Chapter 17: Whispers Beneath the Crown
Night had fallen over Solmaris, but the city was anything but quiet. Lanterns glowed along the gilded walkways, merchants closed their stalls with weary hands, and guards patrolled the plazas with sharpened eyes. From a balcony atop the Stone Garden Lodge, Farhan Rahman leaned against the railing, the royal charter still clutched in his hand.
Officially recognized. Free trade rights. Access to the entire kingdom.
He should've been elated, and he was — in part. But beneath that excitement was a persistent unease, like a low hum in the distance before a storm.
"Something's coming," he murmured.
Denel stepped beside him, arms folded. "Too many eyes today. Half the nobles smiled like wolves. The other half like snakes."
"I noticed," Farhan said. "That noble — Lord Veynar — he wasn't just being theatrical. He knew what to expect. Like someone warned him ahead of time."
Denel's lips thinned. "He wasn't alone. A few of the Council members whispered terms like 'Unseen Hand.' Ever heard of them?"
Farhan shook his head. "No, but I've seen enough to know what a secret organization smells like."
Denel nodded slowly. "Let me do some digging. Old contacts. Rumors. I'll keep it quiet."
"Good," Farhan said. "And I'll do the opposite."
She raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"
"I'll show them I'm not afraid."
—
The next morning, Farhan made an unexpected appearance at a bustling plaza near the Mage Quarter. With the royal seal in hand and several crates of goods, he set up a "knowledge booth" surrounded by parchment signs reading:
"Free Tools. Free News. Free Understanding."
It was a bold, dangerous move.
But it worked.
Crowds gathered — mages, apprentices, commoners, even skeptical scribes. They watched demonstrations of battery-powered lanterns, marvelled at pens that never dried, and crowded to receive printed pages of The Common Voice. Children were especially captivated by a small box with moving pictures: a battery-powered portable projector loaded with nature documentaries.
"What is this… magic?" a young mage asked.
Farhan grinned. "Not magic. Learning."
He explained the principles simply: lenses, mirrors, stored footage on "recording crystals" (he didn't bother explaining SD cards or digital formatting in detail). Most couldn't grasp it all, but they were hooked.
And watching from a rooftop across the square… was a man in black robes.
—
Deep beneath the palace, beyond the layers of enchanted stone and forbidden tomes, the secret council of the Unseen Hand convened.
Five figures sat in a circle, their faces hidden behind metallic masks shaped like ancient beasts — serpent, jackal, raven, lion, and moth.
"The foreigner grows bold," hissed the Raven.
"He undermines our grip," growled the Lion. "Tools that empower peasants? Books that teach commoners to *question*?"
The Jackal chuckled. "And worse — he makes money while doing it."
"But we cannot strike directly," the Moth said softly. "The King protects him now."
The Serpent leaned forward, voice a whisper. "Then we must make him bleed another way."
A scroll was unrolled. A plan revealed. A name marked.
—
Three days later, chaos erupted in the town of Graymere — one of Farhan's earliest expansion hubs. His merchant branch there was burned in the night. His staff fled. Two were arrested by local guards for "spreading illegal texts."
Farhan got word the next morning. His face hardened as he read the message.
"Graymere?" Lyssa asked, reading over his shoulder.
"They're trying to frame us as a threat," Farhan said. "It's not just about product. It's ideology."
Denel slammed a dagger into the map table. "I knew it. Someone's coordinating this. The attacks on your image, the legal tricks, the cult-like whispers? That's Unseen Hand work."
Lyssa adjusted her glasses. "We need to fight on three fronts now: market, public opinion, and intelligence."
Farhan looked down at the royal charter again. It suddenly felt more like a target painted on his back than a shield.
"I'm not stepping down," he said firmly. "They want a shadow war? We'll shine light."
—
That afternoon, he did something few merchants ever dared.
He walked into the Mage Academy's Grand Lecture Hall and offered a public talk — not just on his products, but on the philosophy behind them.
"Progress is not poison," he said, standing beneath a glowing orb of light. "It's the soul of civilization. Do you fear what empowers others? Or do you fear losing your grip on them?"
The mages — young and old — argued fiercely. Some cheered. Others hissed. But he left the hall alive and, more importantly, remembered.
Later that night, a hooded stranger slipped a note beneath Farhan's door:
"You speak boldly. Not all in the shadows are your enemies. Meet me under the Moon Arch at midnight."
—
Denel protested.
Arlin threatened to come along with a broadsword.
But Farhan knew some things had to be done quietly.
At midnight, he arrived alone beneath the Moon Arch — a forgotten ruin nestled in Solmaris' lower district.
A cloaked figure emerged from the dark.
"You're Farhan Rahman?"
"I am."
The figure pulled down their hood.
A woman — older, with streaks of silver in her hair and a gaze as sharp as a dagger.
"I am Velda. Once of the Mage Council. Now of the Resistance."
Farhan blinked. "There's a resistance?"
"To the Unseen Hand. To those who use magic to chain, not liberate."
She tossed him a scroll.
"This is proof. Documents, names, payments. Your burned outpost in Graymere? A puppet lord under their payroll did it."
Farhan took the scroll, heart racing. "Why help me?"
"Because you remind me of the old world," Velda said. "A world where knowledge was sacred, not hoarded. You bring change — and that terrifies them."
He bowed slightly. "Then I'll keep terrifying them."
She smiled. "Good. Because this war… it's only just begun."