Evander lay his hand over the slave’s forehead. Though he was not restrained, the old man did not struggle against Evander’s touch, eyes glassy and unsuspecting as a cow being led to slaughter. He had farmed the old man’s soul before, but this time was different. It would be the last time. It was a mercy, Evander thought, that the final blow would be softened by his slow chipping away of the slave’s mind. After all, he was not a cruel man - simply a practical one. There was no substitute for a human soul. Though what he was doing was not, strictly speaking, legal, he needed human souls if his work was to continue unimpeded. And he wasn’t about to let something as cumbersome as laws and ethics get in the way.

Holding a crystal in his other hand, Evander began to recite the soul-harvesting enchantment from memory. The crystal in his hand started to fill with pale light, growing brighter and brighter until it flashed and settled to a soft glow. Though the old man was still breathing, with his entire soul harvested there was no life left in his eyes. Evander looked down at the slave with indifference, watching the rise and fall of the man’s chest. Then, Evander put his hand over the man’s mouth and pinched his nose shut.

The slave did not protest. After a minute, his body started to twitch and shudder until it went entirely limp. The old man was dead. Moving on to his next task with efficiency, Evander went to a bookcase on the far end of his workshop and pulled it aside, revealing the metal door to a chute. He pulled it, letting it hang open as a gaping maw while he went to retrieve the body. Carrying the limp form with the utmost care, he rested the man’s body against the door so he would fall headfirst down the cute. When Evander let go, there was a soft whooshing sound as the body slid, passing through a shimmering blue force field and disintegrating into dust.

Mechanically, Evander closed the chute door and put the bookcase back in its proper place. He was brushing off his hands, returning to his workstation when he heard a sound at the door. A piece of paper passed through a thin slot cut out of it. Evander didn’t like interruptions or idle conversations, so this system is the one he’d devised so that he’d have to endure neither. Going to the door, he pulled the slip of paper and read it before sticking it in his pocket. His brother. It was unlikely Keion would be calling on him; and if he was, it would be more like his brother to state his request upfront. Evander started to speculate further but decided it was a waste of energy. After carefully storing the soul crystal away, Evander slipped on his jacket and started for the library.

After a moment of wandering through the stacks, Evander turned into the nook and saw Cyrus sitting at the table, waiting for him. He slowed to a stop. To anyone else, Evander’s expression would appear unchanged, but his elder brother knew him well enough to be able to see that his eyes were just a fraction wider than they were before. After only a moment, Evander was in motion once again, approaching his brother and holding out his hand in greeting as if he’d been expecting him all along.

“Brother. It’s good to see you.” While a comparatively lukewarm greeting, for Evander it was akin to embracing his brother in joyful reunion.

Evander sat, watching Cyrus with the hollow eyes of a shark. He’d missed his brother. If Evander were anyone else he might have remained standing, insisting that Cyrus explain his lengthy absence. But Evander was no such man. His brother was here now, and that was all that mattered. It wasn’t where he’d been that interested Evander, but what he wanted. Because clearly, Cyrus wanted something. One might think the Minister’s question was one of polite chit-chat, but Evander knew better. He likely did want to know what Evander was working on, but more importantly, Cyrus would want to know how it could be of use to him.

A soft smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, Evander reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small silver case, which may have easily passed for a tin of mints. “You know how interested I am in the art of…persuasion,” Persuasion was a very charitable word for the kinds of things the Blackwood was capable of. Evander pulled out a small object which looked like a hollowed-out silver molar. He held it up for Cyrus to see before clicking it into place at the back of his mouth. He took another object out of the case: A small, spider-like object not much bigger than a deer tick. “But I’ve found a new interest as of late…” Evander dropped the small silver bead onto the table and snapped the case shut. The spider scuttled towards Cyrus, swiftly moving up his sleeve towards his face. So long as Cyrus did not swat it away, the tick would move to the back of his neck and attach itself with its needle-thin legs - though Cyrus would not feel a thing.

“The art of control.” Though it was Evander’s mouth that moved, no sound came out. Instead, his words found themselves on Cyrus’s tongue, the elder Blackwood’s voice rumbling across the table as if he himself had spoken. “Just a little something I’ve been working on. A start, if nothing else,” Cyrus would say, though not of his own accord. Not wishing to test his brother’s patience with further demonstration, he snapped the tin open once more. Immediately the spider retracted its legs and scuttled back towards its master. Still smirking, Evander returned the molar to the tin as well and replaced it in his jacket pocket.

“Goes without saying, my current endeavors are not for public consumption. Though I’ve always been able to count on your discretion…Minister.” There was a playful twinkle in Evander’s eye - faint but present nonetheless.

Evander’s smirk was slight. He was not a proud man by nature. He pursued excellence for excellence’s sake, not to inflate his own ego. But if there was one thing that did make him sit a little taller, it was Cyrus’s approval. He let himself bask the warmth of his brother’s praise for a moment before moving on to other matters. He nodded slowly at his brother’s question, thoughtful.

“I’ve got a general sense of things, yes.” Evander leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together and shrugging. “The Eldouirs were always a threat to Arynn Frey. The only thing that kept them from us is the good graces of Lorendale - which is fragile security at best. In fact,” Evander was thinking out loud, trusting his brother enough to not rein in his thoughts too much, “I find it a comfort the gifteds are no longer their weapon to wield. The combined power of the Marshals and the Eldouirs would have been devastating should they ever have put Arynn Frey in their sights. Now, they are two forces in opposition. Let them tear each other to pieces.” Evander tapped his finger against his hand, eyes narrowing a little.

“It is the Rainecourt boy that intrigues me. Since assuming the throne, his ascent has been steep. Coheed, Cambria, and now Lorendale have all been brought under his domain. And once the Crown Prince marries the little princess…” Evander pursed his lips, as if tasting something sour, “We’ll have Rainecourt royalty in our palace as well.” He looked towards Cyrus, tilting his head a little.

"But those are just my armchair musings. I'm no politician." 

Evander spoke or acted out of haste. He listened quietly to his brother’s musings, raising an eyebrow in interest at the prospect of interfering in Lorendale’s affairs. They were quite the reactionary people. And with the recent swell of animosity against their gifted population, perhaps it wouldn’t take much to tip the kingdom over into total chaos. Something to think about, at least. Evander tucked the proposition away in his mind for later consideration.

He was glad to hear Cyrus shared his concerns about the Rainecourts, though he was hardly surprised. As puppetmasters themselves, it was in a Blackwood’s nature to look for the one pulling the strings. “Cambrians, like us, are a people of tradition. Even though the novelty of having men within their borders may have short-term appeal, it’s only a matter of time before they find that their culture and this new order cannot coexist. They will be forced to choose,” Evander shrugged as if it didn’t matter much to him which way they decided to go. It was simply another factor to consider.

Evander’s eyes met his brother’s, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. A virus. He was silent for a long moment, systematically sorting through the massive volume of ideas and information in his head that might prove useful. Evander then, slowly, started to speak, “First we must stop the virus from spreading,” Evander’s eyes started to sparkle. “The prince will want an heir. Particularly if the monarchy is to prove itself a viable alternative to council rule, there must be a clear line of succession.” Evander’s eyes returned to his brother, “If let’s say, the queen discovered prior to their marriage that Princess Rainecourt was unable to provide the crown prince with an heir, I imagine their match would be called into question.” Evander rubbed his chin, already strategizing, "It'd have to be done carefully, but it's not impossible."

Interesting.

Evander tapped two of his fingers together, thinking in silence for some time - feeling no need to fill it. Certainly, the girl would have to be made infertile, but Evander would be happy to see that himself. But if Cyrus was interested in a more permanent solution to the Rainecourt problem, a more aggressive approach would be required. He looked to his brother.

“Coheed, Cambria, and now Lorendale are dependent on the Rainecourts for political stability. If we use to clumsy an instrument, cut out the Rainecourt cancer too hastily, we risk chaos in the vacuum left behind. And when given the choice, I always prefer certainty.” Evander paused, eyes narrowing for a moment before he continued. “Ending the Rainecourt line is the last step: the first one must be to set up that which will take its place. We need successors that can be brought to heel when the time comes - in Coheed, Cambria, Lorendale, Nevermere and...” Evander looked at Cyrus dead in the eyes, “Arynn Frey.”

The Llewellyns were friends to the king, there was no doubt. If this was to be done correctly, every kingdom would need a changing of the guard. But where Cyrus stood on that particular point was a different matter entirely.