Rowan attempted defiance.
He called a feast, hoping to rally loyal lords and generals.
Silverware polished. Candles lit. Music playing softly.
A display of power he no longer fully commanded.
Aren knew immediately.
A trap in plain sight.
Not for him—but for the lords who still wavered.
Lysa whispered from the shadows.
"Should we intervene?"
Aren shook his head.
"No. Let fear do its work. Let their own ambition be their undoing."
Guests arrived cautiously.
Eyes flicking to corners, expecting shadows.
Some whispers: Is Valewood watching?
Rowan raised his glass.
"To loyalty! To Greyhaven!"
Some lords cheered. Some forced smiles.
The wine arrived.
Red. Rich. Smooth.
A gift from the prince's cellars.
By the time the lords drank, the poison had done its work.
A few collapsed silently.
Others staggered, clutching throats, gasping.
Chaos spread.
Rowan realized too late.
Aren had anticipated this.
The lords most likely to resist had been spared.
Those easily swayed, who could shift loyalty with fear, were eliminated.
By nightfall, the city's power structure had changed again.
The lords who survived now whispered his name, terrified and obedient.
Aren did not intervene.
He let the feast—Rowan's attempt at control—become the instrument of fear.
Outside, Lysa and Caelis watched from hidden streets.
"Did you foresee this?" Lysa asked.
Aren's gaze swept the city.
"Fear is the sharpest blade," he said.
"And tonight, the crown begins to feel its edge."