"You believe the world can change," Falathar says. "Perhaps this is how we change it."
Falathar steps forward, squaring off with Cenone. Seeing them face to face, you're struck by the resemblance between them, visible in the sharp bones of Falathar's face if not in his bearing. There's something off about the lighting, you think, heavier shadows stretching out behind them than the hanging lamps can explain.
"There is a curse, whether you believe it or not," Falathar says. "The city requires a ruler who will protect it against dangers, including magical dangers. Once, that ruler was you. Now, perhaps it should be someone else."
"I see now the sort of child I have raised," Cenone says. They're circling each other, slowly, their steps echoing on the stones. "One who believes himself more fit to rule than I am, despite having never raised his nose from a book to learn the discipline required to govern."
Abruptly you catch sight of Salar in the crowd. He catches your eye for a moment. Then Salar speaks, pitching his voice to carry. He's already absorbed some theatrical tricks, you think. From his accent, he could have lived in the city all his life.
"Long live Falathar!" he calls, and there's an answering murmur from the crowd, some angry, but others in apparent agreement.
Cenone recoils as if slapped. "This is sedition," he says. "You openly seek my throne. For how long have I harbored a traitor in my own house?"
Falathar raises his head. "I wish it hadn't come to this," he says. "But if you won't act when this curse threatens the people you claim to protect, then it's time someone else sat on your throne."
"The only curse afflicting me is that I didn't drown you at your birth," Cenone says. He beckons to a guard. "You will take this person away and put him under guard. Their liberty can no longer be permitted, for the safety of the city."