The Supreme World Conqueror

Chapter 46: A Grasp of Thorns

The news of Lord Darion's death reached Prince Strelm with the speed of a poisoned arrow. In the privacy of his chambers, he crumpled the report in his fist, his rage a silent, venomous thing that turned his knuckles white. He knew it was no heart attack. The meticulous lack of evidence, the chilling subtlety of the act—it bore the unmistakable mark of Don Adraels. He had sent an eye; Don had sent a blade in return. Strelm's plans had been outmaneuvered, and the humiliation was a fresh, festering wound.

Strelm's response was not a roar, but a surgical strike of his own. He would not give Don the open war he seemed to crave. Instead, he would use Darion's death as a pretext to launch a new, more aggressive campaign of political intrigue against the Archduke. He held a series of private, urgent meetings with envoys from House Solara, House Casparian, and House Arcanix, painting a chilling portrait of the Archduke.

"This man murders diplomats under the guise of an alliance," Strelm's voice was a low, convincing murmur, dripping with feigned sorrow. "He claims to rule a unified south through peace, yet his hands are stained with the blood of a royal emissary. He wields a power that corrupts the minds of men and shatters their souls. This is not a leader; it is a monster who must be contained before his Black Flame consumes us all."

His words were potent, fueled by a genuine fear that resonated with the Dukes. Duke Borin Dragunov, a pragmatic traditionalist, listened with a heavy, skeptical gaze, but his suspicion of Don's new magic was a clear vulnerability Strelm exploited. Duke Valerion, ever cautious, found his defenses of Don weakened by the sheer audacity of the assassination. The other dukes, already wary of Don's rapid ascent, began to see him not as a pragmatic leader, but as a dangerous, unpredictable tyrant. The kingdom was now a chessboard, and Strelm was moving his pieces with cold precision.

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Meanwhile, in the grand courtyard of Emberstone, the air hummed with the sound of hammers and the shouts of builders. Don walked among them with Caria, his dark robes a stark contrast to the dust and sweat of construction. He was a conqueror who had traded his sword for a measuring rod, his Black Flame now focused on the foundational work of his domain. He inspected the rising walls of the Grand Magisterium, nodded at the expanded training barracks for the War Academy, and listened with approval to his father, Lord Regent Dunnel, report on the restoration of supply lines.

"The populace is wary, my son," Dunnel admitted, his voice a low rumble. "But they see the work. They see that our peace is a peace of prosperity, not just of silence. Your commands are being met."

A scout from Leinara's network arrived, a silent figure who melted from the shadows to deliver a coded report. Don's face remained a mask of calm as he read it. He handed it to Caria with a subtle glance.

"Strelm is moving," Caria said, her emerald eyes scanning the message. "He uses Darion's death as a pretext to sow distrust among the Dukes. He calls you a tyrant and a heretic. The war may not have been declared, but the seeds of rebellion are being watered."

Don merely smiled, a cold, predatory curve of his lips. "Let him plant his seeds. He does not understand the soil. The land here has been forged in fire. It will not yield to whispers."

He turned back to the builders. His power was not just in conquering, but in building. He would give the south a foundation so strong it would be immune to the intrigues of a dying Crown. He had no need to shout his defiance when the walls of his new capital spoke for themselves.

But Strelm, sensing that his whispers might not be enough, moved to a more direct form of provocation.

One day, a royal herald arrived at Emberstone's gates. He was not a spy, but a messenger carrying a formal royal decree from King Medveick himself. The King, under pressure from Strelm and his fearful council, had issued a direct command: the southern houses of Helimdor were to send a tithe of their armies north to the capital, to serve as a "protective force" for the Crown. It was a thinly veiled demand designed to test Don's authority, to see if he would obey or openly rebel. It was a humiliating tax on his strength, a clear message that the Crown still saw him as a vassal, not a sovereign Archduke.

The Archduke's court was silent as the decree was read. Don held the parchment in his hands, his eyes burning with a dark, unyielding light. The Crown was not ready for a war of legions, but it was testing his resolve. It was forcing his hand. He could comply and lose the respect of his new allies, or he could refuse and provide Strelm with the pretext he so desperately needed.

He convened his new command. Earl Dunnel voiced the cautious option: "A refusal would be open rebellion, my son." Medrin clenched his jaw, spoiling for a fight. Earl Varant and Earl Valerius looked to Don, their new allegiances hanging in the balance.

Don looked at his wives, their faces a tableau of formidable power. He saw Caria's strategic fire, Callara's unyielding steel, and Marell's serene clarity. He saw a solution in their combined strengths.

He smiled, a chilling promise in his eyes. He would not send a tithe of his army. He would send a message. A much more powerful one.