Winter deepened.
The northern forests were silent under snow, but danger waited in every shadow.
Aren's scouts reported movements—Draven sympathizers still lingered.
Small groups. Hidden in villages. Watching. Waiting.
"Fear alone will not sway them," Lysa said as they rode through frozen paths.
"No," Aren agreed. "But deception will. And fear can guide it."
They divided their forces.
Small units moved to secure villages quietly.
Others spread rumors:
Valewood watches. The Wolf takes what belongs to him. Resist, and you vanish.
The first ambush was staged carefully.
A small band of loyalists attacked one of Aren's supply lines.
They found the wagons empty.
The horses gone.
The soldiers vanished.
Only a single message remained:
The Wolf does not forget.
By night, villages began to yield.
Their leaders surrendered quietly.
The people whispered.
Fear, carefully applied, worked faster than swords.
Tom, now adept at reconnaissance, reported to Aren:
"They do not know it yet. But they fear us more than they fear winter or war."
Aren nodded.
"Good. Fear is a blade. Deception sharpens it. And patience guides it."
From a high ridge, Aren looked across the snow-laden forests.
The northern campaign was no longer about conquest.
It was about control.
Whispered obedience. Silent dominance.
And the Wolf among kings would see the north bend before the first battle was ever fought.