The reports kept coming over the next two days—villages burned, scouts ambushed, and patrols vanishing into the hills near the Greystone-Oakshade border. But the troubling part wasn't the violence. It was the precision. These weren't the actions of common bandits. These were soldiers—disciplined, brutal, and on a mission.
I knew what this was. A test.
They were measuring our response, probing our strength. Ravien might not be behind this directly, but someone in his shadow was moving pieces. Either that, or Lord Freyn had truly lost patience and was throwing his coin to the wind.
I called a council that night.
Lyra stood to my right, arms crossed and eyes scanning everyone with hawk-like precision,My knight Kaelen beside me, my marshal, Sir Arden, a grizzled veteran of the old wars, sat across from me, his scarred face grim, Priest Caldus looked calm. And my steward, Armin, ever sharp-tongued and sharper-minded, stood with folded hands.
"We can't ignore this anymore," Arden began. "Whatever's coming, it'll break against us first. If those mercenaries push further into Greystone, our people won't hold."
"They don't need to take land," Armin added. "They just need to make the peasants afraid. Disrupt the roads. Slow the harvests. Ravien wins by letting us bleed from the inside."
"Or," Lyra said, voice colder than steel, "this is Ravien's excuse. He lets the mercenaries do his dirty work, and when we retaliate, he declares it treason."
I looked around the table. "Then we do nothing?"
"No," Lyra said. "We bait the trap."
We moved quickly.
Lyra sent her agents ahead to track the mercenaries. Arden drilled the men twice a day with Kaelen, reinforcing Greystone's garrison and readying my own levy. Armin quietly reached out to merchants in the Valecrest Marches, spreading whispers that Ravien's lands were no longer safe to trade with. Caldus walked around nearby villages preaching and giving hope to the people.
And I rode out myself.
Not far—just to the edge of the contested zone. But enough to be seen, enough for the enemy scouts to know I wasn't cowering behind stone walls. I visited border villages, spoke to peasants, shared meals with guards in battered outposts. I wanted them to see me, not as a shadowed lord in some high keep, but as a man who knew this land, who bled for it too.
It worked. Morale steadied. And the reports began to shift.
The mercenaries grew cautious. Slower. They stopped torching farms and began moving at night again. They knew we were watching.
But the tension didn't ease—it thickened.
One night, Lyra entered my chambers without knocking. Her cloak was soaked with rain, her face pale.
"They're meeting," she said. "Outside the ruined chapel near Mornhill. Tonight. Freyn, some Blackthorn captains, and a man we haven't identified. Not Ravien, but close to him."
I stood instantly. "How many men can we move?"
Arden, already summoned, stepped in behind her. "A hundred, if we ride light. Two hundred if you give me until dawn."
"We can't wait," I said. "This is it."
Lyra stepped closer, lowering her voice. "Vihan—this is dangerous. If you kill one of Ravien's men, this turns into a declaration of war."
I met her gaze. "It already is."
We rode under darkness. My banner wasn't raised. There was no need. This wasn't war. Not officially.
Mornhill was just a collection of stone ruins and overgrown fields, a dead village near the border long forgotten. The chapel was the only structure still standing—half-collapsed, covered in vines and rot.
We saw the firelight before we saw the men. Six figures, sitting around a brazier near the chapel entrance. Two wore mercenary colors, their weapons resting on their knees. One had the fine cloak of a noble—Lord Freyn. The others were harder to place.
We surrounded them in silence, horses muffled, boots in the wet grass.
When I gave the signal, my men surged from the dark. Blades drawn. One mercenary reached for a horn. An arrow took him in the throat.
The rest raised hands, frozen.
I stepped into the firelight.
Freyn paled.
"You've been busy," I said, calm but cold. "Hiring killers, raiding my lands, plotting in ruins."
"This isn't—" Freyn began, but Lyra was already behind him, blade at his spine.
"Let's not lie," she said softly.
One of the cloaked men—short, narrow-eyed—spoke. "You can't do this. You have no proof—"
I stepped closer. "Don't insult me. You crossed my border. You struck at my people. That's all the proof I need."
I nodded to Arden.
The men were taken—alive. Not all. One tried to run. A sword took his leg off at the knee.
It wasn't war. Not officially.
But the blood soaked into the chapel stones all the same.
By dawn, I returned to Wyvrhold Keep in Wyvrland.
The message was clear now—for everyone. I would not wait for Ravien's blade to find my throat. I would strike first when the shadow drew too close. But I wouldn't give the Duke an excuse. Every move I made would be clean, legal, backed by claim and law.
Let him seethe behind his walls.
Let him wonder how I stayed three steps ahead.
---
It didn't take long for the Duke to respond.
Three days after the skirmish at Mornhill, a letter arrived—sealed with black wax bearing the sigil of House Malkorr: a serpent coiled around a broken helm. The courier who brought it wouldn't meet my eyes. He dropped the scroll into my steward's hands and rode off without a word.
I broke the seal myself, hands steady.
To Lord Vihan Count of Wyvrland ,Branholdt and Greystone,
I am informed of your actions in the borderlands near Mornhill. Though your agents claim to have uncovered plots, I see only blood and smoke. You have slain men under noble banners without trial or cause, and you have disgraced your station by raising steel against your peers.
I will not provoke war. I am a man of peace. But know this—should you ride further into my domain, or raise banners against me, it will be your house that history remembers for starting the fire.
Duke Ravien Malkorr, of Hollowfort.
I read it twice.
Then I tossed it into the fire.
Later that day, I met with Lyra and Ser Althea in the upper tower chamber, Althea came after I sent her a letter regarding current affairs. The wind howled outside, rattling the shutters. Maps of the duchy were spread across the table, marked with notes, banners, and colored pins.
Lyra traced a red line with her finger. "He's massing forces near Hollow Pass. Scouts report new camps forming near the old iron mines."
"Men-at-arms?" I asked.
She said."At least six hundred—likely half his professional retinue. And nearly two thousand levies drilling behind them."
Althea leaned forward, armored fingers tapping the wood. "He's not attacking yet. He's showing his teeth."
"It's intimidation," I said.
"No," Althea replied, meeting my gaze. "It's preparation. He knows your next move is against Eastmere or Hollowfort. He wants to make you hesitate."
"And will it work?" I asked.
She didn't smile. "That depends. Are you building for war… or for survival?"
I sat back. "Both."
The next few weeks became a blur of movement.
In Wyvrland, the forges worked day and night—new blades for the levy, reinforced helms for the riders. I sanctioned the construction of two new watchtowers along the Greystone road, and a fortified granary to keep winter reserves in case of siege.
Men-at-arms training accelerated. I recruited hardened veterans from the Free Companies—mercenaries who had fought in the east and bore scars on every inch of skin. They didn't care for noble courtesy, but they trained my soldiers with brutal efficiency.
Lyra, ever present in shadow, whispered of quiet dissent among Ravien's bannermen. Some lords were uneasy. Others feared war. A few were ripe for persuasion—if I could offer protection and coin.
But coin was tight.
Armin and I met with local merchants, offering tax leniency in exchange for long-term investment. I granted limited land rights to a shipping guild from Valecrest, hoping to foster trade through river routes. And I made a quiet deal with the Order of the Ember Faith, allowing them to expand their orphanages and healers in exchange for political support from their high priestess.
Even Althea, ever watchful and controlled, began to offer more than just military insight. She advised me on the noble customs of Valecrest and how I might influence its lesser houses. And over wine, in quieter moments, we spoke of loyalty, of burdens—and of the strange loneliness shared only by those born into power.
One night, I found myself unable to sleep.
I walked the ramparts of Castle Wyvrhold under a starless sky. The wind was sharp, carrying the distant scent of smoke and wet soil. Below, my soldiers trained with torches lit, their grunts muffled by distance.
I stood alone.
Until Lyra appeared.
"You're quiet," she said.
"Thinking."
She joined me at the parapet. "Of Ravien?"
"Of what comes after," I said. "If we beat him. If I take back the duchy."
She tilted her head. "You don't sound eager."
"I'm not sure conquest is the hard part. It's what comes after. The rebuilding. The ruling. The watching your back forever."
"You're not wrong." She paused. "But you're not alone either."
I glanced at her.
She didn't smile—but her presence was steady. Comforting, in its own sharp way.
"I'll dig deeper into Ravien's court," she added. "There's talk of a secret alliance with a lord in the north. If I can find proof, we might expose him before he makes his next move."
"Do it."
She vanished into the night.
And I stood there, wondering what it would cost to win.