The city of Greyhaven rose from the mist like a grave of stone.
High walls.
Narrow towers.
Iron gates scarred by old wars.
Aren stared from the forest ridge.
"Capital of the North," Lysa said. "Where power whispers before it shouts."
Smoke drifted from chimneys. Bells rang faintly.
Life continued inside.
While kingdoms bled.
They entered at dawn.
Through the traders' gate.
No questions.
No names.
Coins spoke.
Guards listened.
Inside, streets twisted like snakes.
Markets shouted.
Smiths hammered.
Priests warned.
Beggar children watched with sharp eyes.
"Never ignore children," Lysa whispered. "They see everything."
Aren remembered.
They rented a narrow room above a tavern.
One bed.
One chair.
One window facing an alley.
Safety, for now.
That night, Lysa spread stolen papers on the table.
Maps.
Orders.
Seals.
"The king is sick," she said.
Aren frowned. "So?"
"So his council fights like wolves over meat."
She tapped a parchment.
"Duke Harland. Lord Verrick. Archbishop Morn."
Names of power.
"All want the throne," she continued. "All need soldiers."
Aren looked up.
"And us?"
She smiled slightly.
"We sell secrets."
Days passed.
They listened.
Bribed.
Watched.
Aren learned to read faces.
Fear.
Greed.
Ambition.
All looked the same in candlelight.
One night, Lysa returned pale.
"Draven moves," she said.
Aren's breath caught.
"The house that burned Blackmere?"
"Yes. They march south."
Rage flared.
"I'll kill them."
"With what?" she asked softly.
"Anger?"
He clenched his fists.
Later, alone, Aren stood on the roof.
Greyhaven spread below.
Thousands of lives.
All ruled by invisible hands.
He realized then:
Swords won battles.
But whispers won kingdoms.
Far away, nobles planned war.
Closer still, spies marked his steps.
And somewhere in the dark halls of power…
A name was being remembered.
Valewood.