The first riot did not begin with shouting.
It began with silence.
A marketplace in the village of Eredin stood empty at dawn. Stalls abandoned. Fires cold. Doors barred. When our patrol entered, they found scripture pinned to a well—Draeven parchment, untouched by flame.
No blood was spilled that day.
That was what frightened me most.
"They're not resisting," Captain Elren reported, helmet tucked under his arm. "They're withdrawing."
"Withdrawing where?" Ril asked sharply.
Elren hesitated. "Into themselves."
I rode through the village personally. Faces watched from behind shutters. Not hatred. Not fear. Something worse—calculation. The people were weighing us, measuring whether our presence was temporary.
Draeven did not need to occupy land if it could convince the land to reject us.
When a woman finally stepped forward, clutching a child to her chest, I dismounted.
"Will you drive us away?" she asked.
"No," I said.
She studied me, then spoke quietly. "Then how long will you stay?"
I had no answer that wouldn't be a lie.
By midday, word reached us of another incident—this time among our own ranks.
Two soldiers had come to blows over rations. One accused the other of hoarding. The argument escalated. Knives were drawn before officers intervened.
I summoned both men.
They stood before me, eyes lowered. One was young. The other, hardened. Both were afraid.
"You fight over food," I said. "Not honor. Not duty. That tells me something."
Neither spoke.
"You believe scarcity is coming," I continued. "And that belief alone is enough to kill armies."
I had them flogged—not harshly, but publicly.
Not as punishment.
As reassurance.
Discipline was proof that order still existed.
That night, the council fire burned longer than usual.
Ril paced. "We can't keep pretending this is only a military campaign. The civilians are becoming a front."
"They always are," I said. "We just prefer not to admit it."
Elren frowned. "If Draeven pushes harder, villages may openly side with them."
"They won't," I replied. "Not yet."
Ril stopped pacing. "How can you be sure?"
"Because Draeven offers certainty," I said. "But not freedom. People only choose chains when chaos becomes unbearable."
I leaned forward. "Our task is to make sure chaos never fully arrives."
Scouts returned before dawn.
Draeven forces were repositioning—not toward us, but around us. Roads closed. Crossings watched. Markets influenced.
They weren't encircling the army.
They were encircling belief.
I ordered a limited advance—not aggressive, but visible. Patrols entered villages openly. Grain was distributed. Local elders were invited to speak. Disputes settled swiftly.
We did not preach.
We listened.
It was slower than conquest.
And infinitely more fragile.
Still, the cracks widened.
A junior officer approached me privately. "Some of the men are talking," he said. "About Draeven. About order. About how they punish thieves."
I studied him. "And what do you think?"
He swallowed. "I think men get tired of uncertainty."
"So do commanders," I said. "That's why most of them lose."
I dismissed him, but the words lingered.
That evening, I stood alone on a ridge overlooking the camp. Fires dotted the land like fallen stars. Each one was a life depending on decisions made miles away from steel and blood.
War, I realized, was not fought between armies.
It was fought between fears.
Far to the east, Tarek al-Rhazim watched events unfold with keen interest.
He listened to reports of Draeven's influence, of Kaeldor's restraint, of villages hesitating.
"Good," he murmured.
A subordinate frowned. "Good, my lord?"
"Yes," Tarek said. "When men hesitate, they seek leadership."
"And whose leadership will they seek?"
Tarek smiled faintly. "Whoever proves the world makes sense."
He turned back to the map of Aereth.
Chaos was a tool.
Faith was a tool.
And patience—patience was the deadliest of all.
That night, as I prepared orders for the next march, a single thought settled heavy in my mind:
Battles decide borders.
Belief decides empires.
And belief, once shaken, was harder to reclaim than any city.