The courier was trembling.
Blood stained his gloves dried where he had pressed a wound too long. The scroll he offered was soaked in sweat and something darker. Ash, maybe.
Duke Ravien Malkorr didn't rise from his throne. He reached out one hand, took the scroll, and cracked the wax with a flick of his thumb.
He read it once.
Then again.
Then, with terrifying calm, he folded the letter in half and shoved it into fire beside him.
Flames burned the paper, curling it into ash.
"My liege," the courier rasped, "they say the Baroness suspects her own guard, she's hung her steward, and she—"
"I can read, worm," Ravien growled.
The courier swallowed and backed out quickly, bowing, not turning his back.
"Varrick," Ravien said softly.
From the shadows, his Master-at-Arms Captain stepped forward—seven feet of iron and blood. His black armor bore no sigil. Only dried scars and steel.
"Yes, my lord?"
"Send riders to Windmere. Have the garrison commander replaced. I want a blockade on the trade roads. Every rat fleeing that city is to be caught and questioned, then flayed. Publicly."
Varrick nodded once and turned.
"And," Ravien added, "have the Baroness brought to Hollowfort. In chains."
Varrick paused. "Do we make it official?"
Ravien's eyes gleamed.
"No. Quietly. Let the people think she fled. Or hanged herself."
---
Later – The War Table, Hollowfort
The table was ironwood, etched with rivers, county lines, forts and watchtowers. Windmere flickered with a dying candle. A symbol of how fast things could rot.
"Three counties lost," said Lord Thorne, the grey-haired vulture of Ravien's court. "And now Windmere festers with spies and insurrection. He's bleeding you slowly, my liege."
"He?" Ravien asked without looking up.
"Vihan," Thorne said. "The boy."
"He is not a boy," Ravien snapped, voice cold as the northern winds. "He is a poison. And poisons are cured with fire."
Silence.
Then Ravien leaned forward. "He wants me to strike. To draw my blade, march south, violate the king's peace. I won't."
Thorne frowned. "Then what—?"
"I will let him overreach."
He reached for a new map—one marked with red ink and sigils.
"Vihan's forces are not limitless. Four counties. Two-thirds of them still rebuilding. If he presses further, he exposes his flanks. And his supply lines."
"And Oakshade?"
"Will rot a little longer," Ravien said. "Until it tears itself apart."
He looked to his Spymmistakes woman named Mairelle with lips like knives.
"I want eyes in Wyvrland. In Branholdt. Inside his damn bedchambers if we must. Buy his barons. Buy his whores. Buy his cooks."
"Yes, my lord," Mairelle murmured.
"And find me the bastard who failed to kill him."
---
That Night – A Private Chamber
Ravien stood before the mirror. He did not see a man. He saw a legacy—a lion cloaked in black steel, holding a duchy carved through fire and salt.
He saw Vihan's eyes in his mind—sharp, calculating. Too much like his damned father.
"You want war, boy?" Ravien whispered.
"I'll give you something worse."
He turned away from the mirror, and opened a scroll marked in crimson wax.
A letter from a noble in Vihan's court.
One who'd betrayed once before.
And would again.
---
Oakshade's chill still clung to my cloak as I stepped into Wyvrland's war room.
Candles burn low. The scent of pine resin mixed with old steel. My council was already gathered—faces tense, lit by the flickering map in front of us.
"Windmere is collapsing," Lyra said. "Your poison took root faster than expected."
"I told you Baroness Trisanna's mind was like cracked glass," Kaelen muttered from the corner. "All she needed was a whisper."
I sat. Unbuckled my gauntlets. Poured myself a drink.
"And now she's dead," Lyra added. "Or will be. Ravien's replacing the entire Windmere garrison."
I tilted my head. "Did we extract our agents?"
"Two are dead," she said. "One's missing. The fourth…is already in Hollowfort. Feeding them lies."
"Ravien's counterstrike?" I asked.
Lyra's lips curled. "He's not drawing his sword. Not yet. He's going to wait until we're overextended. Then gut us."
I sipped. "So we don't overextend."
Arden leaned forward, tapping Greystone on the map. "We fortify. Build up. Make Wyvrland and Greystone into black bastions. Let Ravien try to strike."
"Too passive," I said.
Caldus, ever the quiet priest, cleared his throat. "You want to strike him back?"
I smiled.
"I want him off balance. He's waiting for a hammer. Let's give him razors instead."
Later — My Private Study
Lyra stayed behind. She closed the door without a word.
"I want to draw him out," I said. "Slowly. Burn his time. Strain his resources. We make Windmere a leech on his neck."
She nodded. "We still have a few contacts in Windmere. Ones that owe me."
"I want you to do three things."
She raised a brow.
"First," I said, "leak word that I plan to march on Hollowfort soon. Let his spies catch wind of it. Keep him guessing—make him paranoid."
"Done."
"Second," I said, "start buying his barons. Quietly. The outer counties first—those who hate him but fear his shadow. I want doubt planted in their halls."
Lyra's eyes gleamed. "And the third?"
"Send word to the King."
She blinked.
"What do you want to tell him?"
"That Duke Ravien is preparing for war. That he's mobilizing troops under false pretenses. That he's taken Windmere's baroness hostage after accusations of sorcery."
Lyra's grin was like a blade.
"False accusations?"
I shrugged. "A good lie contains a sliver of truth."
War Council — The Next Morning
"We won't march yet," I said, pacing before my council. "But we prepare for a fast campaign. A blitz. If Ravien flinches—we strike. If he bleeds—we press."
Armin, my steward, was scribbling notes. "Do we have the funds for another campaign?"
"Barely," he said. "If we squeeze the guilds and delay rebuilding efforts in Greystone."
"Do it. But quietly."
Kaelen folded her arms. "We still haven't found the assassin."
"I know."
"I don't like sleeping near shadows," she muttered.
"Then make sure they die before they reach your tent."
Kaelen gave a dry smile.
I stepped closer to the map. Stared at Hollowfort. Its black stone walls.
"He's waiting for a mistake," I murmured. "So we'll give him noise, confusion, and shadows. Let's see how long the Lion lasts when the rats start chewing at his feet."
That Night — A Message Arrives
A single raven.
Its wax seal bore the King's sigil.
I cracked it open and read.
Then smiled.
"Lyra," I called softly.
She appeared in seconds.
"He's agreed to watch Ravien," I said. "A royal observer will be sent to Hollowfort within the month."
"A leash," she murmured. "Soft, but real."
"Not a leash," I said. "A spotlight."
Ravien would be furious. Constrained.
And soon?
He'd be desperate.
And desperate men make mistakes.