The flames whispered.
Crackling softly inside the stone hearth, as though attempting to speak the thoughts the two men dared not voice aloud. Viscount Lorian Malloren remained silent for a time, fingers lightly tapping the wooden table—tap… tap… tap—like the measured beat of approaching war drums.
Count Elaine Vanhart exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with controlled restraint. The silence between them was heavy, dense, like air before a storm.
Finally, Malloren spoke.
His voice low.
Measured.
"…Have you truly considered the depth of what that boy proposed?"
Count Vanhart lifted his eyes.
"Yes."
Malloren leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. The firelight reflected off his gaze, making it appear as though embers flickered in his pupils.
"He didn't give us a trade strategy," he murmured. "He gave us a war doctrine."
Vanhart's expression did not shift, but his fingers stilled.
"Say it plainly," the count requested.
Malloren looked toward the door where Kel had once stood.
"He's telling us to choke the world with our hands still clean."
The count did not answer immediately.
He looked at his own hand, fingers long and slightly calloused from writing contracts, signing militant requests, years of political tension.
"Then our hands," he replied coldly, "must learn to hold the knife without staining."
Malloren allowed himself a breath that was nearer to a laugh.
"No blade," he said slowly. "He never mentioned force. Not once."
He leaned back.
"He will bleed them," Malloren said softly, "without ever drawing steel."
Vanhart's eyes sharpened.
"Or revealing the direction of the cut," he added.
They fell silent again.
But this silence felt different.
Heavier.
Realizations unfolding.
Malloren broke it once more.
"That method…" he began slowly, "…is far more dangerous than conquest."
Vanhart looked at him, brows lifting slightly.
Malloren continued.
"If we invade by force, enemies unite against us. If we starve their lands—restrict their resources—without them realizing the source?"
He gestured vaguely.
"They cannibalize themselves. They cut their own veins believing it remedy."
He inhaled.
"That boy plans to end battles before they begin. Not with armies, but with…"
"…access," the count finished quietly.
Malloren nodded.
"He said it," the viscount murmured. "Control access, not resources."
Vanhart closed his eyes slowly.
When he opened them, they glowed beneath the flickering light.
"What do generals learn first?" he asked.
Malloren tilted his head.
"That victory belongs to the one who controls the supply lines," he answered.
"And merchants?" Vanhart countered.
"That wealth belongs to the one who controls distribution."
"And rulers?"
Malloren paused.
Understanding dawned in slow horror.
"…That power," he whispered, "belongs to the one who controls need."
Vanhart stared into the fire.
"So he has given us…" he began.
Malloren finished.
"A way," he whispered, "to make our enemies' needs our weapon."
The room felt colder then, despite the fire.
Shadows deepened across the chamber.
Even the flames stirred uncertainly, casting strange silhouettes across the old maps hanging above the mantelpiece.
"Elaine," Malloren said slowly, "if we enact this fully… we are not only rebuilding this territory."
The count looked up.
"We are unbalancing northern politics."
Vanhart's eyes hardened.
"And if executed properly—"
"—without drawing suspicion," Malloren added.
"—we may shift more than politics," Vanhart finished.
Silence.
Malloren swallowed.
"…We may shift history."
A moment passed.
Then Malloren turned, counting slowly on his fingers.
"One—enemies paying tenfold for harlroot through our intermediaries," he began, voice calm but charged with calculation. "Two—those intermediaries grow wealthy, indebted to us. Three—we gain intelligence from enemy dealings and complaints. Four—we regulate scarcity so they believe we are nowhere in the chain."
He looked at Vanhart.
"And five?"
Vanhart's reply was quiet.
"Five," he said, "we determine when the chain breaks."
Malloren sat back.
"…Gods."
The count closed his eyes.
Images passed behind them.
House banners.
A spread of noble territories.
A silent network of ten names slowly tightening grip over remote provinces.
And a boy walking ahead of them with steady steps, not looking back to see if they followed.
"…It will make them dependent on us," Vanhart murmured. "Gradually. Subtly."
Malloren nodded.
"And when they realize it," he replied, "they will be years too late."
The count inhaled.
"Would you oppose such a path?" he asked quietly.
Malloren did not blink.
"No," he said. "I would only fear being unprepared when the world reacts."
Vanhart's hands rested atop the table.
"And Kel?"
Malloren's expression changed slightly.
"He is…"
He searched for the word.
"…unafraid," he settled on.
"Not careless," Vanhart added.
"No," Malloren agreed. "He weighs consequence with precise detail… but is unafraid of enacting it."
Vanhart looked at him.
Malloren held his gaze.
"That," he said softly, "is both the most reassuring and most terrifying quality I've seen in someone so young."
The count leaned back, head tilting upward slightly.
"The world believes power grows in years," he said. "In decades of accumulation. They do not account for something like him."
Malloren's lips curved slightly.
"A variable," he murmured.
Vanhart nodded slowly.
"A storm, Lorian," he corrected. "Not a gust. A storm that remembers the map of the battlefield before it was rained on."
Malloren let out a long, slow breath.
"He saved my daughter," he whispered.
Vanhart looked at him.
"He saved my house," he replied.
They both stared at the door once more.
"And now," Malloren said softly, "he is changing our enemies."
Vanhart did not blink.
"He is choosing where their downfall begins," he corrected.
Malloren looked back to the flames.
"And delaying its end," he added quietly.
The count slowly rose from his seat.
He walked to the window.
Outside, the morning light was bleak, filtered through heavy clouds. Workers moved in the fields, bundled in furs, unaware that the fate of their land was shifting behind closed doors.
"I used to believe," Vanhart said softly, watching the winter, "that we were trying to survive the ruin my father left behind."
Malloren turned slightly.
"Now?"
Vanhart's lips parted, slowly.
"Now I wonder if he is positioning us… to take advantage of the ruin others have yet to realize is coming."
Malloren stilled.
"And if he is," he whispered, "then he must already know where the ruin begins."
Silence.
"…Yes."
In the stillness, Malloren asked one last question.
"Elaine."
"Yes?"
"If we follow this… if we carry out everything…"
He paused.
The flames flickered.
"…what will the world call it?"
Vanhart did not turn from the window.
He answered softly.
"They will call it collapse."
"They will call it fate."
"They will call it misfortune."
Then he looked over his shoulder.
Eyes calm.
Focused.
"And they will never know," he finished quietly, "that it began as a strategy shared over morning tea by a boy named Heral."
The flames dimmed.
The weight of their decision settled like snow.
Outside, somewhere distant, wind carried the sound of a bowstring tightening.