Wyvrland was starting to breathe.
Its people walked with food in their bellies. The garrisons stood sharper in their drills. The forges in Draeven Hollow hissed with new life. On the surface, the county was reborn.
But roots rot first.
And I'd grown wise enough to smell decay in the wind.
That's when Lyra returned.
---
It was near midnight when she stepped into the keep, cloaked in shadow and rain. The guards let her pass without question—those few who knew her face had learned better than to stop her.
She found me in the war room, poring over grain reports and draft levies. The fire had burned low. Her voice was colder than the wind outside.
"You're surrounded."
I didn't look up. "Welcome home."
"I'm not joking, Vihan."
I met her eyes. No warmth there. Only ice and secrets.
She dropped a small leather scroll tube onto the table. "Read."
---
Inside were fragments of coded letters—sloppily hidden, but clearly passed between minor lords in Wyvrland and beyond. Names I'd only begun to trust. Phrases repeated in cipher:
> "The Black Serpent must fall."
"While he builds, we undermine."
"When the banners rise, our daggers will be ready."
And the most troubling:
> "The boy is not his father."
Lyra leaned against the stone wall, arms folded. "You've humiliated old blood. Claimed two counties in less than a year. And some of them still believe your house should've died with your father."
"Let them believe." I said quietly. "What do they plan?"
She stepped closer and laid out a folded map. Black marks dotted the regions near the Greystone border, and worse—within Wyvrland itself.
"Three villages report strange coin being passed. Southern gold, unminted. Greystone loyalists or worse—foreign agents. I've followed couriers between Lord Dessel's manor and a cloister outside Ironrun. There are whispers of steel being bought quietly. Mercenaries hired as 'guards.'"
"They mean to strike?"
"No. Not yet. But they mean to divide. Assassins, sabotage, riots. When they move, they won't come with swords first. They'll gut you with lies and fire."
---
I pressed my hand to the table, grounding myself.
It wasn't surprising.
It was just… faster than I'd expected.
"You've done well," I told her.
She raised an eyebrow. "Don't flatter me yet. You haven't seen the worst."
She passed me another sheet—finer, more precise handwriting.
A noble seal broken clean down the middle. The seal of House Rellmont.
Lord Rellmont. One of the wealthier lords of eastern Wyvrland.
A man who'd sworn fealty a month ago.
I read the letter in silence.
> "The boy commands through fear, not love. If we act now, we can offer the duchy a better path. Our blood runs old and pure. Wyvrling was a mistake."
I folded it.
"My advisors suggested we keep him in place," I muttered. "Said his coin would help fund the barracks."
"Your advisors were wrong."
I turned back to her. "How deep is this?"
Lyra didn't blink.
"Deep."
---
I summoned the council the next morning. Small and quiet. Only Kaelen, Armin, and Caldus. Dren was sent to secure the guard towers. The castle gates were locked without explanation.
"We have traitors in the court," I said. "Some wear velvet. Some wear mail."
Kaelen stiffened. Armin paled. Caldus muttered a prayer under his breath.
"What's the move?" Kaelen asked, blunt as ever.
"We dig them out," I said. "But not with swords."
---
Lyra and I worked through the night.
Lists. Names. Connections. Who attended whose feast. Who married whose cousin. Who owed coin to whom.
By dawn, we had seven key suspects.
By dusk, two were dead.
Lord Alwin of Frostmere was found with his throat slit in his solar. His guards said they saw nothing.
Mistress Talra, a merchant who funded seditious pamphlets, fell from the ramparts during a "midnight stroll."
The others were summoned to court.
There were no public trials.
Only choices.
Bend the knee again—publicly, loudly, and under oath—or face the noose.
Three bent.
Two vanished.
One tried to draw steel in my hall.
He died screaming.
---
But executions weren't enough.
Plots don't die with the plotters.
They scatter like rats.
So I took a page from my enemies.
Divide. Distract. Reward. Control.
I began issuing land grants to smaller knights, cutting into the power bases of older lords.
Those who'd stayed loyal were granted trade licenses, tax exemptions, or marriage alliances. Armin oversaw the paperwork. Kaelen ensured each grant came with a blade's edge.
I created conflict beneath me—so none would dare challenge me above.
Old houses began to whisper. But none acted.
Fear returned to Wyvrland.
But so did order.
---
A Warning From Beyond
Lyra brought one more report.
From the south.
A rider intercepted near Vexen's Crossing, bearing letters bound for Duke Caldwyne.
Althea's father.
Inside: a plea for intervention.
"They want the Duke to act?" I asked.
"He won't," Lyra said. "Not yet. But the idea has been planted. If enough of your enemies convince him you're destabilizing the region…"
"He might reconsider his neutrality."
"And Althea?"
"She's still in the borderlands. Training. Touring garrisons. Maybe watching you. Maybe preparing."
I nodded.
"Send her a letter."
Lyra blinked. "You want to—"
"Yes. Let her know I'm aware of the plot. And that if war comes, I hope she's not on the other side of the field."
Lyra gave a small, rare smile.
"You're learning."
"No," I said. "I'm adapting."
---
Training in Blood
Kaelen doubled my training hours. I didn't protest.
If they came for me, I'd meet them sword in hand.
My knuckles cracked with every strike. My shoulder burned from bruises. But I could hold my own now—not just in politics, but in a fight.
My men-at-arms trained harder too. The Iron Fangs marched daily. The Ashen Veil began hunting spies in the hills. The Wyvern's Roar crafted defenses against sabotage.
Every nail driven. Every sword sharpened.
Because we weren't done.
Not by a long mark.
---
As I stood on the battlements that night, the wind howled across the stone.
I wasn't afraid.
Not anymore.
Let them plot. Let them whisper.
I was no longer the boy grasping for a fallen name.
I was the flame that would burn away the rot.
And in my fire, Wyvrland would rise.