The war had not begun—not yet. But it was coming.
Greystone's eastern border pressed against Oakshade like a knife beneath skin. Every village, every woodland path between us felt like a loaded fuse. And I was holding the torch.
Oakshade wasn't just another county under Ravien Malkorr's thumb—it was his first wall. Strong, militarized, and deeply loyal. A siege wouldn't work. An open war would draw attention. So I turned to rot instead of fire.
I stood on the tower of Fort Greywatch, overlooking the foggy expanse of land that once served the old duke. Now it served me. And soon, Oakshade would too.
Arden's voice broke through the morning haze.
"You'll catch fever standing out here in nothing but your tunic."
I glanced over. The old soldier was wrapped in his cloak, scarred face twisted in distaste.
"Let me guess," I said, "another report from Lyra."
He handed me a scroll. "Three, actually. And you're not going to like the third."
---
In the war chamber of Greystone's keep, I gathered my council.
"Lyra's scouts confirm dissent in two Oakshade villages," I began. "Food shortages, unpaid levies, and a growing distrust of the baron. We've fed the fire. Now we fan it."
"Sabotage?" Arden asked, arms crossed.
"No," Lyra interjected, stepping from the shadows. "Subtle provocations. A burned barn here, a missing ox there. They think it's bandits. We make them believe it's their own people turning desperate."
"What about the Church?" Caldus asked, fingers steepled. "A single sermon from the right voice can shake a village's faith in their liege."
"I have a traveling preacher in mind," Lyra said smoothly. "He once denounced a noble for being soft on beastfolk. He'll tell Oakshade's people their baron has strayed from the Light."
"And when the unrest spreads?" Armin, my steward, adjusted his glasses. "How do we strike without appearing as the aggressors?"
"We don't," I said. "We let Oakshade make the first move. Or rather… we make them think they did."
Kaelen, leaning on her halberd in the corner, raised a brow. "You're suggesting a false flag?"
"Yes. A raid. A border village. They'll think we struck first."
"And when Baron Audric retaliates?" Arden asked.
"We'll intercept and crush his response. Then, and only then, do we march on Oakshade—under the pretense of defense."
There was silence.
"Risky," Arden muttered.
"It's not risk," I replied. "It's strategy."
---
That night, I sat alone in my chamber, writing a letter.
> *Ser Althea,
I hope Valecrest is quieter than my side of the mountains. Your absence has left a silence in my court I did not anticipate. The work grows darker by the day. I wonder what you'd say if you knew the things I've planned.
I find myself hoping you'd understand. That perhaps… you already do.
—Vihan*
I didn't send it.
---
Weeks passed. Lyra's shadow network performed flawlessly.
Grain shipments "lost." Village elders poisoned with rumors. Militiamen paid to drink themselves stupid. Oakshade's edge frayed like an old banner in storm winds.
The final blow came when one of Lyra's agents—disguised as a sellsword—attacked a patrol just inside their territory, wearing Greystone colors.
Three dead. One wounded survivor swearing vengeance.
Baron Audric took the bait.
---
The war council met before dawn.
"He's marching with three hundred levies," Lyra reported. "Mostly green. He's keeping his men-at-arms in reserve."
"He thinks we'll retreat," Arden growled. "He's arrogant."
"He's predictable," I said. "We'll strike before he crosses the River Wyrm. Arden, position the Iron Fangs and Pike Serpents along the northern ridge. When they enter the ravine—close the trap."
"And what of the Ashen Veil?" Kaelen asked.
"They'll harass the rear line. Cut supply. Create panic."
Armin cleared his throat. "And if word spreads?"
"It won't," Lyra said. "I've silenced the ravens and bribed the messengers."
---
At sunrise, steel clashed on the Ridge of Hollow Pines. Screams rang out as Baron Audric's forces stumbled into the ravine, ambushed on both sides by trained blades and disciplined ranks.
It was no battle. It was butchery.
I stood atop the hill, watching through my spyglass as the Pike Serpents held the line, as the Iron Fangs crushed resistance, as my banner rose over blood-soaked stone.
---
Duke Ravien Malkorr stood motionless at the edge of his private solar in Hollowfort, the highest tower of his ancestral fortress. Rain streaked the tall window panes, and thunder grumbled across the distant peaks. A storm was coming, and not just the one bleeding across the sky.
The parchment in his hand was already creased, crushed, and read too many times. Reports. Another county lost. Oakshade had fallen—not to siege or open war—but to knives in the dark, to betrayals and silent subversion. And all of it... orchestrated by him.
"Vihan Wyvrling," Ravien muttered under his breath, tasting the name like spoiled wine.
The boy had claimed Wyvrland, then Branholdt, Greystone and now Oakshade. Four counties. Three victories. No royal decrees. No open defiance of crown or faith. Just clean, cold precision. The kind of conquest no law could yet condemn.
And worse... he made it look right.
Ravien turned from the window as his chamber doors creaked open. Lord Vann, his most trusted seneschal, bowed deeply.
"News from the border," Vann said. "Another minor house in Oakshade swore allegiance to Wyvrling. They claim it's for 'stability.'"
"Stability," Ravien said, voice low and sharp as flint. "They called me tyrant when I brought peace. And now they bend the knee to a boy who hides behind spies and bribes."
"He does more than that, Your Grace," Vann said carefully. "He builds roads in Branholdt. Sets laws in Wyvrland. His reforms are... effective."
Ravien didn't respond. He moved to the hearth, letting the silence speak in his stead.
After a pause, he asked, "How many men-at-arms does he field?"
"Roughly six hundred, well-trained. Four distinct companies. And two thousand levies under command. He's training them in rotation, standardizing their kit."
"And I have?"
"Fifteen hundred men-at-arms," Vann recited, "and nearly two thousand levies, though fewer are seasoned. Our numbers still hold."
"For now," Ravien said. "Until the boy turns the next stone in this game."
Hours later, in the war room of Hollowfort, Ravien gathered his inner council. The room stank of wax, wet furs, and tension. A large map of the duchy sprawled across the table, counties marked in red or black.
Only rwo remained loyal and in direct control of Ravien. The rest had fallen—or were falling.
Lady Mirena, his military commander, paced near the hearth. Her armor clinked softly. "We cannot afford inaction, my lord. You see how he takes root. He festers. Every day we delay, the soil favors him more."
"I will not start a civil war," Ravien growled. "Not until the King gives me cause. And he won't. The bastard plays too clean."
Lord Rannic, an aging noble with deep ties to the royal court, nodded. "The crown remains neutral. So long as Vihan claims only what is rightfully his, and commits no open rebellion, the King will not act. Nor will the other dukes."
"Then we must make him misstep," Ravien said. "Force his hand. Lure him into a mistake."
Vann glanced at him. "We may not need to. There is unrest in Oakshade still. Not all the lords are loyal to him. We could... exploit that."
A slow, cold smile touched Ravien's lips.
"Then let's rot the tree from within."
Later that night, he descended into the depths of Hollowfort, to the underkeep. The air was damp and suffocating. Torches flickered, casting long shadows on the stone walls. Screams echoed faintly—whispers of those who had disappointed him.
He stopped at a small cell. Inside knelt a battered knight, wrists chained, head bowed.
"Do you still serve the blood of Oakshade?" Ravien asked.
The knight spat, though his lips were split. "You'll lose. He's not his father. He's... smarter."
Ravien knelt slowly, almost kindly.
"Then I'll just have to be crueler," he said, before standing. "Send word to Seressa. I want every rat, every whisper, every crack in his little empire. And begin stirring dissent in Branholdt. That old fool of a Count may be loyal now, but age breeds fear. Use it."
He returned to his solar near midnight. The storm had passed, but lightning still danced on the horizon.
In the mirror, Ravien saw not a tired man—but a king without a crown. A lion beset by crows. He had ruled for twenty years through strength and fear. But now... now he needed more than brutality.
He needed to outthink the heir of Wyvrling.
And crush him before his legend took root.