Victory did not bring peace.
It brought rumors.
They spread faster than armies.
Through taverns.
Through markets.
Through whispered prayers.
In Greyhaven, people spoke carefully.
"The princes fight while we starve."
"Taxes rise. Bread shrinks."
"Why die for men who cannot rule?"
Hope thinned.
Anger grew.
Aren heard it all.
In alleys.
In guard posts.
In wine-soaked halls.
The realm was cracking from within.
One evening, Lysa returned with grim news.
"Three towns refuse to send grain," she said.
"They've raised their own militias."
"Who leads them?" Aren asked.
"Lord Baric of Stonefield."
A minor lord.
Once loyal.
Now desperate.
Rowan dismissed it.
"Small sparks," he said. "They'll fade."
Aren shook his head.
"Sparks start fires."
Rowan frowned.
But did nothing.
Days later, a courier arrived bleeding.
Stonefield had fallen.
Royal tax collectors were executed.
Their heads displayed on spikes.
Open rebellion.
The council panicked.
Harland demanded executions.
Morn demanded prayers.
Caelis demanded troops.
Chaos ruled.
Rowan turned to Aren.
"You handle it."
Not a request.
An order.
"Bring Baric back," Rowan said. "Alive or dead."
Aren bowed.
"Yes, my prince."
That night, Lysa packed quietly.
"So," she said, "we're hunting nobles now."
"We're hunting chaos," Aren replied.
She smirked.
"Same thing."
They rode before dawn.
North.
Toward restless towns and angry men.
Toward people who once called him lord's son.
And now called him enemy.
Aren watched Greyhaven fade behind them.
He understood something new.
Winning wars was easy.
Holding a kingdom…
Was harder.