Valden sat in the dimly lit war room of Greythorn Keep, his long fingers tracing the edge of the map spread across the table. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows over the battlefield he had so carefully constructed.
The news of Alaric's seizure of the capital had reached him that morning, carried by a breathless messenger who now lay dead in the courtyard. Valden despised loose tongues.
He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The capital. Let the fool revel in his hollow victory.
"The capital is meaningless without the support of the territories," Valden said aloud, his voice low and sharp. "Let him sit on that throne and bask in his triumph. All he's done is place himself at the center of a crumbling empire."
The generals around the table remained silent, their eyes fixed on the map. Valden's cold, calculating presence filled the room, suffocating any dissent before it could take root.
One of the generals, a grizzled man named Toran, cleared his throat. "Aelden Hold fell as planned. The forces we left behind made sure to send a message before retreating."
Valden nodded, his gaze still on the map. "And Alaric took the bait?"
"He's already on the move," Toran confirmed. "Our scouts report he left the capital with most of his forces. He'll find nothing but ashes when he gets to Aelden."
"Good," Valden said, his voice as smooth as silk. "The longer he chases shadows, the weaker his position becomes. By the time he realizes the truth, it will be too late."
One of the younger commanders, a nervous man named Loryn, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "And if he doesn't fall into our trap at Aelden? If he sees through it and doubles back to the capital?"
Valden finally looked up, his piercing gaze silencing the room. "Then we adapt. But Alaric is predictable. He's ruled by his need to reclaim what he's lost. He thinks like a soldier, not a king."
He stood, his tall frame casting a long shadow over the map. "And that is why he will lose."
As the meeting dispersed, Valden retreated to his private chambers. The air inside was cold, the heavy stone walls absorbing the chill of the winter winds outside. He poured himself a glass of wine, the deep red liquid glinting in the firelight.
He didn't drink it. Instead, he stared into the glass, his mind turning over the events that had led him here.
Alaric had been a thorn in his side for too long. A ghost from the past, risen from the ashes to challenge his claim to the kingdom. But Valden hadn't risen to power by being sentimental.
The rebellion wasn't just a threat to his rule—it was a distraction. One he could no longer afford.
A soft knock at the door pulled Valden from his thoughts.
"Enter," he commanded.
A woman stepped into the room, her dark cloak trailing behind her. Her face was half-hidden by the hood, but her sharp eyes gleamed in the firelight.
"Lady Seris," Valden said, his tone devoid of surprise. "I trust your mission was a success."
Seris pulled back her hood, revealing a cascade of raven-black hair. Her lips curved into a sly smile. "Alaric moves as you predicted. He took the capital, and now he chases you to Aelden. His forces are stretched thin, his trust in his commanders fragile."
Valden nodded, his mind already racing ahead. "And his allies? Any sign of discord?"
Seris's smile widened. "More than a sign. His generals question his decisions, his soldiers whisper doubts. It won't be long before cracks start to show."
"Good," Valden said, setting the untouched glass of wine on the table. "Keep sowing those seeds. The more divided he becomes, the easier it will be to crush him."
Seris hesitated, her sharp demeanor softening for a moment. "And what of the people, my lord? They're caught between two wars. Their loyalty is uncertain."
Valden's expression hardened. "The people will follow whoever sits on the throne. They always do."
"And if they don't?" Seris asked.
"Then they'll burn with the rest of this rebellion," Valden said coldly.
As Seris left, Valden returned to the map, his eyes scanning the territories he still controlled. His hold on the kingdom wasn't as secure as he made it seem, but that didn't matter. Wars weren't won by strength alone—they were won by strategy.
He picked up a small figurine from the map, a black knight that represented Alaric's forces. He turned it over in his hand, a thoughtful expression on his face.
"Come, Alaric," he murmured. "Let's see how far your conviction takes you."
He set the knight down on the map, directly in the path of a small cluster of red figurines—his hidden forces waiting near the western territories.
It was a gamble, of course. But Valden thrived on gambles.
And this one, he was certain, would pay off.