When Wolves March

The old Viscount's hall had changed.

Gone were the Varkaan banners, the tapestries of falcons and white towers. In their place, the black wolf of Harkoraal now hung behind the Arl's chair still stitched by hand, rough around the edges, but unmistakable. The table at the room's center had been cleared of Imperial ledgers and replaced with Harkoraal maps, reports, and a single iron dagger stabbed into the heart of the province.

Senjar sat at the head.

Kaelric stood beside him, arms folded, listening. Mara leaned over the table with an open ledger. Rell was not present he had taken patrol west to oversee town perimeter walls and assess the discipline of the occupying force.

Then Garrin entered.

He wore a plain green gray cloak and had shaved his beard since the last meeting, a man who knew how to vanish between faces. He bowed in respect. Then looked to Senjar and said, "It's time."

Senjar nodded.

"Speak."

Garrin stepped forward and unrolled a series of thin parchment maps. His voice was steady, low, sharp.

"The web's laid, Arl. Every major village, castle, town and cities in Iskorith have contact. Safehouses in Tavrin, Doresh, and near the eastern mines. Couriers on foot. Messages by flame and whistle from rooftops. Cost coin, but it's working."

Senjar leaned in.

"What do you see?"

Garrin pointed to red markings on the map, a spread of small rings and black crosses.

"Baron Renualt is moving. Not fast, but he is careful. He's raised nearly five thousand men, but they're not marshaled in one place. He spreads them thin along the western spine. He fears the capital more than you, for now."

"And the capital?" Mara asked.

Garrin gave her a glance.

"Don't know about the Capital yet. But there is no move worth reporting."

"It means they are not taking us seriously. Good, it's beneficial for our situation."

"But the Governor knows the Viscount is dead. Reports are that The Baron is going to receive aid."

Senjar's brow furrowed. "How many men?"

"Soon, we will have information about this." Garrin said. 

Kaelric growled softly. "What are they planning?"

"There is a castle to west from here that holds a key position. Currently, General Varrik with his two thousand men is not far from there. Guess is, Baron will try to take advantage of that fort against us." Garrin replied. 

"Continue." Senjar ordered.

He pulled another slip of parchment from his sleeve.

"And this. This came from a bribe to a smuggler out of Doresh."

Senjar unfolded it. The parchment was stiff and smudged. A wax seal had once marked the corner but was scraped away.

A list.

Five names nobles, commanders, and merchants in Iskorith who had, according to Garrin's source, sent word to the Empire requesting "intervention" and funding for resistance."

Senjar read each name aloud. The fire behind him cracked with each one.

When he was done, he laid the parchment flat.

"They want the Empire's help," he said quietly. "Good. That means they don't have strength of their own."

Garrin nodded. "And this last piece..." He reached into a satchel and removed a rolled bundle of cloth. Unwrapped it. A white armband, stitched with a single black line.

"They're calling themselves the True Sons of Iskorith," Garrin said. "A resistance. Small. Secretive. Only a few dozen now. But they're armed."

"Loyal to the Empire?" Mara asked.

"Loyal to anyone who isn't us," Garrin replied. "They've been hiding in outer farmsteads. Striking messengers. Poisoned a well near the old watchpost two days ago."

Senjar tapped the armband once. "You said you had safehouses?"

Garrin smiled faintly. "I said I had contact."

"Then feed them false messages," Senjar said. "Lead them to believe one of their own betrayed them. Drive fear into their blood."

Mara added, "We can issue bounties. Quietly. Reward silence."

Senjar nodded slowly, eyes on the map.

"We hold this town. And now we see the shape of the next storm."

He looked up at Garrin.

"Keep watching."

Garrin gave the faintest smile.

"I never blink, Arl."

"Good.''

The throne room had grown quiet in the hours after Garrin left.

Senjar remained for a while, staring at the list of names traitors in ink and then at the black wolf banner behind his chair. The fire had burned low when Mara finally returned with three scrolls tucked under one arm and a sharp expression carved into her face.

She laid them out across the long oak table.

"I've written the first six decrees," she said plainly.

Senjar stood and crossed the floor. "Let's hear them."

Mara unrolled the top scroll and began reading without embellishment. Her voice was clipped, but each word was selected like a soldier before battle.

"One: Tathar's Cross is under the protection of Harkoraal. It is now a city-state within our banner and law. Imperial edicts no longer apply."

Senjar gave a short nod.

"Two: All guildmasters, shopkeepers, and traders must register their businesses within five days. New trade seals will be issued. Tax is fixed at ten silver per wagonload, or equal tribute in grain or service."

"Reasonable," Senjar said. "Lower than the Empire."

"Intentionally," Mara replied. "Let them see us not only as stronger but fairer."

She read on.

"Three: No soldier of Harkoraal may take goods, coin, or people by force from the townsfolk. Anyone caught looting or harming civilians will be flogged. Second offense is death."

Kaelric, who had returned during the reading, grunted in approval. "Harsh. But necessary."

"Four: A city guard will be formed fifty men drawn from the locals, fifty from Harkoraal. Joint patrols, same pay. They swear loyalty to the Arl, not the Empire."

Rell had slipped in behind her by now and raised a brow. "They'll grumble."

"They'll also eat," Mara replied.

She tapped the next scroll.

"Five: All land records and noble titles issued under the Empire are revoked. The town's land is now property of the people but held in trust by the Arl. No one may sell or gift land without Harkoraal approval."

Senjar exhaled. "That will draw enemies."

"It will win farmers," Mara said.

"And the sixth?" Kaelric asked.

Mara unrolled the last scroll shorter than the others.

"Six: The Church of the Pale Flame may remain open, but they must declare public loyalty to Harkoraal within one week. If not, they close their doors and surrender their records."

Senjar was silent a moment.

"They'll hate that."

"They already do," Mara said. "But their hate won't bring them bread. Ours might."

She looked at him now, steady and close.

"This isn't just about banners, Senjar. You must become something more than a warlord. You need to be seen as kingly even if you never wear a crown."

Senjar stepped back from the scrolls.

"I'll sign all of them."

Mara handed him the quill.

He dipped it in ink, signed his name beneath each decree in thick strokes and put the Harkoraal seal on it, then turned and handed the parchment to Kaelric.

"Post them by dusk," he said.

"To every gate and square. Let them read our law."

Kaelric took them without a word and left.

Senjar turned toward Mara. "And if they resist?"

"They won't," she said. "Not yet."

A knock came at the chamber door.

It was a city elder the same baker who'd spoken on the day the gates fell.

"My Arl," he said, bowing low. "The people ask if we may ring the bell tomorrow at dawn. Not for warning. But for peace."

Senjar paused, then nodded.

"Let it ring."

The bell rang at dawn.

It echoed not as a summons or alarm, but as a strange kind of confession a sound not heard in the city since the Viscount's fall. From rooftops to river docks, the people of Tathar's Cross paused.

Some looked skyward. Others knelt quietly at their windows.

The black wolf banner fluttered high above the hall. A different sound followed the bell: boots in even rhythm, the scrape of spears against the flagstones. Joint patrols now walked the walls half men of Harkoraal, half the city's own.

No riots. No burnings.

It was just a morning.

Inside the repurposed Viscount's keep, Senjar stood at the high window, watching it all. The iron wolf carving above the entry had been polished to gleam in the sun. Behind him, Mara sat with two scribes, approving the stamping of trade permits scrolls signed with the wolf seal.

"It's quiet," Senjar said.

"It's not peace yet," Mara answered. "But it's order."

Kaelric entered a moment later, cloak damp with morning dew. "The decrees are posted. No backlash not openly. The guilds sent grain to the quartermaster. The baker's guild brought cakes. I think they want to live."

Senjar gave a short nod. "Let them."

He turned to the long war table, where new maps had been laid. Routes west. Small castle sigils sketched in charcoal. Garrin had already marked three with fresh ink stains forts whose captains were weak, corruptible, or greedy.

He tapped one.

"Valmere's Watch," Senjar said. "Stonebuilt. Garrison of barely five hundred. Garrin says their commander was denied promotion three times by the Baron. Bitter men are cheap to buy."

Mara leaned over the map. "You plan to make him switch sides?"

"Not yet," Senjar said. "First I want him to hesitate. Delay orders. Refuse reinforcements."

Kaelric folded his arms. "And the rest of the Baron's network?"

"We squeeze it," Senjar said. "Not break it not yet. Not till it's soft in the middle."

Just then, Garrin stepped into the room.

He was quiet, composed, but his eyes carried something sharp.

"My Arl," he said, voice low. "The True Sons are stirring."

Senjar turned. "Explain."

"We fed them a false message. Claimed one of their own a scribe named Halven was captured and confessed. We even forged a note in his hand. They found it. Now half of them think the other half is compromised."

Mara raised a brow. "And what are they doing?"

"Hiding," Garrin said. "But not well. Two of my people saw three members fleeing a safehouse last night with weapons in the open."

"Where are they now?"

"Buried," Garrin replied simply. "But the others are moving again. They'll try to strike soon. Probably something symbolic. Loud."

"Let them," Senjar said. "And when they do we answer in silence."

He looked back at the map.

"Garrin, prepare a second report. I want a list of all minor lords along the southern roads. Who they are, what they owe the Baron, and what they hate him for."

"They'll hate you more when the Empire comes."

"Not if they believe the Empire won't come," Senjar said. "And right now, they don't believe anything."

Mara added quietly, "Which makes it the perfect time to plant ideas."

Kaelric looked between them. "You mean take the next step."

Senjar's gaze didn't leave the map.

"I mean build a kingdom."