The news of Frosthold's fall spread quietly but swiftly.
No trumpets announced it. No armies marched.
Yet every lord, merchant, and soldier in the northern provinces whispered of the Wolf among kings.
Aren rode through the northern roads, flanked by Lysa and Caelis.
Every village, every fortress, every hidden path had eyes reporting to him.
Control was not through walls, but through fear and whispers.
Messengers carried letters to distant lords:
The Wolf watches. Obey. Betray, and vanish.
Some read them trembling.
Some obeyed silently.
All feared the shadow.
Rowan, in Greyhaven, learned of Frosthold's fall.
His face paled.
The prince realized the Wolf's campaign was no longer just a threat to the north—it threatened the very crown he clung to.
Inside the cathedral, Aren convened his captains.
"Frosthold was a lesson. Fear spreads faster than armies. Deception binds loyalty tighter than chains."
Caelis pointed to a map.
"The southern lords are still hesitant. Some may resist if we move too soon."
Aren's gaze was sharp.
"Then we let whispers reach them first. Fear softens resistance before battle does. The kingdom will bend quietly, willingly—or it will break."
Tom, now hardened and silent, added:
"They will all speak of you. Even those who once opposed you. They cannot help themselves."
Aren nodded.
"Yes. The Wolf's reach is not measured in swords. It is measured in shadows, whispers, and hearts that tremble unseen."
Night fell across the kingdom.
And for the first time, Greyhaven and the northern lands truly understood:
The Wolf among kings had begun weaving a web that no crown could escape.