Chapter Fifty-Eight

The Inquisition's central command buzzed with the hum of encrypted transmissions, the weight of Eden's deadliest covert mission about to unfold. Orin Lantrun stood at the center of it all, a monument of calm in the storm of operations swirling around him. As High Inquisitor, Orin rarely allowed emotion to surface—except for the flicker of satisfaction that played across his pale features as the message from the Supreme Leader arrived.

Commence operations.

The three words were all Orin needed. His hand tightened on the glowing tablet as he spun on his heel. The sleek, metallic walls of the Inquisition headquarters reflected fragments of his sharp silhouette as he barked a command.

"Secretary!"

The door swung open almost instantly, revealing a young man with a clipboard in hand, his expression carefully neutral, though the gleam in his eyes suggested he lived for moments like these. "Yes, High Inquisitor?"

"Begin Operation Dead Bird," Orin ordered, his voice smooth but loaded with finality.

The secretary gave a quick bow. "It will be done." He stepped back into the hall, already sending orders through hidden communication channels, alerting the network of operatives scattered across continents. Sleeper agents embedded in powerful circles stirred into action. The bloodwork of Eden's precision machine was now flowing. There was no stopping it.

---

In Londonium, the new hub of Eden's operations, Viserys Targaryen was the life of the party, basking in the attention of the city's elite. Draped in golden robes and a jeweled crown that felt too heavy for his slim frame, Viserys held court with exaggerated flair, waving a goblet of fine wine in the air as if it were a scepter.

He had been in Londonium only a few days, but already the city had welcomed him with open arms—or so he believed. In truth, the Inquisition had carefully orchestrated every invitation, every smiling face that greeted him at the lavish gathering. Tonight, he was celebrating his perceived rise to power, reveling in the illusions Eden had spun around him.

A server, masked in accordance with the event's theme, approached him with a silver tray. "Another drink, my lord?"

Viserys grinned arrogantly, draining the last of his wine and swapping the empty goblet for the fresh one. "Don't mind if I do," he slurred.

He took a deep sip. The poison slipped into his bloodstream like a lover's kiss—gentle at first, then cruel.

Within moments, his thoughts fragmented. His heartbeat became erratic, and reality twisted into surreal shapes. Colors brightened unnaturally, and the faces around him began to swirl into grotesque masks. Panic gnawed at the edges of his mind, but he drowned it in delusions of grandeur.

"I am the last dragon!" Viserys declared, his voice rising to a fever pitch. "None of you are worthy!"

He staggered toward the balcony, laughing hysterically. Guests whispered nervously, exchanging uneasy glances. Before anyone could stop him, Viserys climbed onto the ledge. For a moment, he stood there, arms spread wide, as if he might take flight.

And then he leaped.

The crowd gasped as his body plummeted from the towering balcony, spinning violently before smashing into the marble courtyard below. Blood spread in a dark halo around his broken form. Someone screamed, and the party dissolved into chaos.

---

Meanwhile, Illyrio Mopatis, the wealthy Pentosi magister, was enjoying the feast spread before him. His round, oily face gleamed with satisfaction as he tore into a roasted pheasant, oblivious to the storm about to break over him.

A figure approached from behind—another magister, a supposed ally from Pentos. Illyrio glanced up and opened his mouth to greet him, but the words never came.

A dagger slipped between his ribs with practiced ease. Illyrio gasped, his chubby fingers clawing weakly at his attacker's wrist.

"W-why?" he sputtered, blood trickling from his lips.

The other magister leaned in close, his expression cold. "You've outlived your usefulness."

Illyrio crumpled to the floor, his once-powerful frame reduced to a heap of silk and flesh. The assassin turned and calmly presented himself to the guards, who swiftly arrested him. But it was all part of the plan. Hours later, thanks to diplomatic immunity and the Inquisition's machinations, the assassin was released, free to take Illyrio's place in the Pentosi government.

With the head magister of Pentos now an Inquisition sleeper agent, Eden's grip on the Free Cities tightened even further.

---

Far away, in the shadowed corridors of the Red Keep in Westeros, Varys—the Spider—was preparing for a quiet night. He moved through his chambers like a ghost, his soft steps barely disturbing the air. He had long suspected that Eden's reach extended farther than anyone knew, but tonight, he allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation.

A maid entered his room, her face downcast as she carried a tray of wine. "A gift from the kitchens, Lord Varys," she murmured.

He waved her away without a second thought. "Leave it on the table."

As she turned to go, she struck with the precision of a viper. Her hands, small and delicate, twisted Varys's neck with a sharp snap. His lifeless body crumpled silently to the floor.

Within minutes, a second agent entered—this one a perfect doppelgänger, his features molded to mimic the spymaster's precisely. The new Varys adjusted his robes, inspected his reflection briefly, and slipped into the role as if he had always worn it. Eden's plans in Westeros would proceed without a hitch.

---

Back in the darkened halls of the Inquisition's command center, Orin Lantrun reviewed the operation reports with meticulous care. Viserys dead, Illyrio eliminated, Varys replaced. Every piece had fallen into place with mechanical precision.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as a rare sense of satisfaction washed over him. From a crystal decanter on his desk, Orin poured himself a glass of rich red wine, swirling it slowly before taking a sip.

His secretary re-entered the room, standing at attention near the door. Orin glanced up and smiled—a rare expression, reserved for moments like these.

"Come," Orin said softly, pouring a second glass of wine. "Join me."

The secretary hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. He accepted the wine with a quiet nod, and they toasted silently to their success.

For a moment, they drank in silence, the weight of the night hanging between them like a shared secret. Orin set his glass down, his sharp eyes never leaving the younger man.

With a subtle but deliberate gesture, he reached out, brushing his fingers along the secretary's arm. The touch was light, but it carried a quiet command. The secretary met Orin's gaze, then gave a small nod, understanding what was being asked of him.

Orin's voice was low and smooth, almost a whisper. "Stay with me tonight."

The young man obeyed without question. The door to the chamber closed with a soft click, sealing them in the shadows. Outside, the vast machinery of Eden's empire continued to grind forward, silent and unstoppable.

Operation Dead Bird was complete. The pieces were in place, and Eden's future was secure—for now. And in the cold, quiet heart of the Inquisition's lair, Orin Lantrun savored both the victory and the fleeting warmth of companionship, knowing that tomorrow, the relentless game would begin again.