Ironpeak was a city of perpetual twilight, its sky permanently choked with a grey-brown haze from the forges. The clang of hammers was its heartbeat, the hiss of steam its breath. Into this grim, industrial world, Ren slipped unnoticed, just another piece of human driftwood seeking work. His cover story was simple and believable: he was a former nomad whose tribe had been wiped out by a sandstorm, now seeking the security of a settlement. He was given a bunk in the lowest-ranked workers' barracks and a grueling job hauling coal to the furnaces. It was miserable, anonymous work, and it was the perfect vantage point.
The knowledge from the Spymaster designation had sharpened Ren's senses. He was no longer just observing the world; he was reading it for signs, for anomalies. He watched the flow of men in the taverns, listened to the cadence of their complaints, noted the subtle shifts in the camp's social hierarchy.
He quickly confirmed that the conspiracy around Ulf was real. There was a small, distinct group of warriors and forge-hands who were fiercely loyal to the second-in-command. They were louder in their complaints about Oakhaven, more boastful of Ironpeak's strength, their talk often laced with a sneering disrespect for Grak's leadership.
Identifying the royal agent, Cassius, took longer. The man was a professional. He kept a low profile, working his labor-haulage job with quiet efficiency, speaking little, observing much. But Ren, armed with my lessons on profiling, spotted the inconsistencies. Cassius's hands, though dirty, lacked the deep, ingrained callouses of a lifelong laborer. His speech, when he did talk, was too precise. And most damningly, Ren observed him one night making a small, almost invisible chalk mark on the back of a tavern wall—a signal.
Ren began to shadow Cassius, a ghost trailing a ghost. He used his ranger skills to move unseen through the crowded, smoky pathways of the settlement. He learned Cassius's routine, his habits. And finally, he got his break.
He followed Cassius late one night to a deserted section of the lower mines. There, hidden behind a slag heap, Cassius met with Ulf. Ren, concealed in the darkness of a mining tunnel just yards away, became privy to the heart of their plot.
"...the shipment of refined steel for the Oakhaven Dragoons' new armor is scheduled to be forged next week," Cassius whispered, his voice a venomous hiss. "Grak himself will oversee the smelting. That is when we will act."
"What is the plan?" Ulf rumbled, his voice thick with ambition.
"Simple and devastating," Cassius explained. "You and your most loyal men will be working the night shift at the Great Forge. At the key moment, when the furnace is at its hottest, you will stage a small 'accident'. A lever will be jammed. A cooling conduit will be blocked. But my men," he gestured to two other figures Ren now saw emerging from the shadows, clearly Vaelin's agents, "are experts in alchemy. They have brought a powder. When added to the molten steel, it will create a catastrophic chemical reaction. The furnace will rupture. It will explode. It will destroy the Great Forge, kill Grak and his loyalists in the blast, and cripple Oakhaven's military production for years."
Ren's blood ran cold. This was far worse than he had imagined. It was not just a coup; it was an act of industrial terrorism designed to shatter the Confederacy's military spine.
"The explosion will be blamed on the Oakhaven 'sorcerer's' unstable steel formula," Cassius continued. "In the chaos that follows, Ulf, you will seize control. You will rally the people, blaming this tragedy on Grak's foolish alliance. You will be hailed as a savior. The Kingdom will then recognize you as the true Lord of Ironpeak and send you gold and aid to 'rebuild'. You will be a king."
Ulf's deep laughter echoed in the mine. "And what of the bastard prince?"
"He will be a toothless dog," Cassius sneered. "Without your iron, his army is nothing. He will be isolated, his allies in chaos. That is when our assassins will strike. By the time the snows fall, the Wastes Confederacy will be nothing but a bad memory."
The plot was brilliant, diabolical, and terrifyingly close to fruition. Ren, his heart pounding, slipped away from the tunnel as silently as he had arrived. He now had everything he needed. He knew the target, the method, the timing, and the key players. He made his way to a secluded spot outside the settlement, a hollowed-out log they had designated as a dead drop, and left a detailed report inscribed on a clay shard. The snake had been revealed. Now, it was time to build the trap to catch it.