The first piece of intelligence came through Lyra's most trusted source: a beggar boy named Finch who had spent the last month peddling apples and gossip through the courtyards of Hollowfort.
He wasn't much to look at—filthy rags, a crooked smile, one eye swollen half-shut from some street brawl—but he had ears sharp enough to make any lord nervous.
"Milady," he told Lyra one night beneath the temple's shadow, "the Duke meets often with Lord Halvyr now. More than usual. Talks go late, guards posted thicker than usual. And I seen writs, sealed and sent out by raven—south and west, toward the coast."
Lyra pressed him for details. Dates. Names. He didn't know what the letters said, only that they bore Malkorr's personal seal—and that two of them had gone to a distant cousin, Lord Davant of Briarhollow.
That name wasn't one she expected.
Lord Davant had long been considered irrelevant—a minor lordling ruling over a sparse coastal backwater with fewer than a hundred trained men and no political weight.
Unless Ravien needed something Davant could provide. Something hidden.
---
Lyra brought the news to me and Althea the next evening. We were in the war chamber, pouring over maps and taxation records.
"Ravien's consolidating," she said. "But not just soldiers. He's trying to secure the coast."
I frowned. "Why? He has no navy worth naming."
"True," Lyra said. "But Briarhollow has an old port, neglected but serviceable. And there's an unclaimed inlet nearby, once used by smugglers."
Althea's eyes narrowed. "You think he's bringing in foreign arms?"
"Or mercenaries," I added grimly.
That changed things. If Ravien was bolstering his forces beyond his own levies and knights, it meant he was preparing for a larger conflict. Not a skirmish. Not a defense.
An all-out campaign.
"He knows we're building," I muttered. "And he's moving to outpace us."
Althea tapped the table, voice firm. "Then we either choke off his support now or prepare for a siege we cannot withstand."
Lyra nodded. "If I may… I have a plan."
---
That plan began with whispers.
Over the next few days, Lyra's agents spread rumors across the duchy—hints of treachery, planted in the ears of Ravien's minor vassals. Stories of secret dealings with smugglers. Of debts owed to outlawed merchant guilds. Of planned betrayals against the Crown, exaggerated just enough to sow unease.
At the same time, I sent emissaries to Lords Harnel and Berric, vassals of Ravien's who had long despised his iron rule. I offered them leniency, land rights, and protection in exchange for neutrality—or better, quiet cooperation.
Neither accepted. Not outright.
But they didn't report me, either.
---
Then, a surprise.
Lyra returned with more than just whispers. She came with parchment.
"We intercepted a letter," she said, placing it before me. "From Ravien to Lord Halvyr. It confirms coordination with Briarhollow… and mentions funds delivered by sea."
Althea read it twice, her jaw tightening. "He's purchasing sellswords."
"Most likely from the Eastern Freeholds," Lyra added. "Hard bastards. Merciless."
It was a smoking arrow aimed at my gut—but it was also leverage. With this, I could discredit Ravien's honor. Paint him as a man willing to break internal accords by bringing foreign blades into a noble feud.
The King may have sworn neutrality—but the court despised foreign meddling.
"We'll leak it," I decided. "Let his vassals wonder if they'll be next. Let the Crown know he may be risking more than civil unrest."
"And if he retaliates?" Althea asked.
"Then we bleed him before he's ready."
---
Within a week, the political winds began to shift.
Two barons in Ravien's southern holdings halted their military preparations. One minor lord refused to send grain. And a Crown-appointed tax collector arrived in Hollowfort to "investigate regional anomalies."
Ravien, of course, knew I was behind it.
He sent no letter this time.
Instead, one of his riders arrived at my gates, beaten and bruised, with a broken sword lashed to his back and a message carved into the steel:
> Stop, or bleed.
It was crude.
But clear.
---
I showed it to Althea. She didn't flinch.
"He's slipping," she said. "That kind of threat? It reeks of desperation."
"Or confidence," I replied. "He's warning me. Reminding me he still has the greater army."
She stepped closer. "Then we make sure the gap narrows."
"How?"
Althea smiled, grim and beautiful.
"We train. We recruit. We prepare.
---
The days turned cold again, as if the land itself sensed that war was stirring. Wyvrland's winds sharpened, and the breath of every man fogged in the air like ghosts of those who had already died for crowns and causes long forgotten.
I spent my mornings in the courtyard now, not in the war room. The sword was a harsh tutor, but a fair one. It didn't care that I had once ruled in pixels or commanded armies with clicks. The steel demanded sweat, bruises, and precision.
Althea watched sometimes. Silent. Measuring.
She rarely corrected me, but when she did, her voice cut deeper than the blade in my hand.
"Your stance is too high. If your opponent was shorter and faster, you'd be dead."
"Try again."
And I did. Over and over.
When I wasn't drilling, I met with my captains—old men, mercenaries, and a few green lords I'd elevated from the ranks of my supporters. We had arms to forge and bodies to train.
"We don't have the manpower for an open field battle against Ravien," I said, pointing at the table. "But we don't need to win one—not yet. We need control. Dominance. Discipline."
So we structured the men-at-arms into specialized companies.
Newly added:
The Pike Serpents – disciplined spearmen for holding lines and choking cavalry.
The Ashen Viel– Light scouts and Bowmen.
The Iron Fangs–Heavily armoured infantry, trained in formation fighting.
The Wyvern's Roar– Siege engineers and sappers, Small in number invaluable in war.
I paid them not with gold, but with land promises, loot shares, and something rarer—purpose. I told them the truth: we were building something that would last beyond me.
And for the first time,after I took back two counties they started believing it.
One evening, after a brutal spar that left my arms aching, Althea sat across from me beneath the old stone arch of Wyvrhall's inner garden. The moonlight caught her cheek just right. Soft. Almost gentle.
She'd said little all day. I thought she was brooding again—until she finally spoke.
"I have to leave."
I blinked. "What?"
"My father summoned me," she said, not meeting my eyes. "A formal order. He doesn't want me involved in a war that could spread across the borders."
"But he knew what this was when he let you come here. " I said, leaning forward.
Althea nodded, her voice low. "He hoped it would resolve itself politically. Quietly. But now... too many whispers. Too many letters. He's feeling the pressure."
"From Ravien?"
"From his allies. From the Crown. From everyone who sees a woman riding with a rising warlord in a contested land."
The word stung—warlord—but I didn't challenge it.
Because she was right.
"I don't want you to go," I said, quieter than I meant.
Her lips twitched, like she almost smiled. "And I didn't think I'd care to hear that."
She stood, her armor catching the moonlight like silver flame. "I'll return. If he lets me. Or when I no longer care what he allows."
Then, she did something unexpected. She stepped forward and pressed her forehead against mine, her gauntlet resting lightly on my shoulder.
"Don't die, Vihan. Not until I'm back."
She left at dawn.
I watched her ride out from the battlements, her red cape snapping in the wind, the crest of Valecrest on her shield glinting like a fading promise.
The following weeks were a flurry of action.
Lyra sent ravens to blacksmiths in the northern hills and even a dwarven forge enclave across the sea, bartering coin and rare gemstones for bulk steel and arrowheads.
Wyvrland's mines, neglected for decades, were reopened under armed watch. Refugees from Greystone and Branholdt, offered food and work, began swelling the numbers of conscripts and laborers.
We held recruitment trials in three villages.
From four hundred candidates, only ninety-six passed the first round. Of those, just forty-three would become the core of our expanded men-at-arms.
Not enough. Not yet.
But it was a start.
Then, trouble.
A courier arrived from the eastern border—a merchant's son, face pale as chalk, carrying a sealed note with a sigil I didn't recognize.
The letter read:
To the Lord of Wyvrland,
Your encroachments have not gone unnoticed. The flame you tend is visible across every ridge. Know that the Black Boar of Ravien grows hungry. And you've begun to smell of blood.
No signature.
But the message was clear.
Ravien had begun to circle.
That night, I walked the ramparts alone.
Below, my soldiers trained in torchlight. The clang of metal, the bark of orders—it echoed like a heartbeat over stone.
I touched the edge of my sword, still sore from the day's sparring. My arms would scar. My back already had.
But the flame in my chest hadn't dimmed.
If anything, it was growing.
This was my land.
And soon—one county at a time—it would all be mine again.