Power doesn't break from the outside.
It rots from within.
Greystone was mine, but only in name. A conquered banner, folded and re-stitched beneath mine. The people bowed. The lords swore. But their eyes told the truth.
They hated me.
Not all. Not openly. But enough of them that I didn't sleep easy.
The smoke of the campaign still lingered—fields burned from skirmishes, dead horses piled at the edge of roads, wives wailing over sons buried in mass graves. I had won the county by right, by blood. But victory breeds resentment just as easily as respect.
Especially from those who profited off the old regime.
---
The first sign came from Lyra.
She appeared in the war chamber at Wyvrland with no warning, her cloak dusted with rain, expression grim.
"A messenger was found outside Greystone's southern fort," she said. "Throat slit. Parchment half-burned in his hand."
"What did it say?" I asked.
She handed me the scorched edge of a letter.
The ink had run, but I could still make out enough:
> "...meeting in the hills… oathkeepers remain loyal… the Black Hart rides at moonrise..."
"Oathkeepers," I murmured. "Old guard?"
She nodded. "A remnant of Count Heffen's court. Knights who refused your terms but never challenged you publicly."
"And the Black Hart?"
"Unknown. Could be a code name. Could be a man. Or a woman."
I leaned back in my chair. The fire cracked behind me. Shadows danced on the stone walls.
"What else?"
She paused.
"There's talk of the Hollow Pact."
The name hit like cold steel against my spine.
I'd heard whispers of it during the Greystone siege. A noble cabal, silent and faceless, made up of those who lost power during my rise. Not just in Greystone—some were from Wyvrland, from Branholdt, maybe even allies of the Duke.
"Find them," I said. "All of them."
"And when I do?" she asked softly.
I met her eyes.
"Bring them to me. Alive if they're useful. Bleeding if they're not."
---
Greystone stank of rot.
I returned under cover of dusk, wearing a plain cloak and leather gloves, only a small retinue at my back. I didn't want a parade. I wanted silence. Observation.
It didn't take long to see the cracks.
Local guards avoided eye contact. Tax collectors had vanished. The markets ran thin, and prices had soared—especially for grain and iron. Farmers whispered of their carts being looted at night, but no one could name the bandits.
And worst of all, Lady Olyne, the noble I'd installed to govern Greystone in my name, had taken sick. Or so they claimed.
I demanded to see her.
The manor stank of stale piss and herbs. Olyne lay in a sweat-soaked bed, shivering and mumbling. Her physician insisted it was just "a fever of the air."
I didn't believe it for a second.
Poison, most likely.
---
The meeting was held that night.
My loyal bannermen. Local landowners. Greystone's priests. I called them to the manor's war room and watched them file in, one by one.
I took the high seat, black crest behind me. Lyra stood to my right. Ser Caldus, my newly knighted battle-captain, stood to my left.
"I've been lenient," I began. "Too lenient, perhaps. I offered terms to those who bent the knee. I spared sons who would've slit my throat if I hadn't beaten them first."
No one spoke. I could feel the tension in the air.
"But I don't tolerate betrayal."
I reached into my coat and tossed something onto the table.
A ring.
A noble signet. Still slick with blood.
Gasps echoed around the table.
"Lord Venric of the Hill Vale was caught trying to flee last night. He confessed—after Caldus here spoke with him—that he was carrying letters to someone called the Black Hart."
I stood slowly.
"And now I will ask you once. Only once. Who here knows that name?"
Silence.
"I see."
I nodded to Lyra.
She stepped forward and held up a scroll.
"This is a list of names," she said coldly. "Of those we suspect of consorting with traitors, tax fraud, illegal levies, and possibly sedition. Some of you are on it."
Still silence. But their eyes betrayed them—darting, sweating, lips twitching.
"I give you a choice," I said. "Confess now, swear new fealty, and you may live."
No one moved.
Except one.
An older man—Lord Faelen—stood, fists trembling.
"I have served Greystone since before you were born," he spat. "We are not yours. You took this land by fire and fear—"
"—and by blood-right," I interrupted. "Don't forget that."
"We do not kneel to upjumped bastards with no crown."
Before anyone could react, Caldus drew his blade.
One clean swing.
Faelen's head hit the table with a dull thump.
---
The others talked.
When blood touches wood, truth spills with it.
Names.
Locations.
The Black Hart, they said, was Lady Moren, once a widow of Count Heffen's cousin. She had vanished during the war but returned weeks ago, building a hidden garrison in the hills to the north.
Fifty men. Maybe more. Supplies stolen from Greystone's own stores.
A revolt in waiting.
---
We moved before dawn.
Two hundred of my best—Iron Fangs, Greystone loyalists, and men from Branholdt.
Lyra had their exact position. A ruined watchtower in the highlands.
We struck like a storm.
No mercy. No parley.
Lady Moren was dragged from the rubble, screaming curses in the old tongue. Her rebels were either cut down or shackled.
At sunrise, we brought them back.
And I made a choice.
Public execution.
A dozen men. Lady Moren included. Hung by the neck before the people of Greystone.
The square was full.
And for the first time… I heard silence.
Not defiance.
Not cheering.
Just silence.
Fear.
Good.
---
But the fire wasn't out.
Back in Wyvrland, letters arrived. Cryptic missives, unsigned.
Warnings.
> "The Hollow Pact lives."
> "You've cut one head. Three grow in its place."
> "Even kings fall. You're not even a duke."
I burned the letters.
And sharpened my sword.
Because I had grown stronger.
But strength only matters when the blade is drawn.
And I knew—
It soon would be.