The faint gray light of dawn filtered through the frost-laden window panes, painting the room in muted shades of silver and shadow. The fire had long since dwindled to smoldering embers, leaving only faint warmth to combat the icy breath of winter pressing against the stone walls. Evelyne Ardane sat in the high-backed chair beside Aldric's bed, her crimson gown pooling around her like spilled wine.
The air felt heavy, too still, too oppressive. It clung to her skin, a tangible weight crawling beneath the composed mask she wore for the servants and knights. She smoothed the folds of her gown, her fingers lingering on the embroidered patterns as though the repetitive motion could distract her from the shallow rise and fall of Aldric's chest.
He looked fragile. The proud, unyielding Margrave who once commanded a Knight Order comparable to a duke's, now seemed like nothing more than a pale shadow stretched across silk sheets. Evelyne's silver eyes traced the faint outlines of the dark sigils marring his skin, hidden beneath the loose tunic the priests had dressed him in.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She leaned back in her chair, forcing herself to appear the picture of a worried wife. 'Stay here. Act as the grieving spouse.' The mantra repeated itself, dull and mechanical, in her mind. But the longer she sat in the quiet room, the more she felt her patience fray.
Her gaze dropped to Aldric's face—calm, almost peaceful. Her fingers twitched. 'Despite all your skill and strength, you let a mere curse bring you down. Pathetic.'
She exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the oppressive silence.
A sharp knock at the door broke the stillness. Evelyne's head snapped up, her silver eyes narrowing in a flash of irritation before she quickly composed herself.
Leaning toward the basin on the side table, she dipped her fingers into the cool water. The icy droplets stung as she pressed them beneath her eyes, streaking faint lines down her cheeks. The cold shock focused her thoughts.
'This should be enough to make it look like I cried.'
She adjusted her chair closer to the bed, resting her arms on Aldric's chest and lowering her head. Silver hair tumbled loosely, veiling her face just enough. The dark circles beneath her eyes, carved by a restless night, added the final touch.
"Come in," she murmured softly, her voice trembling with feigned grief.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and the head servant stepped inside. Evelyne did not immediately lift her head, letting the image linger a few moments longer before slowly sitting upright.
"Your Excellency," the servant greeted, bowing deeply. Chancellor Isabella, steward of House Ardane's affairs, was dressed in a formal gown lined with blue trim—a mark of her status. Her lined face betrayed no emotion beyond measured concern.
Evelyne exhaled, wiping the corner of her eye with her sleeve. "Speak."
Isabella's gaze flickered toward Aldric briefly before she straightened. "The situation with the vassals is growing more precarious. Tensions are rising."
"Explain," Evelyne demanded, her tone hardening.
"The northern territories are restless. Without His Excellency's presence, the lords have begun whispering—some out of concern, others out of ambition."
Evelyne's eyes darkened. 'Ambition? Already? Like vultures circling a carcass.'
"And what are they planning?"
Isabella hesitated, her fingers tightening on the documents she carried. "The vassals have split into three factions."
"Three?" Evelyne's voice sharpened as she straightened in her chair.
Isabella nodded. "The first faction consists of those loyal to House Ardane. They are genuinely concerned for His Excellency's well-being and will likely wait patiently for his recovery. They represent tradition and stability, but their numbers are modest."
Evelyne scoffed softly, leaning back. "The sycophants. I expected as much. And the others?"
"The second faction is more troubling," Isabella continued, lowering her voice. "They see this as an opportunity to break away from House Ardane's rule and establish their own territories."
Evelyne's jaw tightened. "And who leads this treachery?"
"Count Alwin."
A sharp exhale escaped Evelyne's lips as her hands clenched against the armrests. "Of course, it's that vulture," she hissed. "That merchant in noble's clothing—does his greed know no bounds?"
The northern region had only two entities of true power. The Margraves of Ardane had ruled the harsh lands since the Empire's founding, their authority woven into its very soil. In contrast, the Alwins had come from the central region only a few decades ago, exiled due to disputes with the Imperial Court. Despite this, they had swiftly amassed wealth and power, leaving the Margrave and Count as the only dominant forces. The rest of the North's nobility consisted of lowly barons and a scattering of viscounts.
Isabella bowed her head slightly. "He has been quietly amassing influence for years, and with His Excellency indisposed…"
'Opportunistic bastards.' Evelyne's nails dug into the velvet fabric.
"And the third group?"
"The neutrals," Isabella said, her tone softening. "They are hesitant to act without knowing the full situation. Most of them will sway to whichever side appears strongest in the days to come."
Evelyne let out a slow breath, forcing herself to relax. 'The neutrals could be manipulated—or at least delayed. But Alwin and his ilk…'
"Continue monitoring the situation," Evelyne ordered, her voice regaining its sharp edge. "Send scouts to observe Count Alwin's movements closely. If he makes even the slightest misstep, I want to know immediately."
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"And keep me informed about the neutrals. Use our allies in the clergy or merchants if necessary, but make sure they don't tip the balance."
Isabella bowed deeply. "It will be done."
Evelyne's gaze drifted back to Aldric's still form as Isabella turned to leave. For all the frustration bubbling beneath her mask, a gnawing unease lingered—a foreign, unwelcome weight pressing against her chest.
'If Aldric doesn't wake up soon, my plans will fall apart.'
"Isabella," Evelyne called, stopping the chancellor mid-step.
"Yes, Your Excellency?"
"If any of the vassals show signs of open rebellion…" Evelyne's silver eyes narrowed, her voice razor-sharp. "Remind them that the wolves of Ardane do not take betrayal lightly."
Isabella bowed once more. "Understood."
As she departed, her thoughts lingered on Evelyne's words. 'The wolves of Ardane…' The name alone was enough to make even the most ambitious lords hesitate.
The wolves were more than soldiers of a secret order formed from orphans—they were weapons, honed in the North's unforgiving cold. Assassins, scouts, and enforcers, they were bound to the Margrave's bloodline through years of ruthless manipulation. Yet without Aldric, their fangs were dulled, their leash loosened.
Isabella's heels echoed against the stone as she descended the corridor, her grip on the documents tightening.
'The wolves are the leash that keeps the North from tearing itself apart,' she thought grimly. 'But not for long.'