The kingdom lay quiet beneath the moonlight, a tapestry of obedience and fear.
From Frosthold in the north to the southern plains, every lord, every village, every city moved to the rhythm of the Wolf's shadow.
Aren stood on the highest tower of Greyhaven, Lysa and Caelis at his sides.
"The web is complete," he said, voice calm but sharp.
"Every province bends. Every court fears. Every rebellion has been dissolved before it began."
Rowan watched from the palace, powerless.
His allies had vanished, his letters intercepted, his soldiers gone or loyal to another hand.
Even the prince realized the truth too late: the kingdom had shifted beneath him, and he was no longer the axis of power.
The first lords of the north knelt at Aren's decree.
The southern governors whispered obedience in hidden chambers.
The fractured eastern cities swore loyalty, each noble too afraid to act otherwise.
Lysa smiled faintly.
"Every move we planned… every shadow we placed… has brought this day."
"Yes," Aren said. "The Wolf does not conquer with swords or siege engines. He conquers with patience, fear, and inevitability.
The kingdom bends, and its ruler… is unseen, unchallenged, and eternal."
A silent breeze swept through Greyhaven, carrying the whispers of every citizen and lord.
Even the wind seemed to obey the shadow.
Aren's gaze lingered on the crown, gleaming but meaningless.
The true power was not worn—it was felt.
It was fear.
It was loyalty bound by shadows.
It was inevitability.
The Wolf had risen.
And the kingdom, silent and trembling, now belonged entirely to him.