"By decree of Prince Regent Octavian, all public gatherings of more than five persons are henceforth forbidden. All Formu Schools are ordered closed pending investigation into seditious teachings. Any person spreading falsehoods regarding the murder of Emperor Tiberius shall be subject to immediate arrest."

  Town Crier Phillip's voice carried the procmation through the market square with professional neutrality, though Azaril—watching from the shadowed window of an abandoned storeroom above the candlemaker's shop—noted how the man's eyes darted nervously to the armed guards fnking him.

  "They're getting desperate," Silvius observed quietly. "These restrictions will only convince more people that the official account is false."

  The week following their arrival at Widow Marta's had seen dramatic shifts in the capital. What began as whispered doubts among former students had blossomed into open questioning of the accusations against Duke Lucian. The Formu Orthodoxy's hasty closure of schools had backfired spectacurly, transforming concerned parents into outraged protesters.

  "Helena's network is growing faster than they can suppress it," Azaril said, carefully unrolling a formu-inscribed message that had arrived via Theorema that morning. The Calcution Cat had proven an unexpectedly reliable courier, somehow evading the increased security throughout the city.

  The message contained reports from various districts—descriptions of spontaneous gatherings being dispersed by guards, merchants closing shops in protest, and most concerning, several arrests of former students caught distributing pamphlets questioning the official narrative of the Emperor's death.

  "We need to coordinate these scattered efforts," Azaril decided, turning from the window to face the small group gathered in their temporary headquarters. "Without direction, these demonstrations will be crushed individually."

  Livia, once a street child and now his most brilliant graduate, nodded in agreement. "The people are ready to act, but they need guidance. Structure."

  "And protection," added Marcus, a former imperial guard who had resigned his commission after the accusations against Duke Lucian. His military experience had proven invaluable in helping protesters avoid the most aggressive patrols. "The regime is employing increasingly brutal tactics."

  The cramped room above the shop had become their resistance headquarters over the past three days. Merchant Cornelius, whose business had flourished under Lucian's trade reforms, had provided the space along with financial support for their growing movement. From this hidden vantage point, they could observe the market square—the heart of the capital's commercial district and increasingly, the center of public dissent.

  "We need a symbol," Teacher Helena decred. Her face, once soft with academic patience, had hardened with resolve since the closure of her school. "Something visible that cannot be easily suppressed."

  "What about this?" Cornelius suggested, unfolding a simple banner from his satchel. On a field of deep blue—the color associated with formu education—was a geometric pattern representing the basic principles of knowledge sharing that had been the foundation of Lucian's educational reforms.

  "Perfect," Silvius said, examining the design. "Simple enough to replicate quickly, meaningful to those who understand, yet not explicitly treasonous."

  "Have your contacts produce as many as possible," Azaril instructed Cornelius. "Small enough to conceal until needed, but visible when dispyed together."

  As their allies departed with assignments, each leaving separately to avoid attention, Azaril turned his attention to drafting encoded messages for Helena's network of teachers. He had spent more than a decade in the Human Empire mastering formu communication—now those skills would serve a different purpose than he had ever anticipated.

  Silvius worked alongside him, adapting mathematical sequences into simplified patterns that even those with basic formu education could interpret. Their hands occasionally brushed as they worked, each contact a brief reminder of the intimacy forced upon them by their circumstances.

  "Do you ever regret it?" Azaril asked quietly as evening approached. "Attaching your fate to mine all those years ago?"

  Silvius looked up, his silver eyes reflecting the fading light. "Not once," he replied with such simple certainty that Azaril had to look away.

  Their work continued into the night, interrupted only when Theorema suddenly tensed, her attention fixed on the street below. Seconds ter came the distinctive sound of armored boots on cobblestones—a patrol approaching the shop.

  "The back exit," Silvius whispered, quickly gathering their most sensitive materials.

  They had nearly reached the concealed door leading to the adjacent building when heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. The patrol had entered the shop below.

  "Someone informed them," Azaril hissed, scanning the room for alternatives.

  Silvius moved to a stack of empty crates in the corner, silently shifting them to reveal a small storage closet. "In here," he urged, already guiding Azaril into the confined space.

  The closet was barely rge enough for one person, let alone two. As Silvius pulled the door closed behind them, they found themselves pressed chest to chest in the darkness, breathing the same air. Outside, the sound of armored men searching the room grew louder.

  "They know we've been here," Azaril whispered, his lips nearly touching Silvius's ear.

  A particurly loud crash—likely the table being overturned—caused both men to flinch. Silvius instinctively shifted his position, one arm moving protectively around Azaril as if to shield him from discovery. The movement brought their faces even closer, their noses nearly touching.

  In the absolute darkness, Azaril was acutely aware of Silvius's presence—the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the warmth of his breath, the solid pressure of his body providing both constraint and protection. For a moment that seemed to stretch eternally, neither moved nor spoke, suspended in a tension that had nothing to do with the guards searching merely feet away.

  "Nothing here, sir," came a voice from the main room. "But it's been used recently."

  "Continue the search in the adjacent buildings," ordered another voice. "They can't have gone far."

  Several agonizing minutes passed before the sound of retreating footsteps finally indicated the patrol had moved on. Still, they remained motionless, neither willing to be the first to break the fragile moment that had formed between them.

  Finally, practicality prevailed. "We should check if anything was left behind," Azaril whispered, his voice uncharacteristically uncertain.

  Silvius nodded, their foreheads brushing briefly before he reluctantly withdrew his arm and reached for the door. The sudden absence of contact left Azaril feeling strangely bereft as they emerged from their hiding pce and assessed the damage.

  The room had been thoroughly searched, but the guards had missed their most important materials, concealed within a false bottom of Cornelius's merchandise crate. Still, the close call had made one thing clear—they needed to relocate immediately.

  "I'll contact Marcus," Silvius said, already composing a message for Theorema to deliver. "He mentioned having another safe location prepared."

  Azaril nodded, trying to refocus on the task at hand rather than the lingering sensation of Silvius's proximity. "We should accelerate our timeline," he said. "The longer we wait, the more supporters will be arrested."

  By midnight, they had relocated to their new hideout—a small room above a bakery owned by the family of another former student. As Silvius established communication with their scattered allies, Azaril finalized the pn that had been forming in his mind.

  "Three days from now," he told Livia when she arrived with reports from the eastern district. "We'll coordinate simultaneous demonstrations in all major squares. Not just protests, but formu schools conducted openly in public spaces—teaching the very knowledge they're trying to suppress."

  "They'll arrest the teachers," Livia pointed out.

  "They can't arrest everyone," Azaril countered. "And each arrest will only reinforce our message—that the Formu Orthodoxy fears educated citizens capable of questioning authority."

  The pn spread through Helena's network with remarkable efficiency. Each day brought reports of growing support—merchants agreeing to close shops at the designated hour, former students volunteering to teach, parents pledging to bring their children to the public lessons. Even some lower-ranking formu masters, disturbed by the heavy-handed tactics of the regime, quietly offered support.

  On the morning of the demonstration, Azaril stood at the window of their newest hideout, watching as small groups began to gather in the square below. Despite the prohibition on assemblies, citizens moved purposefully through the market, their numbers gradually increasing as the designated hour approached.

  "It's working," Silvius observed, coming to stand beside him. "Look there—and there. The blue banners."

  Throughout the square, people were unfurling the simple blue banners with the knowledge-sharing symbol. What had begun as isoted acts of defiance was transforming before their eyes into coordinated resistance.

  When Teacher Helena emerged at the center of the square and began the first public formu lesson, Azaril felt his throat tighten with emotion. More than a decade of work in the Human Empire had led to this moment—common citizens demanding the right to knowledge once jealously guarded by the elite.

  "This is your legacy," Silvius said softly. "No matter what happens next."

  As imperial guards entered the square, they hesitated at the sight of hundreds of ordinary citizens—merchants, craftspeople, parents with children—all participating in peaceful formu education. Simir scenes were pying out across the city, too many to suppress simultaneously without revealing the regime's fear of an educated popuce.

  Reports arrived throughout the day via Theorema and other messengers—demonstrations in every district, unprecedented participation, and most importantly, guards increasingly reluctant to arrest peaceful citizens engaged in learning. By evening, even Town Crier Phillip had joined the resistance, reading aloud evidence of Duke Lucian's innocence instead of the official procmations.

  "We've created enough pressure," Azaril told his inner circle as they gathered that night. "Now we need to demand a formal investigation into the Emperor's death. Not just my exoneration, but justice for Tiberius."

  The room grew quiet as the implications sank in—they were no longer simply defending Duke Lucian, but challenging the legitimacy of the succession itself.

  "This goes beyond educational reform," Marcus warned. "You're questioning who should sit on the throne."

  "I'm questioning who murdered the Emperor," Azaril corrected. "And why they framed me for it. The people deserve the truth, not just about my innocence, but about who truly leads them."

  As their allies dispersed to spread the new message, Azaril found himself again alone with Silvius. The tension from their close encounter in the storage closet remained unaddressed, both men focusing on the crisis at hand rather than the unspoken feelings between them.

  "We should rest," Silvius suggested, arranging their bedrolls in the small space. "Tomorrow will require all our faculties."

  Azaril nodded, though rest seemed unlikely given the thoughts circling in his mind—not just strategies for the growing resistance, but increasingly, questions about what would come after. If they succeeded in clearing his name, what then? Return to his duties as Duke of Novaris? Continue the educational reforms? And what of Silvius—the constant companion whose presence had become as essential as breathing?

  As he settled onto his bedroll, uncomfortably aware of Silvius's proximity yet separated by a distance that seemed both trivial and vast, Azaril contempted how their retionship had evolved through years of shared purpose. The forced intimacy of recent days had merely highlighted what had long been developing between them—a connection that transcended any simple definition.

  Outside, the sounds of the city had changed. Where imperial procmations had once dominated, now came the murmur of citizens gathering despite the curfew, sharing information and organizing for the days ahead. The popur uprising had taken on a life of its own, spreading beyond what any single leader could control.

  Duke Lucian of Novaris—once a demon prince in exile, then an imperial advisor, and now the catalyst for revolution—closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of a popuce awakening to its own power, guided by the education he had fought to provide them.