**THE COUNT'S CASTLE**
The messenger's hands trembled as he stood before Count Stanley Valadon, watching the noble's face turn from pale to crimson as he read the report.
"All of them?" Stanley's voice was dangerously quiet. "Every. Single. One?"
"Y-yes, my lord," the messenger stammered. "One hundred seventy-three people executed in the village square. Public executions. 47 people we planted as spies were killed."
The paper crumpled in Stanley's fist. Then he exploded.
"THAT INSOLENT WHELP!" He hurled the report across the room, where it bounced off a priceless painting. "My informants! My carefully placed spies! Two years of work—DESTROYED by a seventeen-year-old BOY!"
His butler and guards stood frozen, knowing better than to speak when the Count was in this state.
Stanley paced like a caged predator, his mind racing through implications. For two years, he'd been methodically infiltrating Baron Brown's territory. Two years of careful planning, strategic placement, generous bribes. The old Baron had tight security—paranoid, even—but Stanley had been patient. He'd started with the low-level servants, the ones nobody noticed. Kitchen staff, stable boys, cleaning maids. Then he'd worked his way up.
It had taken him eighteen months just to get someone close to the Baron's family. Eighteen months of patient manipulation before he could orchestrate the "accidents."
The wife's death had been clean—poison in her tea, symptoms that mimicked heart failure. The two legitimate sons had been trickier. The eldest died in a hunting accident that wasn't an accident at all. The younger one fell from the eastern tower during a "drunken stupor" that Stanley's agents had carefully induced.
All of it to weaken the old Baron, to make him vulnerable, to position Stanley's people throughout the barony so that when the time came, he could seize control without ever drawing a sword.
And now this… this little brat had identified every single compromised person. Not just the obvious ones, but the deep-cover agents, the ones who'd been feeding him information for years.
How? How could an orphan who'd lived in squalor until three days ago possibly know who was working for whom?
"TWO Years!" Stanley seized a crystal decanter and hurled it against the wall, where it shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. "Two years of meticulous planning! And that bastard wiped it all out in a single morning!"
His hands shook with rage. He wanted to march his army to that barony right now, burn it to the ground, and watch that smug boy choke on the ashes of his territory.
But he couldn't.
The civil war was coming. Every noble house in the kingdom was watching, waiting, positioning themselves for the chaos that would follow the King's death. One wrong move, one sign of weakness, and his rivals would tear him apart like wolves on a wounded deer.
"My lord," his military advisor ventured carefully. "Perhaps we should—"
"Silence!" Stanley whirled on him. "I know what you're going to say. 'Let it go. Focus on the larger picture. The boy isn't worth the attention.' Well, you're WRONG! That BOY is dangerous... "
He continued with his darkened face, "He somehow knew about my network—a network that took me two years to build in a barony with the tightest security in the region! He embarrassed me. And now he's executing my people like he's some kind of righteous crusader!"
His treasurer cleared his throat nervously. "My lord, regarding the… agreement you made with Baron Edward. The thousand gold coins—"
"Is due," Stanley finished bitterly. He'd signed a magical contract. If he didn't pay, his heart would explode. "Send it. But make sure the boy knows this isn't over."
He collapsed into his chair, pressing his temples. Think. He needed to think strategically, not emotionally.
The kingdom law was clear: a Count couldn't declare territorial war against a Baron directly. The gap in noble titles was too wide—it would look like bullying, make him appear weak and petty. Other nobles would question his judgment, his temperament, his fitness to hold power.
But there were ways around that.
A slow, vicious smile spread across Stanley's face.
"Bring me parchment and my best ink," he ordered. "I have a letter to write."
**THIRTY MINUTES LATER**
Stanley read over his letter with satisfaction. It was a masterpiece of manipulation disguised as friendly advice.
*My Dear Baron Lupe,
I trust this letter finds you and your family in good health. I write to you today not as a superior, but as a concerned neighbor and friend who wishes to see all nobles of good character prosper in these uncertain times.
It has come to my attention that the barony adjacent to your territory—held by one Edward Brown—has recently undergone significant… upheaval. The new Baron, barely more than a child, has executed 173 of his own subjects and appears to be operating with reckless abandon.
More concerning are the reports that he may be harboring ambitions beyond his station. As you know, territorial disputes between Barons are entirely legal and, indeed, expected in this kingdom. A strong Baron expands his holdings when opportunity presents itself.
I merely thought you should be aware of the situation. The Brown barony has historically been weak, poorly defended, and rich in forest resources that could prove quite valuable to a more capable administrator. The recent chaos there suggests vulnerability—the kind of vulnerability a wise Baron might consider… addressing.
Of course, I would never presume to advise you on such matters. I simply felt it my duty to share information that might be relevant to your interests.
Should you choose to take any action regarding this situation, please know that you have my full support as a fellow noble concerned with maintaining proper order in our region. I would, naturally, be willing to provide certain… resources… should they prove necessary.
Your neighbor and ally,
Count Stanley Valadon*
It was perfect. Not an order, not a command—just "friendly advice" that would lead Baron Lupe exactly where Stanley wanted him.
Lupe was ambitious, greedy, and not particularly bright. He'd see the opportunity to expand his territory with the implied backing of a Count, and he'd jump at it like a starving dog on a bone.
If Lupe won the war, Edward would be dead or dispossessed, and Stanley would have a grateful, indebted Baron controlling that territory—one he could manipulate far more easily than the current occupant.
If Edward somehow won—unlikely, but possible—he'd be weakened, depleted, desperate. He'd have to come begging to Stanley for protection from future attacks. And Stanley would offer that protection… for a price. A very steep price.
Either way, the boy lost.
Stanley sealed the letter with his personal signet ring and handed it to his fastest messenger.
"Deliver this to Baron Lupe immediately. Wait for his response."
"Yes, my lord."
As the messenger departed, Stanley poured himself wine and settled back in his chair. The boy thought he'd won by executing Stanley's network. He thought he was clever, rooting out corruption and playing the righteous lord.
He had no idea he'd just signed his own death warrant.
Stanley raised his glass in a mock toast to the empty room. "Enjoy your little victory while it lasts, boy. Soon you'll learn what it means to cross a Count. And when you're kneeling in the ruins of your precious barony, begging for mercy, I'll make sure you understand exactly how thoroughly you've lost."
He drank deeply, savoring both the wine and the thought of Edward's inevitable downfall.
Two years of work destroyed in a morning.
But revenge? Revenge would be sweet.
And it was already in motion.
--
**BARON LUPE'S ESTATE – THREE DAYS LATER**
Baron Marcus Lupe was not an intelligent man. He knew this about himself, had accepted it long ago, and compensated by surrounding himself with advisors who could do his thinking for him. But even those advisors couldn't suppress his fundamental nature: Greed.
When the messenger arrived with Count Valadon's letter, Marcus read it three times to make sure he understood correctly.
"Theodore," he called to his chief advisor. "Read this and tell me I'm not misunderstanding."
Theodore, a thin man with calculating eyes, scanned the letter quickly. His eyebrows rose. "My lord… the Count is essentially giving you permission and backing you to attack the Brown barony."
"That's what I thought!" Marcus slapped the table excitedly. "Do you know what this means?"
"It means significant risk, my lord. Territorial wars are expensive, even with our military strength. And while the Count implies support, he makes no concrete promises and maybe it would be a trap also my lord."
"Risk?" Marcus laughed, a braying sound that made his servants wince. "The boy just inherited! He's seventeen years old! He just executed half his staff! The territory is in chaos!" He stood, pacing energetically. "And the Brown barony has four things I want: timber forests, iron deposits, farmland along the river, and that port."
His eyes gleamed with avarice. Marcus had spent his entire life stuck with a mediocre barony—not poor enough to fail, not rich enough to rise. He'd watched other nobles grow wealthy and powerful while he stagnated, his father's meager legacy barely enough to maintain his lifestyle.
But this… this was opportunity.
"The timber alone is worth thousands of gold coins annually," he muttered, more to himself than Theodore. "And those iron deposits—everyone knows they're there, but the previous Baron never had the capital to mine them properly. With proper investment, I could triple my income within five years. Not to mention the port's income from trade—and the slave trade routes that pass through there."
"My lord, we should consider—"
"And that farmland!" Marcus continued, ignoring him. "Prime growing soil right along the river. I could finally break into the grain trade, compete with the larger baronies. Do you understand what that means?"
Theodore sighed. "It means you've already decided to attack."
"Of course I have!" Marcus grabbed the letter and waved it like a banner. "With the Count's backing no other noble will interfere. They'll see it as a legitimate territorial dispute. And once I win, I'll be a Baron with nearly double my current holdings. Double the income, double the prestige, double the leverage in noble circles."
He walked to the window, looking out over his drilling yard where soldiers trained. His military strength was massive for a baron. It was a force that had taken him five years to build and cost him a fortune to maintain. But now, finally, he'd have the chance to use them for something more than intimidating his neighbors.
"What does the boy have?" Marcus mused aloud. "A handful of guards who didn't get executed? Maybe some peasant militia with farming tools? No trained mages—the Brown barony has never been able to afford proper magical support."
He was practically salivating now, his imagination running wild with possibilities. The larger estate he could build. The luxuries he could afford. The marriage alliances suddenly within reach when his wealth increased.
Most of all, he imagined the envy on his fellow Barons' faces when they realized he'd successfully expanded his territory.
"My lord," Theodore tried again, his voice careful. "Our intelligence on the Brown barony is… limited. We don't actually know what forces Baron Edward has available. For all we know, he could have received reinforcements, hired mercenaries with that execution money he's been collecting—"
"From executing his own people?" Marcus scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. The boy is bleeding resources, not gaining them. He's isolated, inexperienced, and probably terrified right now." He turned from the window, his decision clearly made. "No, Theodore. This is the perfect opportunity. The territory is weak, the Count has given his blessing, and I have the military strength to crush any resistance quickly."
Theodore tried one more time. "My lord, Count Valadon's support is… vague. If something goes wrong—"
"Nothing will go wrong!" Marcus snapped. "I have
50 fully armored knights,
200 professional soldiers,
300 slaves soldiers and
100 archers, trained to shoot accurately at two hundred yards.
And most impressive: 20 battle mages, all certified third and fourth circle casters capable of devastating battlefield magic.
The boy is a child playing at being a lord with whatever ragtag force survived his purge. It'll be over in weeks, possibly days."
He grabbed parchment and began writing his response immediately, his handwriting nearly illegible in his excitement.
*Count Valadon,
Your letter fills me with gratitude for your wise counsel and neighborly concern. You are correct that the situation in the Brown barony represents both a threat to regional stability and an opportunity for more capable administration.
I have decided to exercise my legal right to territorial dispute. Within the month, I will formally declare war against Baron Edward Brown and move to claim his holdings for the betterment of our region.
Against a barony in chaos, victory is assured.
I would be honored to accept any support you deem appropriate to offer. Rest assured that I will remember your friendship when this matter concludes favorably—and when the Brown barony's considerable resources come under more competent management.
Your ally and grateful neighbor,
Baron Marcus Lupe*
He sealed it and thrust it at the waiting messenger. "Take this back to the Count immediately. And tell him Baron Lupe is prepared to act within three weeks."
As the messenger departed, Marcus poured himself wine and raised a toast to empty air.
"To expansion," he declared grandly. "And to that foolish boy who doesn't know what's about to hit him."
Theodore watched his lord celebrate and felt a creeping sense of dread. He'd served Marcus long enough to know when the man was making a mistake driven by greed rather than strategy.
Something about this felt wrong. The Count's letter was too convenient, too perfectly timed. And the execution of 173 people suggested that young Baron Edward was either completely insane or far more calculating than they were giving him credit for.
A boy who could identify and eliminate an entire spy network in one day was not someone to underestimate.
But there was no stopping Marcus now. The promise of wealth and expansion had blinded him to any possibility of danger.
The war was coming, and Theodore could only hope they'd survive what they were about to start.
He made a mental note to quietly prepare contingency plans—just in case the "foolish boy" proved to be something else entirely.
To be continued...