Duke Harland did not beg.
Not at first.
He sat in his chamber, wrists bound in silver chains, back straight, eyes cold.
"I built this realm," he told his guards. "It will regret this."
No one answered.
His trial was swift.
Too swift.
Rowan controlled the chamber.
Witnesses recanted.
Documents appeared.
Accounts shifted.
Truth was rearranged.
Aren watched from the shadows.
This was power.
Not loud.
Not violent.
Precise.
Deadly.
Harland finally spoke.
Pointing at Aren.
"He's the real threat," he shouted. "Not me!"
Laughter followed.
Carefully placed.
Planned.
Cruel.
"Sentence," Rowan declared, "is exile."
Gasps filled the hall.
Exile meant death.
Slow.
Cold.
Forgotten.
That night, Harland was dragged beyond the northern gate.
Stripped of title.
Stripped of allies.
Stripped of name.
Before leaving, he looked back.
At Aren.
With hatred.
With promise.
"This isn't over," he whispered.
Aren believed him.
Morn visited Aren later.
"You've chosen your side," the archbishop said.
"I chose survival," Aren replied.
Morn sighed.
"Same sin. Different prayer."
Greyhaven adjusted quickly.
New officials.
New favors.
New loyalties.
Old ones vanished.
Rowan rewarded Aren.
A manor.
Guards.
Funds.
A formal title:
Warden of the North Roads.
Power, given quietly.
Lysa examined the deed.
"You're noble now," she said.
"On paper," Aren replied.
"And in danger," she added.
He smiled thinly.
"I always was."
From his new balcony, Aren watched the city.
He had climbed far.
From mud.
From ashes.
From nothing.
But higher meant thinner air.
And deadlier falls.