The blood hadn't dried on Greystone's cobbles when the next war began.
Not one of swords, but of words. Of decrees. Of whispers in halls. The kind of war where victories were subtle, and every wrong move made corpses with cleaner hands.
Conquest was easy. Control was not.
---
We quartered our wounded in the old chapel, now half-burned from the siege. Priests muttered prayers under their breath as we laid out the fallen in rows, covering them with whatever linen we could scavenge. The stench of ash and rot hung thick.
Outside, the people of Greystone watched in silence.
Fear. Distrust. Hatred. It radiated off them like heat from an open forge.
"Not a soul has spoken since we arrived," Arden muttered beside me. "Not to beg. Not to curse. Just silence."
"They're waiting," I replied.
"For what?"
"For me to prove if I'm their new ruler… or their next tyrant."
---
Greystone's noble houses had scattered like roaches.
Some fled before the battle ended—horses loaded with jewels, servants, and forged papers. Others were dragged from cellars and hidden chambers, their titles stitched in fine embroidery even as they begged for mercy.
Thirty-one minor lords and barons.
Of those, only six bent the knee immediately.
The rest were dragged to the keep, wrists in chains, eyes full of the same arrogant entitlement that had once cost my family its throne.
Caldus stood beside me in the hall as I faced them.
"What shall we do with them?" he asked.
"Hold a trial," I said.
Arden spat. "They won't confess to treason."
"They don't need to," I replied. "They only need to speak. Their tongues will betray them faster than their swords ever did."
---
The trial lasted three days.
Public. Brutal. Necessary.
Some denied everything, clinging to old alliances, claiming they served the county's laws.
Others pleaded ignorance, saying they were forced to serve Heffen.
One, a Baron Malric, cursed my name and spat at my feet before I ordered his tongue cut out.
By the end, I sentenced eleven to death.
Ten more were exiled and stripped of titles.
The rest… bent the knee under duress.
Their loyalty was thin. Brittle. Like ice under sunlight.
But it would hold—for now.
---
"Won't be enough," Kaelen said bluntly that evening, sharpening her sword by firelight.
"What won't?" I asked.
"Fear. You've got them afraid. But that won't keep them loyal. Not forever."
I nodded. "Then we show them what power looks like when it rebuilds, not just destroys."
---
Greystone needed more than a lord.
It needed order.
We repaired roads with conscripted labor from the surviving militia. I placed trusted men in key positions—local garrisons, tax collection, granaries.
We restored water to the lower quarter by fixing the collapsed aqueduct.
We reopened the market square under watch of my personal guard.
We hung looters from iron hooks at the gate.
Arden handled black-market cleanup. Kaelen drilled the new garrison. Caldus kept the clergy quiet with a combination of bribes and fire-and-brimstone sermons.
Within two weeks, the whispers changed.
From fear… to grudging respect.
---
One morning, I visited the forge district alone.
No guards. No cloak. Just a plain tunic and a purse of coin.
The blacksmiths stared as I entered their soot-stained domain. One reached for a hammer.
"I'm not here to punish," I said. "I'm here to place an order."
They blinked.
"For what?"
"Armor," I said, tossing down silver. "Not for me. For the town watch. And swords for farmers who might defend this land, not just die on it."
The head smith, a giant of a man named Borren, narrowed his eyes. "You take Greystone by blood… and think coin will buy it back?"
I met his gaze.
"No," I said. "But fair work might."
---
By the month's end, the people began to speak again.
Not warmly.
But clearly.
A woman at the bakery handed a loaf to one of my soldiers without spitting on it first.
A boy gave directions to the garrison quarter.
A priest offered a blessing over a town hall meeting I organized.
It was small.
But it was change.
---
Then came the riots.
It began with the hanging of a known smuggler—public, loud, and meant to set an example.
Instead, it lit a fire.
Dozens of his kin—peasants and traders alike—stormed the outer garrison with torches and pitchforks.
The fighting was ugly. Untrained. Frenzied.
One of my men, a lad named Orien, was burned alive in his post.
I arrived after they scattered, the flames still hissing in the rain.
"Kill them all," Kaelen hissed, her sword bloodied. "Burn their homes."
"No," I said.
She glared. "They drew steel on your soldiers."
"And killing them all makes me what? Heffen?"
She didn't answer.
---
I ordered the ringleaders found.
Three days later, Arden dragged in seven of them—bloody, bruised, terrified.
We executed four.
Publicly.
I pardoned the rest.
And made them rebuild the garrison under guard.
Justice. With a knife and a handshake.
That was the balance I would strike.
---
Word began to spread beyond Greystone.
A count had fallen.
A usurper ruled.
But the roads ran clean.
The markets opened.
The dead were buried.
And perhaps… just perhaps… the land was healing.
---
Late one night, I stood atop the keep's battlements, staring north.
The wind was colder now.
Sharper.
Arden approached from the stairs, sipping wine from a flask.
"Word from the Duke came today."
I turned. "He speaks?"
"Not directly. Just… watchers. Spies, most likely. But no declaration. No demands."
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because silence means he doesn't know how to stop me yet."
Arden chuckled. "You're building something dangerous, Vihan."
"I'm rebuilding what was stolen."
"You sure the old you would've done this?"
I didn't answer.
Because I wasn't sure anymore.
---
Before I left Greystone, I named a steward—Lady Olyne, one of the few noblewomen who hadn't resisted and showed actual competence.
She'd governed a manor in the southern hills with a fair hand and a clever mind.
"You trust her?" Caldus asked as we packed for Wyvrland.
"No," I said. "But I trust that she knows the alternative is hanging."
---
As I rode out through the gates of Greystone, banners of my sigil—the silver wyvern on black—hung above the watch towers.
The people bowed their heads.
Some, I think, even bowed willingly.
Three counties.
Three more to go.
And the fire inside me… it didn't flicker anymore.
It burned.