Greyhaven never felt smaller.
The walls loomed like silent judges.
A city of stone and whispers, trembling under a shadow it could not see.
Aren's army crept closer under cover of fog.
Cliffs. Forests. Secret paths.
No banners. No trumpets.
Only the quiet hum of preparation.
Lysa signaled scouts.
Positions marked. Traps set.
The city gates would choke its defenders.
Supply lines were already cut.
At dawn, the first fires appeared.
Small. Controlled.
Smoke drifting through the northern districts.
Panic spread.
Merchants abandoned stalls.
Soldiers ran to gates.
Nobles hid in private chambers.
Rowan, furious, commanded the garrison.
"Hold the walls!" he shouted. "Do not let them break fear into chaos!"
But Aren's plan was never to break walls first.
He struck at the nerves.
Letters, forged threats, spies whispering names, sudden raids on supply wagons.
The city believed it was surrounded.
Invisible, unstoppable.
In the palace, Rowan paced.
The council whispered about rebellion.
"Valewood is here," one said.
"Impossible," Rowan growled.
By nightfall, Greyhaven was paralyzed.
Markets closed. Guards doubled. Merchants vanished.
Even the priests prayed louder, fearful their gods could not protect them.
Aren surveyed from the cliffs.
The city glimmered in torches.
Silent streets. Panicked hearts.
He lowered his hood.
"This is the beginning," he said.
Lysa smirked.
"The beginning of what?"
"The beginning of everything," Aren replied.
The siege was not of walls.
It was of minds.
And fear was the first blade.