The kingdom had become silent.
Not with peace, but with fear.
Every lord, every soldier, every citizen moved as if guided by invisible strings—strings held firmly in the Wolf's hand.
Aren walked through Greyhaven at dusk.
The streets were empty, yet alive with anticipation and dread.
Every shadow seemed to bow as he passed.
Every whispered conversation stopped mid-word.
Rowan remained confined to the palace, a prince in name only.
Even his closest allies no longer dared act without Aren knowing.
The crown that once symbolized authority now sat heavy and meaningless.
Aren climbed to the highest tower of the cathedral, gazing across the kingdom.
"The Wolf's dominion," he said quietly to Lysa and Caelis, "is not marked by walls, armies, or law.
It is marked by obedience. Fear. Shadows.
Every province, every court, every city bends… quietly, willingly, or in terror."
Lysa's voice was soft.
"And if they rise again?"
Aren smiled faintly, coldly.
"They will. But every attempt will feed the web tighter. Every whisper of rebellion only strengthens control.
The Wolf's dominion is not won in a day—it is woven slowly, invisibly, inevitably."
The sun set over the southern plains.
Greyhaven gleamed in moonlight, a city transformed.
The north had bent. The south had bent. The east had fractured.
The kingdom was his—not through force, but through the invisible hand of fear.
Aren descended the tower, shadow merging with shadow.
The Wolf's dominion was complete.
And yet… the heartbeat of the kingdom pulsed beneath him, silent, obedient, and entirely his.