The morning brought no relief.
Greyhaven's streets buzzed with unease.
Whispers, rumors, and fear had woven themselves into a tapestry of quiet panic.
Aren moved through the city's outer edges.
Hidden by mist and rooftops.
Every alley held a spy.
Every shadow was a listener.
He met with minor lords secretly pledged to his cause.
Hushed conversations in cellars.
Maps exchanged.
Supply lines disrupted.
Promises whispered.
"Patience," Aren said. "We do not strike yet. We tighten."
Lysa sharpened arrows beside him.
"By now, everyone who matters is afraid," she said.
"Good," Aren replied. "Fear is only the beginning. Control is next."
A messenger returned from the northern gate.
"Draven forces are restless," he reported.
"They suspect something, but they do not know what."
Aren nodded.
"Exactly how I want it."
Tom, growing bolder, ran messages between their allies.
Each missive carefully worded.
False promises. Threats. Hints of revolt.
Every word a spark.
At night, the Shadow Army struck quietly.
Burned a single supply wagon.
Released a few captured soldiers.
Whispers of Valewood's power spread faster than any blade.
Inside Greyhaven, Rowan could feel it.
Confidence slipping.
Trust fracturing.
Allies looking over shoulders.
Every corner seemed dangerous.
Aren watched from the cliffs again.
The city, paralyzed by fear and doubt, was ready.
And soon, the threads he had woven would snap.