Stonefield lay in a shallow valley.
Once peaceful.
Once loyal.
Now fortified.
Wooden walls.
Watchtowers.
Barricades of carts and stone.
Rebellion had given it teeth.
Smoke rose from inside the town.
Not from war.
From crowded hearths.
Too many mouths.
Too little food.
Aren and Lysa approached under a white banner.
Arrows followed their steps.
Eyes watched from every roof.
They were allowed through the gate at spearpoint.
Lord Baric waited in the old hall.
Gray-bearded.
Broad-shouldered.
Wrapped in worn armor.
No crown.
No silk.
Only fatigue.
"So," Baric said, "the prince sends a spy."
"I'm no spy," Aren replied. "I'm here to end this."
Baric laughed bitterly.
"End our hunger? Our taxes? Our graves?"
Silence fell.
"You killed royal men," Aren said.
"They stole our grain," Baric answered. "Left our children starving."
Lysa muttered, "He's not lying."
Aren knew.
He had seen empty villages.
"Rebellion will bring armies," Aren warned.
"And obedience brings death," Baric replied.
They stared at each other.
Two men shaped by different fires.
That night, Aren walked the streets.
Thin faces.
Bare shelves.
Graves behind houses.
This was not treason.
It was desperation.
He returned to Baric.
"Swear loyalty," Aren said. "Publicly."
"And then?" Baric asked.
"I'll cut your taxes. Bring grain. Protect you."
Baric studied him.
"You don't have that power."
"Not yet," Aren replied.
"But I will."
By dawn, Baric knelt in the square.
Swore fealty.
Lowered his banners.
Crowds watched in silence.
Hope and fear mixed.
Aren sent messengers to Greyhaven.
Then burned the execution spikes.
One by one.
Lysa whispered, "You just made enemies."
Aren nodded.
"I also made allies."
And both would matter.