Chapter 58: Iron and Fire

Rookhaven's streets were quieter after Jarek's warning. Fear had settled in—a thick, suffocating presence that wrapped around the noble district like a noose. The merchants whispered. The noble families stayed behind closed doors. Even the criminals hesitated before making a move.

But silence didn't mean peace.

Jarek sat in the great hall of Vale Manor, studying a map of the city, when Tobias entered.

"They're waiting," Tobias said.

Jarek exhaled and rose from his seat. "Then let's not keep them."

A Council of Shadows

Jarek entered the war room to find his inner circle gathered—Sylva, Tobias, Captain Harlan of the city guard, and a few trusted lieutenants.

"The attacks have stopped," Sylva said. "For now."

Jarek frowned. "That won't last."

Tobias folded his arms. "You hit them hard. They're scared."

Jarek shook his head. "Scared men are the most dangerous."

Captain Harlan, a grizzled veteran with a scar down his cheek, cleared his throat. "You're right, my lord. The nobility won't risk another open conflict, but they'll find other ways to fight."

Sylva smirked. "Poison. Bribes. Assassins."

Jarek sighed. "I need to send another message. One they can't ignore."

Tobias raised a brow. "Something bigger than cutting up Greaves?"

Jarek nodded. "Something permanent."

Cleansing the Rot

At midnight, Jarek's forces moved.

Small teams spread across the city, striking deep into the noble district.

A known smuggler working for Lord Lorne was found floating in the harbor.

A corrupt magistrate under Whitmore was dragged from his home—his family spared, but his body left hanging outside the courthouse.

A courier meant to deliver a bribe to the city guard? He never made it to his destination.

By dawn, every noble in Rookhaven understood the new order.

Jarek Thorn did not negotiate.

A Visit to the High Table

Three days after the purge, an invitation arrived.

Lady Eleanor Whitmore, once one of Jarek's strongest opponents, requested a meeting at her estate.

Jarek, curious but cautious, agreed.

Vale Manor was heavily guarded, but Whitmore's estate was a fortress. Armed men lined the walls, and the scent of burning incense drifted through the halls.

Jarek was led to a private dining room where Lady Whitmore waited, dressed in silk and gold. She gestured to the seat across from her.

"Duke Thorn," she said smoothly. "I appreciate you coming."

Jarek sat but didn't touch the wine offered to him. "You didn't give me much choice."

Whitmore smiled. "That's something we have in common."

Jarek's fingers drummed against the table. "Speak."

She sighed. "I lost men. Property. Influence."

Jarek said nothing.

"But," she continued, "I am not a fool. I know when a war is lost."

Jarek smirked. "And?"

Whitmore met his gaze. "And I propose peace."

Tobias, standing behind Jarek, scoffed. "Now you want peace?"

Whitmore ignored him. "You rule Rookhaven now. I accept that. But I still have power—connections, wealth. If you and I work together, we could achieve far more than we could as enemies."

Jarek leaned back. "You want a seat at my table."

Whitmore smiled. "I want a seat that benefits us both."

Silence stretched between them.

Then, Jarek chuckled. "Clever."

She inclined her head.

Jarek nodded. "Fine."

Tobias stiffened. "You can't be serious."

Jarek glanced at him. "I am. But there will be conditions."

Whitmore arched a brow. "Name them."

Jarek leaned forward. "First, you will swear loyalty—to me, not to some hidden council."

She nodded. "Done."

"Second, I take control of the city guard. No more split loyalties."

Whitmore hesitated, then sighed. "Agreed."

Jarek smiled coldly. "And third—if you betray me?"

His blade tapped the table.

Whitmore's smile didn't falter. "Then I will already be dead."

Jarek extended a hand.

She took it.

The alliance was sealed.

Tightening the Chains

With Whitmore under control, the remaining nobles had no choice but to fall in line.

Lorne sent a messenger, pledging loyalty.

Marsh remained in exile, his estate seized.

Greaves, still nursing his wounds, offered Jarek a hefty sum to "ensure stability."

Jarek took the money and used it to strengthen his hold on the city.

The city guard was restructured—loyal officers promoted, corrupt ones removed.

Trade routes were secured. Gangs that refused to bend were crushed.

Piece by piece, Rookhaven was reforged.

A Warning from the North

But peace never lasted.

One evening, a rider arrived at Vale Manor, his horse foaming at the mouth from the hard ride.

He was escorted into the hall, gasping for breath. "Duke Thorn!"

Jarek turned. "Speak."

The rider swallowed. "Scouts spotted a force gathering near the northern border."

Jarek's eyes narrowed. "Whose banner?"

The rider hesitated. "It's… unclear. They ride under black and red."

Sylva, standing nearby, tensed. "That's Callahan's crest."

Tobias cursed. "Damn it. We should've expected this."

Jarek exhaled slowly.

The northern warlord, Callahan, had stayed quiet—watching. Waiting.

Now, he was making his move.

Jarek turned to his war council. "Prepare the city."

Tobias grinned. "Finally, some real action."

Sylva rolled her eyes. "We just finished cleaning up this mess."

Jarek smirked. "Then let's make sure the next one doesn't last as long."

Because Rookhaven was his.

And he'd burn the north before he let Callahan take it.