The northern wind howled through Frosthold's walls.
Lord Wyrick had vanished, leaving the fortress in panic.
Draven emissaries, expecting a quiet rebellion from within, now faced empty halls and frozen courtyards.
Aren's men moved like ghosts among the battlements.
Every sentry removed silently.
Every gate opened without a single alarm.
The fortress was theirs before the first arrow could fly.
Inside the main hall, Wyrick's letters and plans were displayed on the table.
Every Draven ally exposed.
Every potential betrayal cataloged.
Aren's men had studied every route, every loyalist, every trap before the first step was taken.
Lysa's voice cut through the frost-laden night.
"They won't know what hit them until they see the Wolf himself."
Aren looked over the northern valleys, snow-covered and silent.
"Fear alone is not enough," he murmured.
"Betrayal must be punished, and loyalty must be bound by obedience."
By morning, Frosthold was under the Shadow Army's control.
The northern lords heard the news before even sunrise:
Frosthold falls. Betrayers disappear. The Wolf sees all.
Panic rippled through the valleys.
Aren's shadow stretched further than ever.
No armies were clashing.
No blood had spilled—yet every northern lord knew the cost of defiance.
From the ridge, Aren turned to Lysa and Caelis.
"The northern campaign is not about conquest," he said, voice low and deliberate.
"It's about control. Fear is the blade, but obedience is the edge. And we sharpen both, until the kingdom bends entirely to the Wolf."
Snow swirled in the valley below, masking the Silent Army's movement.
And somewhere in the distance, Draven's forces would realize too late:
The Wolf among kings had begun to strike.