In this land, there is no night. The sun never sets, and nothing is ever hidden. Light fills every space, every street, every face. Shadows have been banned. People live under constant exposure, and over time, they learn to adapt. Not to the heat, not to the light, but to the gaze of others.

Here, everything is observed. Appearance, posture, tone, presence. What you wear, how you speak, how you stand among others. It is not enforced through laws, but through expectation. Everyone knows what is acceptable and what is not. Perfection is not required, but it is pursued constantly, because anything less is noticed.

And being noticed for the wrong reasons is dangerous.

You have lived with this your entire life. You know how to present yourself, how to adjust, how to meet what is expected of you. You know how to exist under the light without drawing attention.

Or at least, you thought you did.

When you step into the gathering, everything appears as it should. People speak, move, and present themselves with the same careful control as always. Nothing seems out of place.

Until you begin to feel it.

The shift is subtle, but immediate. People look at you differently, or worse, they do not look at you at all. Conversations do not open to you. Movements adjust just enough to leave you outside of them. Nothing is said, nothing is pointed out, but the difference is there, impossible to ignore.

You try to move as you always have, to follow the same patterns, to fit back into what should be familiar. But something has already changed, and you are the only one who does not know what it is.

At some point, you hear your name. Not clearly, not directly, but enough to catch it in passing. A word follows, then another. You cannot make them out, but the tone is unmistakable.

It has already spread.

You don’t know what happened. You don’t know what you did. But here, that doesn’t matter.

Because once words are spoken, they spread quickly. Regardless of their truthfulness. They move from person to person, from conversation to conversation, until they reach the one place they cannot be undone.

The Emperor.

And if the rumor reaches him, there is no correction, no explanation, no second chance.

You are simply removed.

Suddenly, something changes in the light.

It sharpens. Conversations begin to falter, not all at once, but enough for the shift to be felt. Voices lower, movements slow, and the attention that was once scattered starts to gather.

You don’t see him arrive. But his presence is undeniable.

The space reorganizes itself without a single word being spoken. People instinctively adjust their postures and expressions, aligning themselves under his gaze.

The clock is ticking. You know that you have little time left to turn the tide. Once he hears the rumor, you will be out.

You look around. You don’t have time to hesitate. Only to choose.

Lysandre is already speaking with a small group, his voice calm, controlled, guiding the conversation without ever raising it. He knows how to correct what is being said, how to replace one version with another before it spreads further. If anyone can reshape the rumor, it is him.

Mirelle stands slightly apart, listening. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t react, but she hears everything. If your name is being spoken, she already knows how, and by whom. If you want the truth of it, she has it.

Vaelor is closer to the inner circle, where words begin to matter more. He does not repeat rumors, but he decides which ones are worth being carried further. If he dismisses it, it may never reach the Emperor.

Selka is still here, though people speak around her instead of to her. Her name comes up less and less, as if it is already fading. She has already gone through this. She knows how it starts, and how it ends. She could provide advice.

Orien says nothing, but he watches every exchange, every shift in conversation. He notices who speaks first, who repeats, who avoids. If someone started this, he would know where it began.