Chapter 89 – Cracks in the Alliance
Shadows After the Gathering
The grand hall where the four barons had met was growing quiet. The great fire that had burned during their tense debate now dwindled into glowing embers, throwing long, crooked shadows on the stone walls.
The "alliance" had been forged, or at least that was what the four barons told themselves. They had agreed to send spies into Eisenwald, to sabotage its trade, and to prepare for war should Fenrir continue to grow.
But already, before the night was over, fissures had begun to appear.
Baron Drachenfels, his scarred face set like iron, left first, his heavy boots echoing down the corridor. Falkenhain followed soon after, muttering calculations under his breath. Only Baron Hohenberg and Baron Altenburg lingered in the hall, seated across from one another, their expressions lit by flickering firelight.
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Hohenberg drained the last of his wine and slammed the cup on the table. His heavy frame leaned forward, his tone thick with ambition.
"Altenburg, you and I both know this alliance is nothing but smoke. Falkenhain is too cautious. Drachenfels is too reckless. If we wait on them, we'll lose our chance. But if we move first—if we strike Eisenwald while Fenrir's still licking his wounds—the spoils will be ours."
Altenburg's narrow face curved into a sly smile. His long fingers tapped rhythmically on the wood. "You are blunt as always, Hohenberg. But perhaps that's why I need you. Yes… the swamp has grown fangs, but wolves who move alone can be cut down. If we move together, we could carve the heart out of Eisenwald before the others even sharpen their blades."
Hohenberg grinned, his meaty hand slamming against the table in approval. "Good. Then it's settled. Let Falkenhain sit in his tower and Drachenfels roar like a beast. We'll feast on Eisenwald first."
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Later, when Hohenberg slumped back in his chair, dulled by drink, Altenburg's eyes gleamed in the dim light. He leaned toward his attendant and whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Send a message to Falkenhain. Tell him Hohenberg plots to march on Eisenwald without waiting for the alliance. Let suspicion eat away at them."
The attendant bowed and slipped into the shadows, vanishing into the night. Altenburg's lips twisted into a smile sharp as a knife.
"Wolves may hunt in packs, but when the pack turns on itself, only the fox survives."
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Meanwhile, in the black-stoned keep of Drachenfels, a report arrived from one of his spies.
"My lord," the spy said, kneeling, "our men saw Hohenberg and Altenburg linger long after the meeting ended. They spoke in secret for hours."
Drachenfels' scarred jaw clenched, his fist hammering the armrest of his chair.
"As I suspected. Treachery already. If they think to conspire without me, I will strike them before they even march. Let them scheme—I'll be ready to crush them both."
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Thus, before their plans against Eisenwald even began, the alliance of four barons had already begun to unravel:
Hohenberg, blinded by greed, sought to attack quickly.
Altenburg, sly as a fox, spread lies to turn the others against each other.
Falkenhain would soon find himself tangled in webs of mistrust.
Drachenfels prepared to draw steel not against Eisenwald, but against his own supposed allies.
The alliance was fragile glass—already cracking under the weight of ambition.
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Far away, in Eisenwald, Fenrir stood in his manor, reviewing reports of trade and farming. His lands were growing stronger each day, yet his instincts stirred uneasily.
Though no words reached him, he felt it—the gaze of predators circling, waiting for weakness. His aura flickered faintly, like a wolf baring its fangs at unseen eyes in the dark.
"So be it. If they hunt me, they will learn what it means to corner a Crimson Wolf."
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