Power does not always arrive with banners.
Sometimes it comes in ink, whispers, and men who smile too easily.
The first report reached me three days after the skirmish with Uthric Redmaw. It was delivered not by a soldier, but by a merchant—thin, nervous, eyes always drifting toward shadows. He had come ostensibly to trade salt and cured meat, but fear clung to him like a second cloak.
Elizabeth noticed it immediately.
"He's not here to sell," she said quietly, once we were alone in the solar. "He's here to unburden himself."
She was right.
When pressed gently, the merchant spoke. And once he began, the dam broke.
"Count Varell Ashmont," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "South-east of you. Rich land. Wide rivers. Old ambitions."
I knew the name. Everyone who had ever studied imperial borders did. Ashmont was not powerful by blood alone, but by position—trade routes, grain surpluses, river tolls. Varell Ashmont was a man who never raised his voice and never acted without three layers of deniability.
"He's been asking questions," the merchant continued. "About Frostmarch. About you. About why the seventh prince was sent here instead of allowed to fade quietly."
Elizabeth's fingers stilled on her quill.
"And Baroness Myrene Coldfall?" she asked, already knowing the answer.
The merchant swallowed. "She listens. Funds things. People. Knives in the dark."
That name was newer. Less public. More dangerous.
Baroness Myrene Coldfall ruled a narrow but wealthy stretch of land to the north-west, closer to the old forests. Her territory produced little of value—but she had silver. And silver bought silence, loyalty, and blood.
"She doesn't move openly," the merchant said. "But when someone inconvenient dies… her coffers grow lighter."
I dismissed him with payment and protection orders, then sat in silence once the door closed.
Elizabeth broke it first.
"They see you as an obstacle," she said calmly. "Not a threat. Not yet. But an obstruction."
"To what?" I asked.
"Future leverage," she replied. "Imperial uncertainty. Succession chaos. You were meant to disappear here—quietly, eventually. Instead, you're building roads, stabilizing trade, making allies."
I leaned back, staring at the ceiling beams. "So Ashmont wants my land."
"Yes," she said. "Or at least control of it. Frostmarch borders too many unstable regions. Whoever controls it controls movement—barbarians, orcs, trade, even bandits."
"And Coldfall?" I asked.
Elizabeth's eyes hardened slightly. "She wants you gone. Dead men don't complicate plans."
That night, confirmation arrived.
A second letter. No seal. No signature.
Just a message written in elegant, infuriatingly polite script.
Viscount Flameviel,
Your progress has been… noted. Frostmarch has long been a quiet place. Some of us preferred it that way.
Expansion invites correction. Be cautious which roads you build—and which eyes you attract.
Elizabeth read it once, then fed it to the fire.
"Ashmont," she said. "He always speaks as if he's offering advice."
"And Coldfall?" I asked.
"She won't write," Elizabeth replied. "She'll act."
The weight of it settled in my chest—not fear, but clarity.
This was no longer just about survival against monsters and hunger. This was the beginning of human predation. Lords who smiled while sharpening knives. Neighbors who dreamed of expansion and saw Frostmarch not as land, but as a chess square.
"They won't move openly," I said. "Not yet."
"No," Elizabeth agreed. "They'll test. Sabotage. Encourage bandits. Fund assassins. Whisper to the imperial court that you're unstable. Dangerous. Ambitious."
I smiled faintly.
"Good," I said. "Let them watch."
She studied me. "You're not angry."
"I'm focused," I replied. "Ashmont expands by swallowing weak neighbors. Coldfall kills problems in the dark. Both assume Frostmarch is still weak."
Elizabeth nodded slowly. "Then we make that assumption fatal."
From that day forward, the ledger changed.
Under External Threats, two new names were written in ink darker than the rest.
Count Varell Ashmont — Manipulator. Expansionist.
Baroness Myrene Coldfall — Financier of shadows.
They did not know it yet, but by marking Frostmarch as an obstacle, they had made a mistake.
The land that eats the weak had chosen its master.
And it was no longer empty.