CHAPTER 25: The Serpent's Tongue
The Whispering Bridge – Northern Reach of Velmire Lands
The bridge was ancient, a forgotten spine of stone arching over the River Varth. Once, it had seen legions march. Now, it was a choke point for the Empire's war machine, funnelling endless streams of wagons and men toward the north.
Lady Virelle Velmire stood at the bridge's eastern approach, a map unfurled in her gloved hands. The wind whipped her raven-feather cloak, but her expression remained as serene as polished glass. Her escort of Velmire guards, lean men with the falcon sigil on their breastplates, kept a respectful distance.
"They're moving too fast," her chief agent, a wiry, nervous man named Farsin, reported, his voice low. "The Black Legates have secured every major crossroad south of the Blackwood. Supply convoys are guarded by a dozen mounted riders now, not five. And their Quartermaster General, Lord Tervan, has ordered a full census of all grain stores within fifty miles of the King's Road."
Virelle's gaze remained on the map. "Tervan. A predictable man. He fears starvation more than rebellion."
"He's doubling sentries at river crossings," Farsin continued, tracing a route. "We lost three teams trying to taint the wells near Greensward. And the merchants are too frightened to run the poisoned grain. Their loyalty to the coin is weakening."
A faint frown touched Virelle's lips. An unexpected challenge. Tervan was proving more meticulous than she'd anticipated. And fear, it seemed, was a more potent currency than gold when famine loomed.
"Then we shall simply change the poison," Virelle murmured. "And the price."
The Serpent's Coil – Velmire Hidden Holdfast
That night, Virelle sat in a spartan, torch-lit chamber, surrounded by scrolls and small, carved wooden figures representing key Imperial figures. She moved a figurine of Lord Tervan across the map with her finger.
"If he relies on the local stores," she began, speaking to Farsin and a cloaked woman named Lyra, her most trusted spymaster, "then we deny him the trust he needs. Not the grain itself."
Lyra's eyes, keen and intelligent, met hers. "Misinformation?"
"Truth," Virelle corrected, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "Twisted. We will not poison wells with death, Farsin. We will poison them with doubt. Spread the whisper: that the Emperor's own quartermasters are hoarding food. That the Black Legates burn loyalist farms for fuel. That their grain is tainted not by rebels, but by corruption from within."
"They won't believe it," Farsin stammered.
"They will," Virelle said, her voice soft but absolute. "When the Purifiers preach judgment, and the Black Legates march like death, fear will make them believe any villainy of their masters. Offer gold to starving farmers to spread the tale. Pay their dying breaths to curse the Crown, not Kael."
Lyra nodded slowly. "And the merchants who ferry their supplies?"
"We don't buy their loyalty," Virelle said, a cold smile touching her lips. "We break their confidence. Spread rumors that their wagons are being marked. That Imperial requisitions are defaulting. That loyalist coin is worthless. Let them choose between a full belly and a hanged neck."
She picked up a small, falcon-shaped knife from the table, turning it in her fingers. "The Emperor believes he can crush a belief with steel. He will learn that belief is a hunger. And we will make his legions starve on it."
Duskwatch – Kael's Study
Kael read the latest coded message from Virelle, delivered by a quiet courier who vanished into the night like a shadow. He didn't understand all the nuances of her schemes, but the results were beginning to trickle in. Fewer convoys were arriving. Morale reports from Imperial lines spoke of dwindling rations and growing suspicion.
He walked to the window, staring out at the snow-covered plains to the south.
He trusted her ambition. He trusted her ruthlessness.
But as he heard the faint, rhythmic chanting of Seyda's acolytes from the lower chapel, he knew Virelle's way was fire of a different kind. Cold, clean, and just as deadly. It didn't burn with passion, but with the slow, inevitable creep of rot.
He had promised the Empire a harvest of ash and winter.
Lady Virelle, it seemed, was preparing a feast of doubt.