Far to the northeast, a hooded figure in ghostly white moved like the fog through villages, appearing by night and disappearing come morning. Few noticed the Exile’s passage, but among those who did, rumors bloomed in her wake. Devoid of allies and fleeing for her life, the Exile had fallen into much the same situation as a Scholar once had found himself in many years ago. After the defeat of the Marshal of the West, the Cloud Army morale had hit an all-time low, and the Exile’s armies had subsequently defected in droves. She had only just managed to escape the Capital with her life, fleeing through the eastern gate by night; during the recent weeks on the run, the only friendly faces she had encountered were the false smiles of the Gold King’s bounty-hungry sympathizers.

In the outskirts of the northern mountains, the Exile stumbled through swift winds and the touch of frost. Pinpricks of starlight shone between wisps of cloud in the black sky above, and below sprawled the sloping cliffs of the mountainside. The Exile had taken to the wilderness after the Gold Army hunters tracked her through one too many villages, but she was already weak and weary from long weeks of travel, and leaving the formal paths had only increased the difficulty of her flight.

A cave appeared in front of the Exile. The entrance was partly hidden between the vegetation, but it looked deep enough to provide shelter from the wind. Shivering from the chill, the Exile climbed over the entrance shrubbery and collapsed on the flat stones inside. She quickly drifted into sleep, too exhausted to continue. Hours passed in dreamless darkness.

The Exile woke to the sensation of being watched. Not far below, hounds howled into the night: the hunters of the Gold King had almost caught up to her. The Exile sat upright, tensing. They would find the cave in a few minutes, and she had not set any traps with which to repel them.

Behind the Exile, someone cleared a throat. She turned to find a familiar face, one that had been reported dead. Firelight flickered over hair the color of fallen pine needles, a likeness identical to that of the Exile’s most loyal soldier, but this one was not he. Willful eyes glinted green as the forest canopy, and below them curled a smile full of sadness: here was a man who should have perished long ago. The Sage who had once been Marshal of the East stood at the back of the cave, an oil lamp in one hand and a wooden staff in the other. Behind him, a door hung wide open. The outward-facing side of the door had been covered in branches and mossy stones to disguise its presence, while the inside revealed flat planks of hewn wood.

The Sage beckoned, and the Exile approached with measured steps. When she reached his side, the Sage tossed a pouch to the entrance of the cave. A translucent fan of smoke spurted from the mouth of the pouch, dissipating in the wind. The Sage ushered the Exile through the wooden door and pulled it closed behind them. The lamp light went out with a flick of the Sage’s fingers, plunging them both into darkness.

They waited in silence. A few minutes passed, and the sounds of snuffling and claws against stone echoed from beyond the door. A minute later, the hounds rushed past the cave with the patter of many feet. The Sage re-lit the lamp with a click of spark-rocks hidden by his wrist, revealing a natural tunnel leading from the original cave entrance to deeper chambers within the mountain. The faint crease between the Exile’s brows slowly smoothed. She brushed down her clothes with excessive calm.

“You have my gratitude, Sage,” said the Exile. Her voice was level, but her pale eyes fixed upon the Sage’s staff. Many would have seen it as a simple walking stick, but the Exile knew it was no less dangerous in skilled hands than the former Marshal’s signature glaive. The Sage had been a legendary warrior during his time as Marshal of the East; if the Sage decided to turn against the Exile, whose knowledge of the martial arts fell solidly within the conceptual while eschewing entirely the physical, the Sage would undoubtedly win.

“If fortune has brought you to my doorstep, it must have a reason,” said the Sage, sensing the Exile’s unease. He waved his staff toward the tunnel. “Please, do come in. I have little to offer, but allow me to share a few words. You may decide for yourself whether these mumblings of an old traitor have merit.”

The Exile nodded, for it would be only polite to lend the Sage a willing audience after he had offered shelter. She followed the Sage down the tunnel, falling into step beside his uneven limping. “Speak your piece.”

“You are not the Sun, for rare to this world is one with such bold dreams. Nor are you a cloud whose sole purpose is to obscure.” The Sage’s step faltered as he saw regret flicker across the Exile’s face. “Your work may not be an offshoot of the Sun King’s original cause, but a new purpose of its own. Such purpose cannot be built upon the ruins of a fallen regime. You must create a foundation of your own.”

The Exile understood. To influence, one needed not be overwhelming in power; a tiny leaf placed at the right point could change the course of a river. The Exile had exercised this principle when influencing famous public figures: the Sun King and the Gold King had both yielded to mere suggestions, not outright force. Yet both times, stability ended when a powerful subordinate acted independently of the Exile’s sway over the leader. Why had the Exile not directly sought to win those with martial power, rather than whispering to those leaders who reigned a step distant from the world?

By that logic, to obtain true power over the people, why not confront the common people directly? Both prominent leaders in the last three decades—the Sun King and the Gold King—had risen from humble origins. They did this by winning support from equally humble individuals: those who despised the pettiness of the world; those who wished for acknowledgement in an uncaring world. For their promises, they won loyalty in both quantity and quality; for that loyalty, they won the nation.

“No leader can defy the inevitable course of Nature. This I accept. I shall amend my ways,” said the Exile, cold light shining in her gaze.

To change the course of a nation led astray by past leaders—those of Sun and Gold who seemed brilliant among their peers, yet still lacked temporal perspective—the Exile needed to focus not on those powers already established, but on those yet to emerge. Only with such control over the future as well as the present could the Exile’s vision of a perfect order come to fruition. True order, the ultimate stasis, must ultimately prevail; such was the way and will of the world. This recent defeat was simply a minor setback.

The Sage smiled at the Exile’s change of heart. “The way of Nature is the way we must all obey, in the end. Thank you for heeding my counsel.” He paused and spread his arms. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

The tunnel had widened into a small cavern. Murky streams of light pierced the gloom from natural skylights high in the ceiling, and firelight from the Sage’s lamp cast a warm golden glow across the rocky floor. Within were the furnishings of a home: branches woven into baskets and simple mats, stored food, a pile of books in one corner, and various tool-shaped objects scattered over every horizontal surface.

The Exile stayed the night at the Sage’s cave dwelling. He offered food and shelter but spoke no more of the nation below. When morning came, the Exile turned back to her Empire of Gold.

Presently, the Cloud came to the town of Dustholm. A harried tax collector shuffled from door to door, trying to collect grain taxes for paving the communal roads.

The people beaned the tax collector with rotten fruit, saying, “You want our food? Take this!”

The Cloud stepped up to the tax collector, braving the hail of rotten fruit to whisper in his ear. The tax collector’s eyes grew wide with the light of revelation, and he nodded.

The Cloud moved on to the neighboring town.

Two weeks later, the Cloud returned to Dustholm. The tax collection bins were overflowing with goods, and the officers watching the bins looked stunned. As the Cloud watched, more people came up to give their names and tax amounts—giving more than they even owed.

Another success. The Cloud moved on.

In the city of Elkmoor, the Cloud passed a mayor’s office where a wealthy person, previously accused of a crime, was presently offering a handful of coins to the mayor. The latter wavered in place, uncertain about whether to accept the bribe.

The Cloud stopped to whisper in the ear of a passing clerk. The clerk’s eyes grew wide, and he rushed in to speak with the mayor.

In the courtroom, the mayor laughed and tossed the coins in the wealthy convict’s face. The guards hauled the criminal to his fate.

The Cloud walked away, no more than a face in the crowd, a whisper in the wind, a gleam in pale eyes. Where she went, conflict ceased and peace flourished.