The southern lords gathered quietly in a stone hall, wary of every shadow.
Whispers of Aren's northern campaign had reached them—Frosthold's fall, Wyrick's disappearance, the unseen hand of the Wolf.
They spoke of alliances in hushed tones.
Draven sympathizers, old rivals, and hesitant nobles tried to forge a pact.
A united front… against a foe none had seen.
But fear had already taken root.
Even within the hall, servants and messengers carried Aren's silent influence.
Eyes and ears everywhere.
Aren observed from a ridge, cloaked by darkness.
He did not enter the hall.
He did not speak.
He needed only the knowledge that every move inside would come to him.
Lysa crouched beside him.
"Do we strike now?"
"No," Aren replied. "Let them weave their fragile alliance. Let them whisper and plan. Fear is more effective when anticipation eats at loyalty."
Caelis pointed toward the southern roads.
"The trade routes are vulnerable. Control there, and we strangle their resources without a single siege."
Aren's eyes gleamed.
"Yes. The Wolf does not need to charge into the fray. He bends the world before the first blade is drawn."
That night, letters found their way into the hands of southern lords.
The Wolf sees all. Defiance has its price. Obedience is rewarded.
Panic spread faster than the couriers.
Alliances faltered. Trust dissolved.
By dawn, the so-called Shadowed Pact was fractured.
Lords no longer spoke openly.
Every noble feared their neighbor as much as the unseen Wolf beyond the mountains.
Aren's shadow had reached the south without a single battle fought.
Obedience was seeded.
Fear had become the crown that no one could resist.
From the ridge, Aren whispered to Lysa and Caelis:
"The Wolf does not conquer with armies alone.
He conquers with shadows, whispers… and the inevitability of fear."