CHAPTER 35: The Weight of Command
Duskwatch Fortress – Kael's War Room, Late Winter
The air in the war room was cold, despite the crackling brazier in the corner. Maps, once pristine, were now a mess of red and black ink, crisscrossed with lines denoting enemy movements, burnt earth, and the Red Veil's chilling marks. Kael stood at the head of the great stone table, his silhouette stark against the flickering lamplight. His council was gathered: Myrren, axe gleaming softly at her hip; Dren, gnawing on a piece of dried meat; Seyda, a still, crimson shadow by the hearth; Lady Virelle, poised and elegant even in the grim surroundings; and Nalen, a silent, almost invisible presence by the door, his gaze missing nothing. Theron Varkhale, his scarred face grim, leaned against a pillar, his presence a solid block of defiance.
Myrren unrolled a fresh scroll, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. "The refugees at Ravencair. The reports are dire, Kael. Food is critically low. Lung-fever is spreading, especially among the children. The winter hit harder than we expected, and the passages are sealed. They are… desperate." Her eyes, usually so fierce, held a haunted look. She had just returned from a perilous journey to the mountain holds.
Dren slammed a fist on the table, rattling the scattered pins. "Starving them into surrender? That's the Empire's game! We should send a raiding party south. Hit their supply lines harder. Bring back what we need, by force."
"Our raiders would barely reach their vanguard before being swallowed," Virelle interjected, her voice cool and measured. "Lord Tervan, the Imperial Quartermaster, has pulled every last reserve from the southern farms. He's commandeering entire villages, starving them to feed the legions. And Major Theron's Black Legates are turning the Blackwood into a killing field."
Nalen, speaking for the first time, his voice a low, precise murmur, added, "My sources confirm the Legates are executing any who withhold supplies. The Purifiers are burning suspected sympathizers. Their advance has slowed to a crawl, yes, but their brutality has intensified. It's designed to make the populace fear them more than they hope for you." He discreetly slid a small, coded dispatch across the table towards Kael.
Kael picked it up, breaking the hidden seal. He skimmed its contents, his jaw tightening. It detailed the Imperial commander Daegarn's orders: a full sweep of the Blackwood, "no shadow unturned," and the merciless execution of anyone found aiding the rebels or possessing hidden stores. It spoke of Daegarn's frustration, his realization that Kael was turning them into monsters.
Seyda stepped forward, her red veil shimmering in the firelight. "They seek to break the spirit through suffering. We must not let their suffering be in vain. The faith grows, Kael. The stories. We must show them a new truth, a new strength. A miracle."
Theron Varkhale pushed off the pillar. "Miracles won't fill empty bellies, Lady of Flame. We need a way to move food. And if the King's Road is choked, then we find another path. The old smuggling tunnels through the Serpent's Spine. They run deep. Dangerous. But they reach the southern valleys."
Myrren's head snapped up. "The Serpent's Spine? That's a hundred leagues, through contested territory. And those tunnels are barely mapped. Half of them are collapsed."
"But the other half aren't," Kael said, his voice quiet, almost a whisper, yet it commanded the room. He looked at Virelle. "My lady, you spoke of quiet ships and couriers who slip past Imperial inspections. Can your network reach the southern valleys? Can you gather supplies, untainted, from there?"
Virelle considered, a flicker of calculation in her eyes. "It would be slow. Costly. And perilous. Our agents would be operating deep behind enemy lines. But… yes. If the price is right, and the reward great enough." Her gaze met his, sharp and demanding.
"The reward is a living kingdom," Kael said. He then turned to Theron. "Lord Theron, can your house lead a vanguard through those tunnels? Secure a path? We'd need to move our heaviest supplies that way. And… if the rumors of the Legates' brutality are true, it might also offer a way for more refugees to reach Ravencair."
Theron's cynical smirk returned, grim. "A long shot, Sovereign. But the Varkhale wolves always enjoyed a good chase. And the Empire won't be expecting a wolf to bite them from below their feet."
Kael's gaze swept over his council. He saw the grim determination in Myrren's eyes, the brutal eagerness in Dren, the zealous devotion in Seyda, the calculating ambition in Virelle, the quiet resolve in Nalen, and the defiant courage in Theron. Each was a piece of his monstrous, beautiful machine.
"Myrren," Kael commanded, his voice firm. "Continue to manage Ravencair. Do what you can, but steel yourself. This will be a long winter. Dren, double your patrols. Keep the Imperials guessing. Seyda, continue your haunting. Make the Blackwood a grave for their sanity. Lady Virelle, begin your preparations for the southern route. Lord Theron, prepare your men for the Serpent's Spine. Nalen," he paused, his eyes meeting the spy's, a silent acknowledgment of his true role, "I will need your intel. Your threads in the darkness are more valuable than any sword."
He slammed his hand on the map, directly on the coiled spine of mountains. "We will not meet their legions in open battle. Not yet. We will bleed them dry, inch by agonizing inch, from below the earth, from the shadows of the forest, from the bitterness of their own fear."
The heavy silence that followed was not of despair, but of chilling purpose. The war had entered a new, subterranean phase. Kael Ashmark, the Sovereign of Fire and Iron, was ready to play a longer, dirtier game.