The air was thick with tension in the council chamber. Torchlight flickered in the sconces, leaving dim shadows on the stone walls and dancing down the men's faces around the oak table. Countless meetings in this room, Damien yelling orders, ignoring disagreements, doing whatever he pleased. Now, though, as he stood at the head of the table, he felt the weight of his decisions like a burden.
These men had been his closest advisors, chosen for their loyalty. At least, that was what he once believed.
"Your Grace," Orlen broke the silence. The spymaster set a pile of parchment on the table. "We verified the authenticity of the map. The troop movements and supply caches all align, and Reynard's strongholds are exactly as the informant stated."
The room murmured.
"And Reynard himself?" Damien asked, his voice steady but sharp.
Orlen shook his head. "No sign of him yet, but his forces are mobilizing. He'll probably withdraw to one of his western territories fortresses soon. Once he digs himself in, it will be very hard to drive him out."
Damien nodded, taking it all in. The council members, all lords, generals, and ministers, watched him intently. Concern gave way to suspicion on many faces.
"My lords," he said, looking around the room. "We are at the threshold of rebellion. Lord Reynard has turned against the crown and, if we allow him to collect his army without check, will bring this kingdom into the depths of chaos."
"Reynard has always had ambition," growled a stout noble with a graying beard, Lord Duvall. "But treason--
"—is not an accusation," Damien cut through the room, his voice sharp. He stabbed a finger at the map spread before them. "This is evidence. He's been stockpiling weapons, recruiting mercenaries, and fortifying his lands. Do you really think he's preparing for a friendly visit?"
Duvall drew back in his chair, but another voice rose.
"Your Grace," said General Aldric, scarred from many battles, but certainly no turncoat. His allegiance toward Damien was unspoken. "If Reynard is as dangerous as you say, then we must act swiftly. A preemptive strike may well break his rebellion before it even starts."
He wondered what the general had said. In his old life, he would have nodded head, assented blindly. Raw brawn would smash dissension to nothing. He knew better now.
"No," said Damien. "If we do it now, we risk to play into Reynard's hands to any lords who might still be wavering. He'll make me out as some kind of tyrant—opposition repressed with blood and steel."
He said no more. He just sat in silence. It was a subtle art: decisive action yet not to turn possible allies into enemies.
"What do you propose, Your Grace?" Orlen asked.
Damien's eyes strode around the room. "We gather intelligence about Reynard's intentions. We find out who his friends are and steal those friendships away from him. We starve him of resources. We isolate him. Then, at the right moment, we attack-but only when we are sure we have the advantage."
---
After the meeting adjourned, Damien returned to his study, exhaustion creeping in. He poured himself a glass of wine and stared out the window, watching the moonlight dance over the courtyard below.
"Careful, Your Grace," came a familiar voice. "You're starting to sound like a real leader."
Damien didn't flinch. He had sensed Amara's presence even before she spoke.
"You're awfully good at sneaking into my chambers," he said without turning around.
"Practice makes perfect," Amara returned, stepping forward into the light. She wore the same dark cloak as before, though her manner was far more casual this time.
"What do you want?" Damien asked, his voice a deep drawl, and he sounded tired.
Amara smiled. "I wanted to know how your little meeting went. Did your lords fall to their knees and swear undying loyalty?"
Damien chuckled dryly. "Not quite. But they are starting to see the truth."
"Very impressive," she said, leaning against the desk. "Most nobles are too busy scheming to notice the knife at their own throats."
"And you?" Damien asked, turning to face her. "What's your angle in all of this?"
Amara's smirk faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "Let's just say I've been where Reynard's pawns are now. Used, discarded, left to fend for myself. I'm not about to let him do the same to others."
Her words carried a weight that Damien didn't miss. There was more to Amara's story than she was letting on, but he decided not to press her—yet.
Then we have a common cause, Damien said. Reynard's fall.
Amara nodded, her blue eyes sparkling. And what is your play next, Your Grace? Surely you're not going to sit around idly waiting for Reynard to strike.
"No," said Damien, setting his glass aside. "I write to the west. If Reynard's followers are as cynical as he is, they will desert him at the first whiff of vulnerability. We'll make his own rabble betray him."
"And how do you propose to do that?"
Damien smiled to himself. "With a little encouragement."
---
Two days passed, and Damien's game began. A letter choreographed and signed with his stamp was sent to each of the lords in Reynard's territory. It made an offer: swear fealty to the crown and renounce Reynard, or face full fury of the royal army.
"Do you think it will work?" Orlen asked as they stood watching the messengers ride off.
"It will seed uncertainty," Damien said. "And uncertainty is all that we need. Reynard's power is in his ability to bring people under him for his rebellion. If we sever that bond, his rebellion will collapse before it starts."
The spymaster nodded; his face still was a mask of reserve.
Days passed, and reports trickled in. Some of the lords, fearing reprisal, came forward publicly against Reynard, apologized for their allegiance to him, and renewed their oath of fealty to the crown. The others said nothing, allegiances unclear.
But one name was firmly known: Baron Aedric, a small-time nobleman who had been one of Reynard's most vocal supporters. According to Orlen's spy reports, the baron had pulled his men from the army of Reynard, secured his own estate, and refused further orders.
"He is playing it safe," Amara said when Damien shared the news. "Smart move. He does not want to throw the lot away if Reynard loses."
"Then we must ensure Reynard feels that, too," Damien said. "The more he runs from Aedric the farther his supporters will drift apart."
Amara frowned. "You're a very dangerous man, Your Grace."
"Victory requires risk," Damien said blandly.
---
Reynard's forces were now imploding, with reports of various pitched battles among his commanders reaching Damien's ears, and meanwhile, his spies secured confirmation that Reynard was growing more paranoid by the day.
This, exactly, was the hope Damien had craved for.
While Damien thus conspired to annihilate the resistance, a new obstinacy drew closer home.
One evening, while he reviewed his reports in a study, Mathias entered, wearing a solemn expression.
"Your Grace," said the steward, bowing, "it seems there has been an unruly incident."
Frowning, Damien asked, "What sort of incident?"
Hesitating slightly, Mathias spoke: "One of the southern border villages reported, upon arriving at the manor, that... They claimed to have been attacked by soldiers-men flying Lord Reynard's banner."
Damien's face tensed. "Get them to me."
Moments later, a small group of ragged villagers was ushered into the hall. Their faces were pale, and their clothes were torn and bloodied.
"Your Grace," spoke an elderly man with a shimmy, "who addressed to us was very much against us being attacked - our homes burned, our livestock slaughtered - they said that it was a warning."
"A warning?" Damien's voice was more frigid.
"To show what happens to those who remain loyal to the crown," replied the man.
This was not a rebellious act, but a campaign of terrorization to engender fear and chaos.
"We'll take care of this. This deserves an urgent answer from us." As he dismissed the villagers, Damien turned and said to Mathias, "Summon General Aldric. If Reynard wants to fight dirty, we'll show him just how dangerous a cornered wolf can be."