Fog hung over the valley like a living shroud.
Every tree, every rock, every shadow became a watcher.
Aren moved silently, cloak pulled tight, eyes scanning.
Lysa returned from a scouting run.
"They're close," she said. "Two dozen riders from Blackpine. Likely spies."
Aren nodded. "Let them come."
They waited in the mist.
Breath frozen in the air.
Weapons ready.
Hearts steady.
The first rider appeared.
Shadows stretched unnaturally in the fog.
He passed the hidden line.
Then the second.
And the third.
A sudden whistle.
Arrows flew.
Blades flashed.
The riders never reached the valley floor.
Their bodies vanished into the fog.
Aren exhaled.
"Good. They know nothing."
Lysa smiled faintly. "Yet."
Later, word arrived from hidden villages.
Merchants, smugglers, and minor nobles were ready to pledge allegiance.
They came quietly.
Fearful. Hungry. Loyal.
Aren met with the first of them in a ruined chapel.
Candles flickered.
Maps spread across a broken altar.
Names were whispered.
Resources promised.
Fighters counted.
"This will be enough," Aren said.
"Not to march yet. But to wait. To strike when they expect least."
Tom, growing confident, recorded every plan.
"Will they call us traitors?" he asked.
"Not yet," Aren replied. "We are shadows. They will not see us until it's too late."
By nightfall, more allies arrived.
Silent. Careful. Watching.
The Shadow Army grew.
And with it, Aren's power.
Above the valley, fog thickened.
Hiding them.
Protecting them.
And giving birth to the threat that would soon haunt Greyhaven itself.