Chapter 21: The Unspoken War
The days that followed were a study in controlled tension. Vance Haven operated on two distinct levels. On the surface, it was a settlement thriving under its Admin's guidance. The sounds of construction were constant as the second watchtower rose on the eastern wall, a project now fueled by a new, grim necessity. Hunters came and went, often alongside small, wary Graxian hunting parties, returning with game from the newly agreed-upon shared territories. There was a brittle, performative normalcy to it all.
Beneath the surface, Vance Haven had become a camp of quiet intelligence gathering. The five freed prisoners, whose names were Elara, Fen, Lyra, Orin, and Kaelen, slowly emerged from their shells under the patient care of their kin. At first, they spoke only in whispers, flinching at sudden movements. But as the Edict of Sanctuary worked its magic on their shattered nerves, the whispers became conversations, and the conversations became a flood of critical information.
Alistair and Thora sat with them each evening by the central fire, listening.
"Their strength is in their forges," Orin, a man whose hands were calloused and broken from labor, said one night, his voice gaining strength. "They have a vein of blackstone that holds an edge like nothing else. But they lack good wood for the fires. Their bellows are weak. The metal is often brittle."
Kaelen, the younger of the two men, added, "They fight amongst themselves. Grok's word is law, but his second, a brute named Varg, challenges him in small ways. He thinks Grok is weak for treating with you."
Elara, the woman with the grey-streaked hair, provided the most crucial insight. "They fear the 'Deep-Dwellers' in the northern crags. They lose hunters to them each season. It is a bleeding wound they cannot seal."
Alistair absorbed it all, his mind cross-referencing the data with his Admin interface, building a profile of the Stonetusk Clan that was far more detailed than any scan could provide. Their economy was based on superior metal but hampered by poor fuel. Their leadership had a fracture line. They had a persistent, external threat.
This was the unspoken war. Not with spears and earth-shaking, but with information and economics.
He began his counter-moves subtly.
When a Graxian trading party arrived a week later, led by a surly Varg himself, they brought bundles of superior blackstone spearheads and axe blades. They expected to trade for food and furs.
Alistair met them, Thora at his side. He examined a spearhead, noting its sharpness and its hidden, granular brittleness.
"Your work is strong," Alistair said, the system translating his diplomatic tone. "Vance Haven has need of such quality."
Varg grunted, puffing out his chest.
"But," Alistair continued, holding up the spearhead to the light, "a tool is only as good as the hand that wields it and the fire that forged it. Your fires are weak. It makes the metal... impatient." He tapped the spearhead, and a tiny, almost invisible crack appeared along its edge.
Varg's smug expression vanished, replaced by shock and then anger.
Alistair didn't wait for a retort. He gestured, and Kael and Roric brought forward a cart. On it were not just Scythe-Maw pelts and smoked meat, but something new: perfectly seasoned, dense lumber from the heart of the spiralwood trees, and two large, expertly crafted bellows, made with Scythe-Maw hide and shaped wood.
"We offer a gift," Alistair said, his voice smooth. "Better fuel. Better tools. So that the next trade will be of weapons without flaw."
It was a masterstroke. He had exposed their weakness, not as an insult, but as a problem he could solve. He was making himself indispensable. He was feeding their war machine while simultaneously making its quality dependent on his resources.
Varg was too stunned to speak. He took the goods with a grudging, confused nod, the planned boasting and posturing utterly derailed.
As the Graxians left, Thora looked at Alistair, a newfound respect in her eyes. "You did not give them a fish. You gave them a better net, but one woven from our vines."
"Let them strengthen their blackstone," Alistair said, watching them go. "A sharper axe is useless if you don't know which way to swing it. And we now know about the Deep-Dwellers."
The unspoken war continued. The Graxians had given Vance Haven five broken souls, thinking it a display of dominance. Alistair was turning those five souls into the key to the Stonetusk Clan's own gates. The alliance held, a beautiful, poisonous flower. And Alistair was patiently learning its every thorn.