Chapter 88 – The Meeting of the Barons
Shadows in the North
In a small gray-stone keep, far from Eisenwald's swamps, torches burned along the walls of a cold hall. Four banners hung like watchful eyes: Hohenberg, Altenburg, Falkenhain, and Drachenfels.
Rarely did these barons gather together. Normally, each kept to their lands, busy with taxes, bandits, and fragile ties to the counts and viscounts above them. But tonight, they were united by one name: Fenrir Eisenwald.
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Baron Hohenberg, a large man with a swollen belly and a booming voice, slammed his fist against the table.
"Four years ago, Eisenwald was a forgotten swamp. Now? He defeated Klausen, swallowed Falkenrath, and returned from the Marquis' war as the so-called Crimson Wolf."
Baron Altenburg, thin and sharp-eyed, tapped the table with long fingers. His tone was dry, venomous.
"I've heard his army is no longer a few hundred peasants. Over three thousand men, disciplined, hardened, and dangerous. And unlike ours, his soldiers returned from a great war intact, with honor. Do not think that insignificant."
Falkenhain, hair white as snow, gave a bitter chuckle. "I held minor mines near the border. Since Eisenwald took Falkenrath, my trade has collapsed. He now sells steel to the great cities. Do you still call that luck?"
Drachenfels, his scarred face lit by firelight, growled. "Fenrir may be young, but he bites like a wolf. If we do nothing, he'll devour us one by one."
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The air grew heavy. Cups of wine trembled as the voices grew louder.
Hohenberg snarled, "So what? Do we wait until he becomes a Count? Or worse, a Duke? I say we strike now, before he grows fangs too sharp!"
Altenburg smirked, eyes glinting. "A joint strike would be reckless. Eisenwald's people adore him. Attack now, and Marquis Helbrecht himself might accuse us of rebellion. We would be crushed."
Falkenhain shook his head. "Not to mention, Eisenwald compensates his soldiers' families, exempts taxes, and educates orphans. That kind of loyalty cannot be bought. If we storm his gates without caution, his peasants will fight like wolves. Mark my words."
Drachenfels slammed his hand down. "Then what do you suggest? Do we just sit idle while his army swells to ten thousand?"
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The four argued deep into the night:
Hohenberg pushed for immediate war—"strike while his men are still bleeding."
Altenburg proposed spies and sabotage—"rot the tree from its roots before it grows."
Falkenhain urged patience—"wait for politics to tilt against him."
Drachenfels demanded an alliance—"better we risk together than be eaten alone."
Wine spilled, tempers flared, but beneath the shouting was fear—fear of a baron who had risen too fast.
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Finally, an uneasy pact was forged:
1. Spies would be sent into Eisenwald to uncover its true strength.
2. If Eisenwald continued to grow within the next five years, the four would unite in open war.
3. In the meantime, they would quietly sabotage Eisenwald's trade, choking its mines and farmland from the shadows.
No handshakes sealed the deal—only grim nods, the firelight dancing across faces twisted with envy and dread.
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As the others prepared to leave, Drachenfels lingered before the flames, eyes burning with hatred.
"Fenrir Eisenwald… Crimson Wolf, they call you. But even wolves can be hunted. We will see who stalks whom."
Far away, in the marshlands of Eisenwald, Fenrir stood at his manor's tower, gazing over his growing territory. He did not hear Drachenfels' words, but his instincts shivered like a beast sensing predators circling in the dark.
"The next hunt has already begun…"
#wanD48