistent error in an otherwise flawless system.
"The Weaver… he speaks of power," Valerius slurred, his voice laced with regret and fear. "A power that could unravel…"
Theron silenced him with a gesture as precise as any machine's movement. "Silence! You speak treasonous nonsense." He signaled to two Clockwork Guards – automatons of polished steel and unwavering obedience. Their movements were efficient, their expressions blank. "Ensure this man is contained. And extract whatever information he possesses regarding the Whisperwood."
Lord Marius, Theron's advisor - a man whose loyalty was as predictable as the turning of gears - bowed low. "The rumors are spreading amongst the lower districts, Your Majesty. They question the Celestial Gears."
Theron's gaze drifted towards a holographic projection depicting Byzantium's manufactured history – a carefully curated narrative designed to reinforce his authority. He felt nothing but cold resolve. Sentimentality was a liability for a ruler.
"Find the source of these rumors," Theron commanded, his voice resonating with controlled power. "Eliminate it swiftly and decisively. The Whisperwood remains silent."
Arthur watched from the shadows across the street, analyzing every detail – the subtle twitch in Marius's eye, the almost imperceptible tightening of Theron's jaw. He understood that this wasn't just about suppressing a rumor; it was about maintaining control. And he knew, with a chilling certainty, that his own path was now irrevocably intertwined with the darkness gathering at Byzantium's edges.