He walked to the center of the small room, pulling the black obsidian communication token from his pocket. The silver inlay of the leafless tree glinted faintly in the ambient light filtering through the window shutters.
First, he needed an early warning system. If Rebecca became overly worried and tried to check on him while he was hundreds of miles away in the Royal Capital, he needed to know exactly when she approached his door.
Lencar knelt on the floor near the entrance. He placed the obsidian token on the ground. He held out his right hand, his fingertips glowing with a faint, earthy brown light. He tapped into his Earth Magic, sending a hairline vibration through the wooden floorboards leading out into the hallway.
He didn't want to create a physical trap; he wanted a sensory web. He wove a delicate, interlocking array of Wind Magic threads, anchoring them to the floorboards just outside his bedroom door. These threads were completely invisible and possessed no physical mass, but they were incredibly sensitive to pressure.
He linked the sensory threads directly to the obsidian token. If a footstep fell within three feet of his bedroom door, the change in air pressure would sever a wind thread, causing the obsidian token to vibrate sharply and emit a low-frequency magical pulse. Because the token was linked to the identical Far-Speaker's Mirror modification he would carry with him into the capital, the warning pulse would transmit directly to his pocket, no matter where he was.
"The first Step is done," Lencar whispered to himself.
He picked up the token and placed it carefully on the small bedside table.
Now, for the decoy.
Lencar turned his attention to the narrow bed tucked against the far wall. The sheets were neatly folded, the heavy woolen quilt resting at the foot of the mattress.
He stepped up to the bed and raised his hands, palms facing downward.
This required a very specific, highly malleable form of his magic. He didn't want to use standard Plant Magic to grow flowers or sharp briars. He needed dense, thick, structural vines.
A soft, verdant green light illuminated his palms.
From the wooden floorboards beneath the bed, thick, fibrous vines began to sprout. They didn't grow wildly; they moved with deliberate, slow purpose, curling upward and spilling over the mattress. Lencar acted as a sculptor, his fingers weaving the air like a conductor directing a silent orchestra.
The vines braided themselves together, forming a solid, bulky mass. Lencar directed the growth, shaping the intertwined wood and leaves into a crude, humanoid form. He made sure the shoulders were broad, matching his own physical dimensions. He formed a rounded head that rested perfectly on the feather pillow. He shaped the long, thick vines to mimic the length of his legs beneath the blankets.
Within two minutes, a life-sized, wooden puppet lay perfectly still in the center of the bed. It was entirely featureless—just a smooth, woven mass of green and brown plant matter—but the physical volume was an exact replica of Lencar's body.
He reached down and pulled the heavy woolen quilt up, covering the wooden puppet up to its "neck."
Lencar stepped back, evaluating his work. If someone were to poke their head into the room, they would see the distinct, bulky outline of a large man sleeping under the blankets. Because the vines were biologically alive, fueled by his residual mana, they emitted a faint, natural organic heat. If Rebecca laid a hand on the blanket, it would feel warm to the touch.
But a featureless wooden head resting on the pillow was a dead giveaway.
Lencar raised his hand again, this time calling upon the Illusion Magic he had harvested from Madame Vex. A shimmering, iridescent light cascaded from his fingers.
He threw the illusion over the bed like a blanket. The green and brown vines of the puppet's "head" instantly vanished. In their place, a flawless visual projection of Lencar's face appeared against the white pillowcase.
He fine-tuned the details meticulously. He gave the illusionary face a pale, sickly complexion, complete with dark, bruised circles under the closed eyes. He added a sheen of artificial, clammy sweat to the forehead. He manipulated the illusion to cast the correct shadows based on the faint moonlight coming through the window shutters.
Finally, he tied the illusion to the ambient movement of the room. He commanded the thick vines hidden beneath the quilt to slowly, rhythmically expand and contract, raising and lowering the heavy blanket by a few inches to perfectly mimic the deep, heavy breathing of a man fighting a high fever.
The visual was flawless. Anyone cracking the door open would see a very sick, deeply unconscious Lencar Abarame resting exactly where he was supposed to be.
But a sick man isn't silent.
Lencar reached into his spatial ring and pulled out a small, unassuming artifact. It looked like a simple, polished river stone, but it was a low-level audio-recording device he had procured from Garrick's smuggling ship weeks ago. It was typically used by merchants to record spoken contracts, capable of holding a few minutes of looped audio.
Lencar infused a tiny spark of mana into the stone, activating the recording function. He held the stone close to his mouth.
He let out a series of horrible, ragged, chest-deep coughs. He followed it with a harsh, wheezing intake of breath, then a low, miserable groan, and finally a few moments of heavy, congested breathing. He repeated the cycle three times, ensuring the audio sounded incredibly raw and painful.
He cut the flow of mana, saving the recording. He tapped the stone again, setting it to an endless, low-volume loop.
Immediately, the sound of a sick man coughing and wheezing filled the quiet bedroom. The acoustics of the stone were remarkably clear.
Lencar walked over to the bed, carefully sliding his hand beneath the heavy quilt. He wedged the recording stone deep within the woven vines of the puppet's chest cavity. The thick blankets and the dense wood muffled the audio slightly, making it sound exactly as though the coughing was originating from the sleeping figure's lungs.
He stepped back to the door, placing his hand on the iron deadbolt, and listened.
The soft, rhythmic expansion of the blankets. The pale, sweating face resting on the pillow. The muffled, miserable coughing echoing quietly in the dark.
The trap was fully armed. The alibi was absolute.
"Perfect," Lencar murmured softly, the sound drowned out by the recorded cough of the decoy.
He walked over to a small patch of empty floor space near the window. He was utterly exhausted, both physically from the Thunder-Crags and mentally from orchestrating this complex web of deceit. Tomorrow, the Eye of the Midnight Sun would launch a full-scale invasion on the Royal Capital, and he needed his mind to be as sharp as a diamond scalpel.
Lencar sat down on the hard wooden floorboards, crossing his legs. He didn't sleep in the bed—he couldn't disturb the illusion. Instead, he slipped into a deep, restorative meditative trance, allowing his consciousness to drift into the quiet void, resting his mind for the grand stage that awaited him at dawn.
The morning sun broke over the horizon, painting the sky above Nairn in vibrant streaks of gold and pink. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the cobblestone streets clean and shining.
Lencar's eyes snapped open precisely at six in the morning. His internal clock, honed by years of strict discipline, woke him without the need for an alarm.
He stood up from the floorboards, stretching his broad shoulders. He felt fully rested, his mana reserves calm and deeply pooled within his core. He glanced at the bed; the illusionary Lencar was still breathing heavily, the recording stone still playing its miserable, coughing loop.