Aren did not show the letter at once.
He read it.
Again.
And again.
Until every curve of ink was burned into memory.
It bore Rowan's seal.
Perfect.
Flawless.
And false.
The message promised Draven safe passage.
Supply routes.
Weak points.
In exchange for peace.
A lie.
But a dangerous one.
"If this spreads," Lysa said, "Rowan falls."
"And so do we," Caelis added.
Civil war would follow.
Aren wrapped the letter in oilcloth.
Guarded it like a blade.
This was leverage.
And poison.
He sent Tom south.
Fast.
Light.
Hidden.
"Straight to Rowan," Aren ordered.
"Trust no one."
Tom swallowed.
Then nodded.
"I'll make it."
He rode at dusk.
Into storm.
Into danger.
Days passed.
Draven regrouped.
Smaller attacks resumed.
Sharper.
Smarter.
They were learning.
Supplies reached Frostgate at last.
Barely.
Half-looted.
Half-rotten.
Enough to survive.
Not to thrive.
One night, a prisoner spoke.
Under cold.
Under hunger.
Under fear.
"A man in Greyhaven," he whispered. "Called Lord Varyn. He pays us."
Aren stiffened.
Varyn.
A rising noble.
Rowan's advisor.
Trusted.
"So it begins," Lysa murmured.
Aren wrote another letter.
Not to Rowan.
To Edric.
Old rival.
Clever.
Ambitious.
Varyn betrays us.
Proof exists.
Choose your side.
Risky.
Necessary.
Snow melted slightly.
Winter weakened.
So did patience.
Aren stood on Frostgate's tower.
Watching distant fires.
Enemies outside.
Traitors within.
He understood now:
To rule was not to fight wars.
It was to survive lies.