The stone halls of Hollowfort whispered with wind. Not the gentle breeze of spring but the cold, sharp kind that scraped at banners and left old men clutching their cloaks tighter. Duke Ravien Malkorr stood in silence atop the battlements of his keep, his black cloak billowing behind him.He watched the grey horizon, where Greystone lay beyond the woodlands, and Oakshade to the south now smoldered with unrest.
"They're digging in, my lord," came a voice behind him.
Ravien did not turn. "Oakshade?"
"Aye. Scouts say the boy's men march like they mean to stay. Pikes posted at the old watch road, smoke rising from the ruined mill. They've begun repairs."
The Duke finally turned to face his captain—Sir Tharon Vel, grizzled, scarred, and loyal as any warhound. "How many?"
"Four hundred at most. Maybe five. His Iron Fangs and those damned Ashen Veil scouts mostly. They slit throats in the night. We've lost five riders near the Valefork ridge—didn't even hear them coming."
"Lyra's work," Ravien muttered, jaw tightening.
Sir Tharon nodded. "Spymaster's worth her weight in poison, that one."
Ravien moved down the steps, entering the keep's coldstone strategy chamber. Torches sputtered in iron sconces. Around the war table, three of his inner circle waited.
There was High Chaplain Veralt, gaunt and draped in the ceremonial black of the Sanctum, fingers always twitching over his silver rosary. Steward Emric Halwen, nervous and portly, with ink-stained fingers and a voice too soft for his own good. And lastly, Baroness Marla Crowndusk, his most cunning vassal, cloaked in midnight velvet and sharp smiles.
"My liege," Veralt said, bowing his head, "this Vihan is a rot that spreads. Even now, he converts the hearts of the people in Oakshade. He offers bread where we gave steel. He repairs where we burned. The flock wavers."
Ravien ignored the priest. He pointed to the map laid across the table.
"Wyvrland. Branholdt. Greystone. Oakshade—half his already. That's four. I hold two. The scale tips."
"And we cannot rely on the King," said Baroness Marla, drumming black-gloved fingers on the wood. "He remains neutral. The Crown fears setting precedent by favoring one side over another in a ducal inheritance matter."
"That 'boy' claims all the counties by bloodright," Emric added nervously. "Technically, he's not in rebellion. He simply... reclaims what was lost."
Ravien let out a low growl. "Bloodright? His line died with his father. I should have crushed the last of them when they hid like rats in Wyvrland."
"You let the ember smolder, now it burns," said Marla, with a hint of cruel amusement.
Sir Tharon stepped forward. "We still outnumber him. Fifteen hundred men-at-arms. Two thousand levies. Our banners still command fear. But..."
"But he does not fight like a lordling," Ravien finished. "He fights like a wolf. Quick bites. Shadows. He lets the nobles rot from within, then takes what's left."
"Exactly," Tharon said grimly. "Oakshade's garrison crumbled not from battle but from hunger and fear. Someone whispered in the wrong ears, and it all fell."
Ravien rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Lyra again. I want her head on a spike."
"She doesn't show her face," Marla said. "But if we track her movements, intercept her agents... perhaps we can lead a trap. Draw her into a false conspiracy."
Ravien leaned over the map. His finger tapped Greystone. "The next move lies here. If he finishes Oakshade and secures it, his backline becomes impenetrable. He'll push north."
"To Hollowfort?" Emric squeaked.
"No. To Blackmere first," Ravien said. "It borders both his new territory and mine. It's weak, its lord old and senile. If Vihan strikes there, we're boxed."
Silence hung in the chamber.
"Then we make the first move," Tharon said. "A punitive raid. Draw him into the open."
"No," Ravien said, eyes cold as the northern sky. "We provoke nothing... yet."
That made them blink. Even Veralt paused.
Ravien stared at the map. "He's young. Overconfident. Let him take Oakshade. Let him bleed men to do it. And when he marches on Blackmere—or here—I want him to think the path is clear. And then I will break him."
"And if he doesn't?" asked Marla, amused.
"Then we prepare the levy. All of it. We call every minor lord who swore to my banner. We levy the farms, the temples, the brothels if we must. We build war machines. Fortify Hollowfort. He will have to choke on our walls or starve outside them."
"And what of the people?" Emric asked hesitantly. "Already they whisper... about Vihan bringing change. The lower houses whisper of lesser taxes and grain stores opening. They like him."
Ravien turned his glare to the steward. "Then let them like him as their executioner. We will show them what happens to those who bend knee to upstarts."
Sir Tharon chuckled. "Let the boy come. He'll find we still have fangs."
The duke's lip curled into a snarl of a smile.
---
Two weeks have passed and the conquest on Oakshade is still going on.
The shadows in Hollowfort moved with whispers these days.
The great hall of the Iron Bastion—his ancestral keep—was dimly lit, as always. Duke Ravien Malkorr stood alone by the long, grimstone table, his gloved fingers tracing the etched map of his duchy. Four red stones marked counties still under his rule. One had been pushed halfway off the board—Oakshade. Two more were gone entirely, swallowed by that cursed boy: Vihan Wyvrling.
"He's bleeding me dry… one cut at a time," Ravien murmured. His voice was low, but the cold edge behind it could slice steel.
Footsteps echoed in the chamber. Sir Tharon Vel, his captain of arms, entered briskly. One eye swollen from a recent skirmish, he bowed deeply. "Oakshade's local garrison reports skirmishes continue along the outer hamlets. Half the land's already flying the Wyvrling banner. They've entrenched near Highmeadow Hill."
Ravien's lips curled. "They'll want the ford next. Cut that, and the rest falls."
Sir Tharon nodded. "I've already reinforced the river guards with a hundred men-at-arms. The Wyvern's Roar is with them—siege engineers. It won't be long before they test our gates."
The Duke turned, black eyes narrowing. "You think I don't know that?"
"No, my lord," Tharon replied stiffly. "But we cannot defend all fronts now. Branholdt and Greystone fell without bloodshed. Oakshade resists, but barely. And now, Hollowfort's becoming the prize."
The words lingered like rot in the air.
Duke Ravien paced toward the high window of his keep, looking down upon the gloomy cliffs. His mind burned with calculation. That boy—Vihan—was no longer just a nuisance. He had built armies, sewn alliances, and worse, he was popular among the lowborn. The damn fool had even brought the Valecrest girl into the capital.
"Send word to Baroness Marla in Windmere," Ravien said coldly. "Her militia must march by frost's end. Tell her: this war determines if her house survives the decade."
Tharon hesitated. "She won't like being summoned."
"I don't need her to like it. I need her to obey."
Another set of footsteps approached—this time softer, with the rustle of robes. High Chaplain Veralt entered, bearing a scroll sealed with a violet ribbon. "My Duke," he said, voice a serpent's lull. "You asked for word on the peasants' mood."
Ravien arched a brow. "Tell me they still fear my name."
The Chaplain gave a faint smile. "They do. But fear is not loyalty. They speak of the boy as a savior now. Some even call him the Last Wyvern."
The Duke's hand clenched.
"Have their tongues cut out," Ravien said.
"My lord," Veralt murmured, "we tried that in the low valley. Now they whisper instead. And what they whisper spreads faster."
Sir Tharon muttered, "Wyvrling's not just winning counties. He's winning minds."
A tense silence followed. Then came the echo of boots again. This time, Emric Halwen, the Steward, arrived. The usually quiet man looked uncharacteristically pale.
"There's… another matter," Emric said carefully. "The tax shipments from the western villages are two weeks overdue. No sign of the collectors. I fear they've been intercepted."
"By bandits?" Ravien asked.
"No," Emric replied. "By... Vihan's agents, most likely. Or worse—Lyra, his spymaster. She's a ghost in the eastern woods. Locals are vanishing."
Ravien's mouth twitched.
"She's finally come out of her hole," he muttered. "I was beginning to think the little snake was too cautious."
Veralt folded his arms. "This is more than raids. It's incitement. The old bloodlines stir again. If Wyvrling makes it to Hollowfort's gates, I cannot say which houses will truly stand with you."
Ravien turned slowly, his eyes settling on them one by one.
"You think I don't see it?" he said, his voice low and ironbound. "They whisper of change. They kneel when they should rise. But I've kept this duchy whole for two decades. I bled for it. Burned for it."
Sir Tharon shifted. "And we stand with you still."
Ravien stepped back to the table and pointed to Hollowfort. "This is where we end it. He will come. And when he does, I will break his spine and hang his corpse from the gate for every treacherous peasant to see."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Later That Night — The Duke's Study
Ravien sat alone, reading a coded report. The handwriting was Lyra's—clever girl. Vihan's spies were everywhere. The Duke respected her for it, in a venomous kind of way. She played the long game.
He poured a measure of black wine, eyes on the window. Snow drifted gently across Hollowfort's towers.
He needed a message. A blow, not to Vihan's armies, but to his heart. Something personal.
"Kill one of his council," Ravien murmured, eyes glinting.
He rang the bell.
A figure stepped out from the corner—cloaked in deep blue, face veiled.
"Send word to the Crowndusk agent in Greystone," Ravien said. "I want an accident. Something bloody. Subtle… but final."
The figure bowed and vanished.
Meanwhile… in Hollowfort's War Chamber
Sir Tharon sharpened his blade beside the fire. "Do you think we can still win?"
Veralt snorted. "We're not dead yet."
And the Duke, watching the fire dance across his maps, whispered, "I haven't even begun to fight."