The successful "escape" of the royal agent Cassius from Ironpeak was a masterpiece of staged theater. Ren and Grak orchestrated it perfectly. They arranged for a "careless" guard, a secret loyalist, to be on duty at the holding cell. A small, bloody skirmish was faked, leaving two of Ulf's already-condemned conspirators dead, making the escape look authentic and violent. Cassius was given a mule, a small pouch of gold to make his story of robbing his captors believable, and a head start into the desert. An intentionally clumsy pursuit was launched, just for show.
Weeks later, the perspective shifted to the perfumed, candle-lit office of Lord Vaelin in the capital of Aerthos. Cassius knelt before the Master of Whispers, his clothes artfully tattered, his face etched with a convincing portrayal of a man who had narrowly escaped death.
"The plan was a success, my Lord," Cassius reported, his voice a hoarse whisper. "But the cost was… high."
He recounted the fabricated tale with the skill of a master storyteller. He told of the sabotage, the "accidental" explosion that destroyed the Great Forge, the death of the brutish chieftain Grak in the ensuing chaos. He described the rise of the traitor Ulf, painting him as a weak, paranoid leader struggling to control a city now crippled and divided.
"Ironpeak is in turmoil," Cassius concluded. "Their industrial heart is a ruin. Their loyalty to the Confederacy is shattered. Ulf is a greedy man, but a foolish one. He is ripe to be made a vassal of the Crown."
Vaelin listened, his thin lips curved into a satisfied smile. This was exactly what he had predicted. The barbarian alliance was a house of cards, and he had just pulled out the most important one. The report was a symphony of success, confirming his own strategic genius.
"And the bastard prince?" Vaelin asked, savoring the moment.
"He is isolated," Cassius lied smoothly. "His source of iron is gone. His allies are in chaos. My sources say he has grown desperate, imposing harsh work quotas and driving his people to the breaking point to try and rebuild. The city is a powder keg."
"Excellent," Vaelin purred. He rose and poured two glasses of wine, handing one to his agent. "You have done well, Cassius. You have proven that a single, well-placed scalpel can accomplish what an army could not. There is no need for a new legion. Why waste blood and treasure to conquer a city that is about to devour itself? We will let the bastard choke on the ashes of his own failed ambition. We will wait. We will watch. And when they have bled themselves into utter destitution, we will simply walk in and take what is left."
He raised his glass. "To patience," he said.
Cassius raised his in return. "To the King," he replied, the lie tasting as sweet as the expensive wine.
That night, a coded message, carried by a merchant who was secretly on the Confederacy's payroll, began its long journey west. It informed Castian that the deception was absolute. The kingdom believed its enemies were broken and in disarray. Lord Vaelin, the master manipulator, was now a puppet, his strings held by the very people he sought to destroy. The kingdom would stand down, granting the Wastes Confederacy the one thing more valuable than gold or iron: a long, uninterrupted season of peace to prepare for the real war to come.