Baron Braedon of Stoneveil—an outlying stronghold nestled near the western cliffs of Gravenreach—stood in his study, a fur-lined robe clutched loosely around his aging frame as he stared at the sealed letter in his hand. The chamber was dimly lit, the crackling hearth barely enough to ward off the seeping cold. Outside the frost-covered windows, snow swept across the keep in relentless sheets, yet all he could feel was the warmth of tension creeping beneath his skin. The wax seal bore the sigil of House Solmere—a burning sun over a book—and that alone unsettled him more than any winter storm.
The letter had arrived by black-feathered hawk, marked urgent and delivered straight into his steward's hands. House Solmere rarely communicated directly, and when they did, it was never without purpose. Braedon had known the head of the House, Viscount Orren Solmere, during his years on the eastern council. The man was cunning and deliberate, a scholar by title but a player of shadowed politics by practice. And if Orren had reached out now, it meant something delicate had shifted.
He broke the seal and read in silence. His gray brows furrowed with each passing line.
Lord Braedon of Stoneveil,
It has come to our attention that the Baron of Gravenreach has grown... ambitious. His activities of late suggest a shift from mere survival to something more calculated. You are tasked with assessing the threat he poses and, if needed, removing him from the picture entirely. He has grown beyond his station, and that cannot be allowed to continue unchecked.
Your position near Gravenreach makes you the most appropriate tool for this task. Use your own judgment, but act swiftly. Should this matter spiral, others will take notice—and your name may not be the one remembered for handling it.
By Light and Legacy,
Viscount Orren Solmere
Braedon set the letter down slowly, the last line echoing ominously in his mind. "Removing him from the picture." That was no request for investigation. It was a quiet, political order for elimination.
He turned away from the desk, pacing the room. Three days ago, the new baron—Caelan—had ventured into the Blackpine forest. Alone. No escorts, no scouts. Only a note left behind claiming he was pursuing something urgent. Braedon had dismissed it at first. Perhaps the boy was testing his newfound mana affinity or chasing some childish legend. But now, in light of this letter, that absence loomed larger.
This wasn't about magic. It was about control—territory and legacy. And someone within House Solmere had deemed Caelan a threat to both.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts. The heavy oaken door creaked open, and his steward, Aldric, stepped inside with practiced discretion. The younger man bore the look of someone trying to balance urgency with formality.
"My lord," Aldric said, bowing slightly. "Another raven from Velmire arrived this morning. It was marked with the southern courier's glyph."
Braedon arched an eyebrow. "Let me guess. No signature, no seal. Just enough implication."
"Exactly so, my lord. It seems the message is for our eyes only."
Braedon rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "More unseen hands playing this game."
Aldric cleared his throat. "Shall I prepare a reply to Solmere? Or summon Baron Caelan back before this becomes more complicated?"
Braedon's lips pressed into a line. He turned back toward the snow-caked window, his reflection a pale ghost in the glass.
"No. We don't summon him. Not yet."
"My lord?"
Braedon's voice was steady, but laced with grim resolve. "Let's see what kind of storm the boy thinks he's stirred before we go marching through it. He may be young, but he's not a fool. If he found something worth all this, I want to know what it is. From his own mouth."
He returned to his desk, fingers tightening around the edge. "But begin quiet preparations. Issue orders to the garrison under the pretense of winter drills. Increase patrols near the Gravenreach border. Check the mountain passes—we may need them."
Aldric nodded. "Understood. Shall I notify the regional commanders?"
"Only the loyal ones. Keep this off the main record. And... send a sealed message to Mirelle. Tell her the time has come."
Aldric blinked. "You're certain she's connected to the same source as the letter?"
Braedon gave a thin smile. "The timing's too perfect. She arrived only days before the boy began gaining real traction. If she isn't their agent, I'll eat my own seal. Have her coordinate from inside Gravenreach. Quietly. Subtly. Let's not tip our hand until the strike is clean."
He picked up the letter from Solmere again, reading the closing lines. There was no warmth in them—just veiled threat, the kind that buried reputations.
"Caelan's ascension is inconvenient," Braedon muttered, almost to himself. "That means he's either lucky… or dangerous."
Aldric inclined his head. "What if he returns from the forest soon? Do we wait?"
Braedon's gaze hardened. "If he returns, we weigh what he's become. If he stays gone, we sweep in and take control. Either way, Gravenreach has become something more than a forgotten exile—it's a flicker of unrest. And House Solmere wants that flicker extinguished by our hand."
He dipped his quill in ink and scrawled another note—this one destined for a captain loyal to his banner. A few short lines, curt and brutal.
"Tell them to begin assembling men under nightfall. No fanfare. Riders only. They'll move when I say."
Aldric accepted the note with a bow, his boots thudding softly as he departed.
Braedon stood in silence, the wind howling outside like some hungry beast pacing the walls.
Beyond the cliffs, Gravenreach lay buried in snow and silence—unaware that eyes had turned toward it with purpose. Its slumber would not last.
Not if House Solmere had its way.
Not if Baron Braedon had his orders.
A few days later, deep within Gravenreach, Mirelle stood in the shadow of the ruined watchtower, the frost glistening on her dark cloak. Around her, a small band of trappers, hunters, and woodcutters—all loyal or angry enough to be swayed—gathered in silence.
Smoke billowed in the distance. Caelan's manor—his seat of power—was aflame. The blaze had been deliberate. A signal and a statement.
She turned to the grim-faced man beside her, his cloak heavy with frost and the red band on his arm identifying him as Captain Varrek of Stoneveil, the right hand of Baron Braedon himself. Their gazes locked for a moment, sharing the weight of what was to come.
"We strike when he returns," Mirelle said coldly, her voice cutting through the wind. "Together. He may have grown in strength… but he cannot stand against all of us. Not alone."
The captain nodded. "By Braedon's orders, this ends tonight."
They waited. Beneath snow-laden trees and smoke-stained skies, the trap had been set.
And Gravenreach was about to bleed.