Greyhaven lay in silence, yet it was alive in ways no one could see.
Every street, every tower, every hidden alley carried the pulse of the Wolf's dominion.
Aren walked through the city alone, his shadow stretching longer than his steps.
No guard needed. No banners waved.
The kingdom obeyed—not because of armies, not because of law, but because fear had been sewn into its very heart.
Rowan lingered in the palace, powerless and aware.
Letters returned unanswered. Soldiers hesitant. Advisors silent or openly defiant—but only where Aren could not see.
The crown he once commanded meant nothing.
Lysa approached Aren atop the cathedral tower.
"The Wolf's control is complete," she said softly.
"Yes," Aren replied. "The kingdom bends, but it is not yet secure. Fear must be constant, whispers eternal, and the web unbroken.
Obedience thrives only when hope of rebellion dies slowly, not suddenly."
The Shadow Army, now more than soldiers, moved like ghosts across every province.
Merchants, couriers, servants, spies—all became extensions of the Wolf's will.
Every secret, every hesitation, every doubt was recorded, twisted, and used to tighten the web.
Aren gazed across the kingdom, from the frostbitten north to the sun-scorched south, to the fractured eastern cities.
"The Wolf rules not through crowns or armies," he murmured.
"He rules through inevitability. Through shadows. Through the silent obedience of hearts that tremble before him."
The city below, silent, trembling, obedient… was alive with fear.
And at its center, the Wolf stood, unchallenged, unseen, eternal.
"The shadow reigns," Aren whispered.
"And from it… the kingdom will never escape."