Frosthold's walls rose from the frozen valley like a fortress of stone and despair.
Yet inside, fear had already taken root.
Aren's Shadow Army surrounded the fortress silently, hidden by snow and night.
Not a trumpet. Not a banner.
Only whispers.
The northern guards patrolled cautiously, uneasy from rumors of betrayal and missing allies.
Every sentry glanced at shadows, imagining threats that weren't visible… yet already there.
Aren watched from a ridge with Lysa and Caelis.
"No need for brute force," he said.
"Fear and strategy will win this siege. The walls will fall before our blades do."
Scouts and spies infiltrated the fortress.
Letters intercepted. Guards misled. Supplies subtly poisoned.
The people inside Frosthold began to distrust their leaders, whispers of betrayal spreading faster than any army could march.
By nightfall, small sections of the walls opened silently.
Doors left unlocked. Towers abandoned.
Those loyal to Wyrick either gone—or already under Aren's control.
Inside the fortress, panic gripped the surviving northern lords.
They whispered of the Wolf.
Of shadows moving through corridors.
Of soldiers appearing where no one had seen them.
Aren entered the main hall with a handful of his closest captains.
Silent. Calm. Commanding.
"The fortress is yours," he said to his men.
"Leave the lords alive… but remind them that obedience is the only path."
Torches lit the hall. Northern lords knelt, trembling.
Fear had done what armies could not.
Outside, snow swirled, masking the departure of spies and patrols.
The fortress was secure.
The northern campaign was complete.
Aren looked out at the frozen landscape.
"This is the price of betrayal," he said softly.
"And the kingdom is learning that the Wolf's shadow reaches farther than any crown or sword."