The southern provinces slept uneasily, unaware of the storm approaching.
Aren's campaign in the north had sent ripples of fear southward.
Small rumors traveled faster than horses.
Whispers of Frosthold's fall.
Of lords vanishing silently.
Of the Wolf watching every shadow.
Aren convened his captains in a hidden valley outside Greyhaven.
"The south resists subtly," he said.
"Not openly. But hesitation is enough. Fear will guide them… if we weave the right shadows."
Lysa's eyes narrowed.
"They will see only what we allow them to see. Spies in every market. Rumors in every tavern. Fear in every hearth."
"Exactly," Aren replied.
Caelis spread a map on the snow-dusted ground.
"Three key strongholds here, here, and here. Capture them quietly. Then the southern lords will bend before we even march on their castles."
Tom, now seasoned, added:
"We can use the same strategy as Frosthold. Small infiltrations, whispers, panic… no open battle necessary. Only obedience remains."
As night fell, the Shadow Army split into silent units.
Invisible. Swift. Everywhere at once.
Across the southern villages, fires flickered in unexpected places.
Messengers delivered ominous letters.
Guards reported strange sightings—shadowy figures in alleyways, whispers in taverns, strangers watching from rooftops.
The south began to tremble.
Not yet under Aren's sword.
Not yet conquered.
But already obedient to his presence.
From a ridge overlooking the southern valleys, Aren watched the lights flicker in the distance.
"The Wolf does not rush," he said quietly.
"Fear softens the world before the claws strike. And soon… every corner of this kingdom will bend."