Frosthold had fallen, but the north was far from tamed.
Aren summoned the surviving northern lords to the main hall, the air thick with frost and fear.
The Wolf entered silently.
No banners. No trumpets.
Only the weight of command in every step.
The lords knelt instinctively.
Some out of fear, others out of curiosity.
Aren's voice was calm, but carried like steel:
"You see your walls, your soldiers, your allies—they mean nothing without loyalty.
I am not here to destroy you.
I am here to remind you: obedience is the only path to survival."
One lord dared to speak:
"Valewood… what guarantee do we have that your shadow does not crush us next?"
Aren's gaze was icy.
"The Wolf spares those who bend willingly.
Those who resist will vanish quietly… and their names will be forgotten."
Lysa stood behind him, her arrows ready.
Caelis flanked the other side, silent and watchful.
The northern lords whispered among themselves.
Allies once hidden now swore loyalty openly.
The Wolf had struck without drawing blood, but control was absolute.
Aren raised his hand.
"From this night forward, you serve the crown of Greyhaven not by law, not by title, but by shadow and fear.
The northern campaign is complete.
The kingdom begins to bend."
Outside, snow fell silently over Frosthold.
And beneath the frozen white, the northern lands had learned that the Wolf's reach was limitless.