Greyhaven awoke to a city reshaped.
No drums. No banners. No armies marching.
Only obedience.
Rowan's authority had crumbled quietly, without a single open battle.
The poisoned feast had done its work.
Whispers spread through halls and alleys.
"Valewood controls the city."
"Better to follow than resist."
Aren convened the Shadow Army in the cathedral.
Maps, lists, and reports littered the stone floor.
"Control is absolute," he said. "But we cannot be complacent. Fear can fade. Loyalty must be enforced."
Lysa added, "The palace is surrounded, yet we have no banners. No need. The prince fears even a glance from our men."
"Good," Aren replied. "Let fear rule before steel touches walls. Let obedience spread before blades are drawn."
Edric reported quietly.
"Several minor lords pledge loyalty openly now. The city whispers. Even the guards hesitate to act without your command."
Aren smiled faintly.
"Greyhaven is ours, not by siege, not by sword—but by shadow. By mind. By fear."
Rowan, confined and humiliated, realized the truth.
He had lost his throne without realizing the battle had already been fought.
Every ally he trusted was now a spy, a servant, or a ghost of Aren's making.
Aren moved through the streets silently that night.
Every corner. Every shadow. Every whisper cataloged.
Greyhaven slept uneasily.
And for the first time, the exiled baron's son understood the true extent of power:
It was the invisible hand.
The silent coup.
And it belonged entirely to him.