Greyhaven tightened around Aren like a snare.
Slowly.
Almost gently.
Meetings were "forgotten."
Orders delayed.
Supplies misdirected.
Messages lost.
Accidents.
All of them.
Aren noticed patterns.
Patterns meant intent.
Rowan grew distant.
Busy.
Surrounded by advisors.
Rarely alone.
Never unguarded.
Lord Varyn's trial was public.
Carefully staged.
He confessed.
He wept.
He blamed fear.
He named no powerful allies.
He was executed at sunset.
Truth buried with him.
"Convenient," Lysa muttered.
"Effective," Aren replied.
"And dangerous."
Edric brought fragments.
"Three councilmen protected Varyn."
"Which?"
"Harland's old circle."
Ghosts.
Still haunting.
Aren's supporters were reassigned.
Scattered.
Promoted into uselessness.
Quiet exile.
One captain resigned.
Another was arrested.
A third disappeared.
No explanations.
Rowan summoned Aren less.
But watched him more.
From balconies.
From mirrors.
From rumors.
One night, Lysa returned pale.
"They're building a case," she whispered.
"Slowly."
"About what?"
"Treason. Again."
This time, stronger.
Witnesses.
Accounts.
Bank records.
Foreign contacts.
All false.
All believable.
Aren understood.
Rowan was afraid.
And fear created monsters.
He met Rowan privately at last.
"You're strangling me," Aren said.
"I'm protecting the crown," Rowan replied.
"From me?"
"From everyone," Rowan snapped.
Silence followed.
Old friendship crumbled.
Aren left with one certainty:
He would not survive another trial.
Not in this city.
Not under this prince.
He began preparing.
Quietly.
Carefully.
For exile.
For war.
Or for something far worse.