I navigated through the crowded streets, my eyes flicking often to the business card Miss Snow had given me, searching for the correct address amidst the sea of storefronts and apartment units. She was a journalist, but more importantly, she was the one who had caught my attention during Ludvig's first press conference—sharp, determined, and with a particular glint in her eye that spoke of a willingness to pursue a great story, even in dangerous territory. She was key to the first stage of my plans dealing with Valois, and I needed to secure her cooperation.
I wore plain clothes, a nondescript gray coat and worn trousers that made me blend in easily with the crowd. The streets were bustling, and I kept my head low. Crime had become rampant, a festering problem that grew worse by the day. Wearing anything that stood out—anything too refined or official—was practically an invitation to be robbed.
Most of the security details had been reassigned to the new chancellor and those considered higher priority targets. The assassination attempt on Ludvig had rattled us all, and now every precaution was being taken to avoid a repeat incident. Of course, I could probably ask Oskar to assign me some security personnel—he'd agree without hesitation. But those weren't people I could completely trust. Their loyalty ultimately lay with the office of the chancellor, not with me. And while I respected Oskar, I needed my autonomy for this particular endeavor. I couldn't risk having all my movements monitored, my conversations overheard. Not when the plans I was putting into motion needed absolute discretion.
After winding through several side streets, I stopped in front of a unit that matched the address on the card. It was wedged between a pawn shop and a narrow alley that looked like it hadn't seen a broom in years. The exterior was unremarkable—a single, peeling door and a small, grimy window that gave no hint of what lay inside. I hesitated for a moment, double-checking the address before pushing the door open.
A small bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside. The space was even smaller and more cramped than I had anticipated. The ceiling hung low, and the room was cluttered with stacks of papers, half-empty bookshelves, and a desk that was barely visible beneath a mess of open notebooks and folders. The air smelled faintly of ink and dust, the familiar scent of a place inhabited by a chronic writer.
I took a moment to take it all in, feeling a pang of uncertainty. Was this the right place? It looked more like a storeroom than an office.
From somewhere behind the stacks of clutter, a voice called out, startling me slightly.
"Who's there? I don't do walk-ins. If you want to sell a story, take a number and wait until I feel like listening."
The voice—it was unmistakably Ms. Snow.
I stepped further inside, making my way around a precarious tower of papers. "Miss Snow?" I called.
A head popped up from behind the desk, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took me in, and for a brief moment, her expression showed only confusion. But then recognition flickered across her face. Her hazel eyes widened, and she pushed aside the stack of books she had been hiding behind, standing up straighter.
"Well, well," she said, her tone shifting to something almost amused. "Look who decided to grace my humble abode."
We sat down, the creaking chairs barely fitting in the cramped space between towers of books and papers. Miss Snow poured us each a cup of tea from a chipped ceramic pot, steam rising into the cool, stale air of the small room. She pushed one cup toward me, her expression calm but watchful.
I took a sip of the tea, my eyes wandering across the cluttered room. Stacks of newspapers, loose-leaf papers filled with notes, and dusty volumes on history and politics surrounded us. She seemed to notice my gaze lingering on the piles, and her cheeks flushed slightly.
"Please ignore it," she said, a hint of embarrassment coloring her voice. "I just moved here. I haven't really got the time to unpack."
"Where did you move from?" I asked, feigning casual interest.
She smiled, but it wasn't a friendly smile—it was sharp, almost knowing, as if she had already deciphered my true purpose. "I'm from a small town in Lorianne. But you already knew that, didn't you?"
Her words took me by surprise, and I felt my face tense involuntarily. For a brief second, I struggled to maintain my composure, but I quickly schooled my features back to neutrality. Yes, it was true. I had tasked Eliza with investigating journalists and members of the press in Lorianne who might be cooperative, either through ideological sympathy or by exploiting secrets we could use as leverage. We needed people who understood the local landscape, people we could trust to deliver the right message to the right audience.
That was when we came across Miss Snow's profile, and it became clear she was perfect. She wasn't just any journalist—she was the ex-leader of a major writers' guild in Lorianne, an underground organization that had thrived despite the old empire's censorship. The writers' guilds were havens for those who challenged the status quo, publishing writings that ranged from subversive fictional works to hard-hitting exposés on corruption within the ruling elite. During the monarchy, the authorities only cared about suppressing the latter—anything that dared expose the scandals and decay at the heart of high-status families.
After we rose to power and declared the freedom of the press, those guilds had begun to emerge from the shadows. No longer forced to hide their activities, some members had left the guilds to work independently, tasting freedom in the open air. I assumed that was why Miss Snow had left, to pursue her work without the confines of secrecy.
Originally, our plan had been to quietly influence key members of Lorianne's writers' guild, especially journalists. But if we could bring a respected ex-leader like Miss Snow into our fold—someone whose voice still carried weight in the community—it would change everything. Her credibility, her influence, could reach places our official decrees and broadcasts never could.
She watched me now, her eyes sharp, studying every nuance of my expression, every hesitation. I met her gaze evenly, keeping my face impassive. I couldn't afford to let her see that she had caught me off guard.
"Is that why you're here?" she asked, her tone more direct now, the warmth from before replaced by a steely curiosity. She wanted the truth.
I set my teacup down gently, the clink of porcelain a sharp note in the quiet room. There was no use in denying it, not entirely. She was too clever for that, and she had already laid her cards on the table.
"Yes," I admitted, leaning forward slightly. "I won't pretend otherwise. I know of your history in Lorianne, Miss Snow. I know the influence you wielded—and still wield. And I also know that Valois represents a threat to everything we fought to create. That includes the chance for people like you to speak the truth without fear of censorship or worse."
She leaned back in her chair, her expression carefully neutral, though her eyes held a hint of something sharper. "And you want me to... what? Use my influence to spread your version of the truth?" There was a note of disdain in her voice, but beneath it, a spark of curiosity. She was testing me, waiting to see how I would react.
"If you put it that way, then yes... to a certain degree," I answered, matching her gaze evenly. "The central government has plans in motion to deal with Valois. Difficult decisions will have to be made, and when they are, we need the right story to be told."
Her brows furrowed, and her expression grew uneasy. "Plans, huh?" she said, skepticism thick in her voice. "I may not like the Governor, but if you're planning to bring another war to my beloved home province, then I'm afraid this meeting is over."
I quickly shook my head, leaning forward slightly in earnestness. "I can assure you, there will be nothing of the sort. War is the last thing we want. Our actions will be purely for the people of Lorianne, and we plan to conduct ourselves as peacefully as possible. I understand your curiosity for details, but I'm afraid I cannot disclose anything further."
Miss Snow remained silent, her gaze boring into mine as if trying to determine whether my words were the truth or merely another political lie. After a moment, she gave a curt nod, though the tension didn't entirely leave her shoulders.
"When things are set in motion," I continued, "I ask for the understanding of the writer's guild. If I understand correctly, there are some writers sympathetic to Governor Valois' narrative. I ask that the guild, as a whole, at the very least maintain a neutral perspective on the situation."
She hummed, her eyes narrowing in thought, weighing my words carefully. Her skepticism remained, but I could see her considering the possibilities. "Hm," she finally said, tapping her fingers against the armrest of her chair.
"Well, if your intentions are as you say, then I suppose there isn't a problem," she conceded, though her tone carried a note of caution.
"While there's certainly a faction of writers who align themselves with Valois, there's also a growing sentiment that's sympathetic to your cause. I'm not entirely sure if my influence is even needed at this point, but I'll try to consult with the leadership and get them to tone down publications from the pro-Valois authors."
Relief washed over me at her words, and I felt some of the tension ease from my shoulders. This was what I had hoped for—at least a chance to level the playing field when it came to the narrative being spun in Lorianne. But before I could express my gratitude, she fixed me with a piercing look, and her tone shifted, becoming colder, sharper.
"However," she said, her voice cutting through the momentary relief, "if you do end up doing something stupid—if this turns into anything resembling the old ways—not even I can save you, even if I wanted to. At the end of the day, the writers' guild serves the people. You may get them to bend the truth here and there, but if you expect baseless propaganda out of them, you'll be seriously mistaken."
The warning hung in the air, and I nodded. "I understand that," I said, keeping my voice steady, meeting her eyes to show that I wasn't making empty promises.
Before I could say anything else, she shifted gears, her expression changing as she moved on to more practical matters. "Alright then, let's talk about compensation," she said, her tone taking on a matter-of-fact edge.
I leaned back slightly, prepared for this part of the conversation. "Of course. I can provide you with exclusive information at appropriate times—before any other journalist gets their hands on it. In addition, I will be your direct source regarding any developments with Valois. You would, without a doubt, be the first to publish the best material on this matter. I guarantee that."
She leaned back, her fingers tapping thoughtfully on the armrest of her chair. I could see her considering the offer, weighing the potential risks against the rewards. After a moment, she spoke again, her gaze fixed on me.
"Sounds good," she said, but then added, "But there are a few more things I want to clarify."
I raised an eyebrow, signaling for her to continue.
"I want inside access to whatever activities you're planning there," she said. Her tone was calm but firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation. "I understand that certain things will be classified, and I won't ask to see everything. But I need something exclusive, something that only I can witness with my own two eyes. I want to be able to write about these events firsthand, not just report what you tell me."
She paused, then added, "Mainly, I want photographs. My assistant is an excellent photographer, and he'll need access too. Additionally, I want the ability to interview you frequently regarding the matter—at appropriate times, of course."
I studied her for a moment, appreciating her boldness. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she wasn't afraid to demand it. It was a risk, but this was the type of arrangement that could give our cause the visibility and nuance it desperately needed—so long as I managed her access carefully.
"That can be arranged," I said finally, nodding.
We concluded our terms with a handshake, her eyes locked onto mine.
Securing influence from the press was merely a requirement—a necessary cog in the larger machine I was building. Now that this piece was in place, I could finally put my plan in motion.
The real work was about to begin.