The city slept fitfully.
Or pretended to.
Shadows stretched across Greyhaven's streets, twisting every torchlight into fear.
Aren's scouts moved silently.
Through alleys. Roofs. Sewers.
Whispers carried faster than feet.
Every name murmured. Every secret revealed.
By midnight, panic had already begun.
Hushed rumors of spies.
Ghostly figures in windows.
Strangers lurking in familiar streets.
In the palace, Rowan could feel it.
The walls of certainty cracking.
He paced the council chamber endlessly.
"Men report voices," one guard said.
"Footsteps that vanish," another added.
"Valewood is here," a trembling messenger whispered.
Rowan slammed the table.
"Enough!"
Outside, Lysa signaled.
Arrows flew from hidden towers.
Small fires sparked.
A few Draven sympathizers vanished in the night.
The city's nerves shredded.
Aren walked the streets unseen.
Watching. Listening. Learning.
The pulse of fear became a weapon.
A lever to pull men and nobles alike toward obedience.
Tom followed silently.
Eyes wide. Heart racing.
"Do they really fear us?" he asked.
"They fear what they cannot control," Aren said.
"And we are that," Lysa added.
By dawn, the city was hollowed.
Not destroyed.
But stripped of confidence.
Greyhaven was alive… but afraid.
From the cliffs, Aren surveyed the city.
The siege had begun.
Not with walls, not with armies, but with whispers.
And the first moves of war had been won without a single drop of his blood spilled in open battle.