The envoy lingered.
For two days, he smiled too much. Asked too many questions. Meandered through the streets with an air of superiority that made the blacksmiths spit when his back was turned. He complimented the town's efforts, but his eyes darted to the battlements, the training fields, the supply wagons.
He was counting.
Measuring.
Waiting for a crack.
But Zareena gave him none.
By the third morning, the garrison lined up in formation for their daily drill. Fifty soldiers in neat, disciplined rows. Another thirty civilians stood nearby, practicing with bows and spears. The blacksmith's apprentices hauled crates of bolts. A small team dragged a reconstructed ballista into position atop the west wall.
It wasn't a display.
It was a message.
The envoy watched from a distance. His smile had vanished.
He didn't speak much after that. Just asked for a final meeting with Zareena.
"I'll relay what I've seen," he said, voice cooler now. "Lord Marcerov will… reconsider his position."
Zareena nodded once. "Do so. Tell him Vireloch is no longer a forgotten outpost. And we do not forget who abandoned us."
The envoy didn't argue.
He left with his guards in silence, their pristine cloaks dusted with ash and fear. No threats. No parting words.
Just silence.
And the feeling that House Marcerov had realized too late—
Vireloch wasn't weak anymore.