The dawn was silent.
Greyhaven stirred with tension, not life.
Aren's army waited in the mist beyond the northern hills.
Hidden. Patient. Ready.
Scouts reported the city gates lightly defended.
Draven sympathizers had fled.
Rowan had underestimated the fear he'd unleashed.
Aren spoke quietly to his captains.
"Steel is not enough. Fire is not enough. We use what they fear most: control. Chaos. Uncertainty."
Lysa nodded, arrows ready.
Caelis's men checked their armor silently.
Tom, now confident, memorized every detail.
At first light, signals were given.
Smoke from hidden pyres.
Whistles from cliffs.
Flames along the northern roads.
The city panicked immediately.
Guards abandoned posts.
Merchants barricaded themselves.
Nobles fled to private chambers.
The gates, normally formidable, were undermanned.
Aren led the first strike.
Men surged forward.
Blades struck down hesitant soldiers.
Chains and portcullises were broken before alarms could fully sound.
From rooftops, Lysa's archers rained arrows.
Silent. Precise. Deadly.
Rowan's attempt to rally the guards failed.
Every messenger returned with bad news.
The northern districts reported flames.
The markets were in chaos.
By midday, the northern gates had fallen.
Valewood's banner—black with a single silver wolf—flew over the walls.
The people whispered his name.
Fear had become power.
Aren stood at the top of the gatehouse, looking over Greyhaven.
The city was not yet his.
Not fully.
But its gates were open.
Its hearts were shaken.
And its ruler, Rowan, knew the war had reached his doorstep.