A month of surprising peace has passed and the development of my lands are going smoothly.
The morning air in Wyvrhold Keep was cold and sharp, like a drawn blade.
I stood in the war chamber alone, fingers tracing the edge of the great oak table, eyes locked on the map splayed across its surface. The duchy lay before me in ink and parchment—divided, scarred, and burning beneath the weight of ambition. My ambition.
Three counties I held: Wyvrland, Branholdt, and now Greystone, blood-won and barely stable. But north of me, like a wound that refused to heal, lay the rest—Duke Ravien Malkorr's domain. My birthright, his fortress. And the man himself? A tyrant cloaked in silk, iron-hearted and far too clever for his reputation.
"Still at it?" a familiar voice said behind me.
Lyra stepped into the chamber, a black cloak trailing behind her, hood pushed back to reveal her sharp, knowing eyes. She carried a small satchel slung over her shoulder—too plain for coin. It held secrets.
"You have something," I said.
She nodded. "Three things. None of them pleasant."
I gestured for her to continue.
"First," she said, dropping a parchment scroll on the map, "our informant inside Ravien's court finally confirmed what we suspected. His army's been drilling relentlessly—fifteen hundred men-at-arms and around two thousand levies, all stationed near Caer Malkorr."
I muttered a curse. That was nearly double my current strength.
"He's not moving yet," Lyra added, "but he's watching. He knows you've taken Greystone. And he's cautious. He doesn't strike unless he's sure he can end it clean."
I nodded. "And the second?"
"There's unrest in Oakshade," she said, referring to one of the counties still under Ravien's banner. "One of his barons—Lord Freyn—has been at odds with the Duke. Apparently, his wife was publicly flogged for 'insubordination.' Word is Freyn hasn't smiled since."
That was something. A wedge, if nothing else.
"And the third?"
Lyra's lips tightened. She reached into her satchel and tossed a small iron ring onto the table. It bore the sigil of a fox biting its own tail.
"A Blacktongue assassin's mark," she said. "We found it buried in your bedframe."
The room stilled. I glanced down at the ring, then up at Lyra.
"I'm being hunted."
She nodded. "Quietly, precisely. Ravien's testing your defenses—not just the military kind."
I felt the tension coil in my spine, a cold weight anchoring itself in my stomach. I had expected war. But this… this was shadow war, fought in silences and behind doors.
"I'll deal with it," I said. "Thank you, Lyra."
She lingered for a moment, then added, "There's more. A rider came this morning. From Valecrest. Ser Althea Caldwyne arrives at dusk."
That drew my full attention. "She comes herself?"
"Yes. The message said she comes not as a diplomat. But as a knight."
Which meant politics cloaked in steel. And knowing Althea, it wouldn't be a simple visit.
I glanced back at the map.
The storm hadn't come yet—but I could hear the thunder in the distance.
---
By nightfall, the gates of Wyvrhold echoed with the thunder of hooves. Torches flared as Ser Althea Caldwyne rode through, flanked by a half-dozen knights of Valecrest—silent, armored shadows bearing the stag-and-mountain banner of her father, Duke Harren. They did not speak. They did not need to.
Althea dismounted with the practiced grace of someone who had worn steel since youth. Her silver plate glinted beneath a travel-stained cloak, and her dark braid swung like a rope as she stepped forward.
I met her in the great hall, with a hearthfire at my back and two guards at hers.
"Lord Vihan," she said, voice clipped but clear. "I come on behalf of Valecrest, and under my own name."
"Ser Althea," I said with a slight bow, "my halls are yours."
We regarded one another for a long, slow moment. Her eyes were ice and storm, searching. Calculating. There was no softness in her expression, but not cruelty either. Just caution. As if she were weighing the steel of my spine against the blood in my veins.
We were seated in my solar not long after, with wine between us but untouched. The door remained closed, and the guards outside silent.
"You've stirred the wasp's nest," she said bluntly. "Greystone was a risk. One that worked, for now."
I nodded. "And risks are all I have left."
"Ravien won't let another county fall without a reckoning."
"I know."
She leaned forward. "Then you must also know this—my father is watching. Valecrest will not intervene unless the fight spills over our borders. And I won't be sent to clean up your corpse if you charge too soon."
There it was. Brutal honesty. No feigned diplomacy, no flattery. Just her sword-edge candor. It was refreshing, in a way.
"I'm not planning a charge," I said, "yet. But I will take what's mine, piece by piece. Slowly, if I must."
She studied me. "You've changed since the capital."
I shrugged. "That was before I had blood on my hands."
A flicker of something crossed her face. Approval, maybe. Or regret. Hard to tell with her.
She stood. "I'll stay the night. Then return to Valecrest. But I leave you this—there are nobles in Ravien's lands who remember the Wyvrling name. If you reach out, some may bend before you draw your blade."
"Even without Valecrest's support?"
"Especially without it," she said, and left me in the quiet hum of torchlight and thought.
---
The next morning, I watched Ser Althea leave Wyvrhold, her knights riding hard toward Valecrest. A quiet sense of finality settled over me as the dust kicked up behind them. But her words lingered—her warning, her counsel, and perhaps most importantly, her quiet admission that she, too, understood the weight of what I faced.
I had no illusions that her visit was purely diplomatic. There was more beneath the surface, as there always was with someone like Althea. But for now, I had to focus on the immediate future. Greystone's consolidation was only the beginning. If Ravien was as cautious as Lyra suggested, then he'd bide his time. The trick would be to act before he did.
Over the next few days, I immersed myself in the practicalities of strengthening Wyvrland. Not just through military force, but through economic and political maneuvers—subtle things, at least to the untrained eye. I wasn't the only one watching, after all.
Lyra's report had mentioned something unusual in Ravien's land—a series of raids along the border between Oakshade and Greystone. Bandits, perhaps? But these were not the sort of marauders that struck without reason. These had been coordinated, disciplined. It was too much of a coincidence.
I stood with her again in the war chamber that afternoon, the map of the duchy spread out before us. "You've found something," I said, my voice low. "What's going on?"
She was frowning, flipping through a set of letters and notes. "It's not bandits," she said, looking up. "A network, perhaps. Someone is testing the borders, trying to draw Ravien's attention elsewhere."
I met her gaze. "And what do you think? Is this another ploy?"
Lyra nodded slowly. "I suspect Ravien's enemies are stirring the pot, making him believe there's a larger threat. It could be a ruse to open the way for an attack from another direction—or even an internal uprising."
I cursed under my breath. It wasn't just the threat of a direct attack from Ravien anymore. There were too many other moving pieces on the board. The timing of these skirmishes was deliberate, a distraction, and I was being pushed into a corner I wasn't sure I could fight my way out of.
Later that night, after everyone had settled into their routine, I took to the walls with a scroll and a quill, writing letters to some of the more subtle barons I had secured in Greystone. They were still loyal to Ravien, but loyalty was always negotiable—particularly when there was blood in the water. I needed to pull them toward me slowly, patiently. So, I made my requests: simple, clever alliances. Minor assistance in securing trade routes. Whispered promises of protection should they ever find themselves at odds with the Duke.
No mention of outright rebellion, of course. That would be too obvious. It was the unseen threads that I needed to weave.
As I finished the last letter, a familiar knock sounded at the door. Lyra stepped inside, her expression darker than usual.
"The bandits?" I asked before she could say a word.
"No," she replied, voice clipped. "Something worse. You remember Lord Freyn?"
"The one from Oakshade, who's at odds with Ravien?"
"Exactly. He's been trying to rally the other minor lords—those without loyalty to Ravien. But he's been getting nowhere."
"Because?"
"He's been burned by this kind of thing before. Freyn has been too open about his discontent with the Duke. He's practically begging for a reason to move against Ravien, but so far he hasn't found a single noble willing to act."
"Then he's a failure," I said, "and a loose thread."
Lyra nodded, her lips tight. "Except… he's found a way around it."
"What do you mean?"
"Freyn isn't going directly against Ravien anymore. He's gone to the mercenaries, and not just any group—these are the Blackthorn Company."
My stomach dropped. The Blackthorn Company was infamous—a band of mercenaries known for their ruthlessness. Their iron-clad discipline was matched only by their brutality. They didn't fight for ideals; they fought for coin. And the idea that Freyn had hired them suggested that he was no longer playing games. He was ready to make a move.
I leaned back in my chair, considering the implications. The mercenaries could be a great asset if used right—perhaps a wedge to force Ravien to overextend himself. But if they were the ones pulling the strings now, I was no longer certain who was manipulating who.
In the days that followed, I kept my movements slow, deliberate. I spoke with my generals, ensuring the troops I had could withstand any kind of surprise. Meanwhile, I continued to pressure the minor nobles who had expressed interest in my cause. But I knew the battle would come soon enough—whether it was an uprising in Ravien's lands or an assault by mercenaries looking for a paycheck.
One afternoon, as I was pacing the war room, a new messenger arrived—one I did not recognize. He was dirty, tired, and covered in the dust of travel.
"Lord Vihan," he gasped, bowing quickly. "I come from the border of Greystone."
I straightened. "What's happened?"
"Bandits, my lord," he said, eyes wide with fear. "A large group of them, not far from the pass. But they're different. They've got better weapons, armor. They don't look like regular raiders. And they've been organized… too well."
"Mercenaries?" Lyra asked.
"I don't know, my lord, but they're coming this way."
I exchanged a look with Lyra. This was no coincidence.
"Send word to my men," I ordered. "I want the border sealed. No one crosses without my approval. And make sure the villagers know they're to keep their heads down."
As the messenger departed, my thoughts returned to the Blackthorn Company. Freyn's rebellion had grown more complicated than I'd anticipated. But if the bandits were mercenaries—if this was the start of something bigger—I'd need to act fast.
It seemed that the storm wasn't waiting for anyone.