Winter arrived without warning.
Snow fell over Greyhaven like ash from a dead fire. Streets grew silent. Windows closed. Guards doubled.
Fear spread faster than cold.
Aren felt it everywhere.
In whispers.
In locked doors.
In lowered eyes.
Lysa returned one night with blood on her sleeve.
"Not mine," she said quickly.
She dropped a sealed letter on the table.
Black wax.
A lion sigil.
"Duke Harland," Aren whispered.
She nodded.
"He wants proof that Verrick plots against him."
"And if we give it?"
"Gold. Protection. Enemies."
Aren studied the seal.
Power felt heavier than any sword.
They met Harland's agent in an abandoned chapel.
Broken saints stared from cracked walls.
Candles flickered.
The man wore velvet and steel.
"I hear you trade in truth," he said.
Lysa slid forward the documents.
Orders.
Troop movements.
Secret payments.
The man read.
Smiled.
"You've chosen well."
He placed a pouch on the altar.
Heavy.
Silver.
"And remember," he added softly, "loyalty buys life."
Days later, Verrick's supporters were arrested.
Some vanished.
Some confessed.
Some were found in the river.
Greyhaven pretended not to notice.
Aren could not sleep.
"People died," he said.
"Because of us."
Lysa poured wine.
"They would've died anyway."
"That doesn't change—"
"Yes, it does," she cut in. "It means we live."
Silence followed.
He hated that she was right.
Soon, other offers came.
From priests.
From merchants.
From generals.
Each secret cost more.
Each payment stained deeper.
Aren's clothes grew finer.
His hands grew darker.
One evening, a hooded messenger arrived.
Royal seal.
Urgent.
"For Aren Valewood," he said.
Aren froze.
No one used that name.
He broke the wax.
Read.
Pale.
"What is it?" Lysa asked.
"The Crown wants me," he whispered.
"For service."
For the first time, power had called him directly.
And it would never let go