Dagger—Beginning

In the dim glow of a torch-lit tavern called The Winking Mare, Twyford slammed a mug on the table and hiccupped loudly.

"I am telling you!" he slurred, drawing the attention of three men nearby, all cloaked in traveling gear. "Lord Pinel—he is not loyal to Atkins. He is talking to House Dayton. Got a whole secret warehouse of swords, weapons and armors hiding in the old mill at Willowshade."

One of the men leaned closer. "You sure?"

Twyford belched, nodding. "Drank with his guard, he said that the Lord is looking to stake his own claim if Atkins falls."

The travelers left without finishing their drinks. Two hours later, a raven launched into the dark, bound east.

In the open-air marketplace, Rosina publicly chastised the craftsman.

"I said no to you because I do not trust shoddy work! And the other one talks too much," she snapped, flinging a folded design to the ground.

Murmurs spread. The accused stormed off, face red, dragging a tool bag.

He was angry. Angry enough to betray the secrets of Headow to the wrong man.

---

The candlelight in the study flickered as Baron Atkins looked at the drawing of Headow on the map. His fingers clenched like a fist, his patience running out.

Across from him, Lord Pinel sat smugly, swirling a cup of rich wine. "You seem restless, my lord."

Atkins gazed coldly at him. "Just tired of ill-informed rumors, the prince has been a constant trouble to my soul."

Pinel sipped. "Then let us crush whoever spreads them."

But Atkins was not listening anymore. For the first time in weeks, doubt had crept in like rot. Pinel had been acting… ambitious lately. Too many private meetings, too many assumptions of authority.

He forced a smile. "Tell me, Pinel. What do you think of Steven and his growing influence in Headow?"

Pinel lifted his brow upwards. "Middling at best. He is no threat. His men are loyal, but they lack numbers. His support is shallow, built on sentiment and village pity."

Atkins asked further. "And what of the rumors of a strategist?"

Pinel snorted. "Phantom stories. Probably planted by Steven to keep us guessing."

"Perhaps," Atkins murmured. The rumors he heard were from one of his own—someone within his circle, alerting him to a silent rise in Headow.

The strategy seemed to be falling into place like a well-set trap.

But not all things go according to plan.

Two nights later, in a smoky backroom of a brothel two towns east, a man who claimed to be a former soldier spoke a little too proudly.

"Saw him myself. Twyford. Mask or not, that gait and those scars..."

The word spread.

And just like that, a crack formed.

Jeremy paced the hall like a storm of bottled flesh. "It was too soon. He recognized Twyford. Dammit."

Steven sat, arms folded. "How much damage?"

Beaver shrugged. "Pinel knows something is happening. But he does not know the scope."

Rosina crossed her arms. "Then we escalate. Make the lie bigger than the truth."

Jeremy stopped. He breathed out.

Then he smiled. "Yes. We overwhelm him with whispers so he no longer hears the truth."

Steven stood. "Call everyone. Tonight, we plan the next move."

He stood before a map pinned to the wall of the war chamber, his fingertips pressed lightly against the marked territories. The inner circle was seated behind him, each face taut with the tension of their new mission. 

Twyford, who had remained quiet since his cover was blown during the tavern phase of the previous operation, finally spoke. "I was recognized. That failure rests on me."

Jeremy shook his head. "No. It exposed a flaw in the plan, and from that, we have learned. This next phase will require no disguises, no alcohol, and no theatrics. Just precision."

Steven nodded. "Then we proceed carefully."

Jeremy snapped his fingers and gestured toward the scroll in front of him. "Phase one: We forge a series of correspondences. Letters supposedly from Lord Pinel to a known Baron in the east. The letters will speak of secret alliances, troop movements, and promises of land. Clinton, you will write them. You know the phrasing."

Clinton grunted. "I can mimic a baron in my sleep."

Rosina leaned forward, resting her chin on her clasped hands. "How will we deliver them?"

"Through a courier trusted by both sides," Beaver replied, sliding a name across the table. "Marek. He is greedy and oblivious."

Jeremy smiled. "Exactly the sort of idiot we need."

Steven folded his arms. "And if the Baron intercepts these letters?"

Jeremy widened his grin. "He will. That is the point. But not yet. First, we seed his doubts. Then, we give him proof."

Rosina stood. "I'll ensure the scribe who documents the treasury makes a 'mistake' that suggests funds are being diverted for private armament."

Steven raised a brow. "Won't that scribe be at risk?"

"He owes me his life," Rosina said plainly.

Beaver unrolled a second scroll. "Tax fraud. I've falsified ledgers showing Lord Pinel over-collecting levies from border villages. Nothing outrageous—just enough to warrant suspicion. The villagers have been instructed to complain anonymously to the Baron."

Steven turned away from the map, his expression unreadable. "And if none of this works?"

Jeremy replied, "It will. Because while the letters are being written, the tax burdens will rise, and whispers will leak. In taverns. Among court servants. Even through jesters."

Beaver chuckled. "I have already told three storytellers to begin singing about a dog that bites its master."

Steven looked around the room, and then confidence filled his heart.

Beaver slipped out of the manor under a heavy cloak, disappearing into the countryside with two trusted runners. He carried more than one forged letter, poison wrapped in ink and sealed in wax.

Marek rode through the storm-wet plains, a bundle of forged letters tucked inside a waxed pouch beneath his cloak. He did not read them; he never did. His job was to deliver and forget. A simple arrangement—one that paid well.

But that night, as Marek slept in a roadside inn, a man in a plain grey cloak took the pouch from his horse.

The scribe, a pale, aging man with hunched shoulders, hesitated as he scratched an entry. "Twenty-eight crates of steel... transferred to private storage."

He bit his lip and glanced at Rosina. "Are you certain I will not be punished for this?"

"As long as you keep quiet," she replied, placing a small bag of coins on his desk.

In the Villages of Holtmere and Grellon, crude tax notices had begun appearing. Stamped falsely, Pinel had demanded triple grain contributions. The villagers were furious.

A woman wept outside the chapel. "We cannot give more! Is Lord Pinel trying to starve us?"

A messenger boy listened, then darted off toward the capital.

Jeremy reclined in the map room, now warmed by a crackling fire. Steven stared into the flames.

"We have pulled every thread," Steven said.

"The noose tightens," Jeremy replied.

By the time the morning sun rose, Baron Atkins had already summoned one of his private informants.

"Follow Pinel," the Baron said coldly. "And if he breathes in the direction of another noble house—I want to know."

Pinel, oblivious to the spreading doubt, sent a message to Baron Dayton in the south, looking to secure future support. He met with a cloaked figure in the forest, exchanging gold for information—real or not. Pinel had no idea he was being watched.

It was his mistake.

Baron Atkins stood at the edge of the barracks yard, watching a squad of his personal guards drill beneath the afternoon sun. Their movements were precise—but his thoughts weren't.

He'd received two reports in a day. On confirming the late-night meeting with people from House Dayton. The second… a troubling whisper from one of his trusted servants. "Pinel has begun reallocating supplies from your private stores, my lord."

He clenched his fist behind his back.

He stared out the window. 

Pinel was getting bold.

Later that day, Lord Pinel arrived for a scheduled strategy discussion. But the guards at the gate looked confused. "Apologies, my lord. The Baron… has rescheduled. He did not give a reason."

Pinel narrowed his eyes. "Did he say when?"

The guard replied. "No, my lord."

He turned his horse without a word. But his mind whirled.

Something is wrong.

The isolation had begun.

Lord Pinel paced across the polished floor of his study, boots thudding like war drums. He had not spoken to Baron Atkins in three days—not a word, not a summons, not a letter. It was unnatural. Unsettling.

He slammed a goblet down on his desk. "Where is the Baron?" he muttered.

His steward entered quietly, bowing. "He just left the estate, my lord."

Pinel is littered with sharp interest. "Where was he headed?"

The steward answered. "Toward the city archives. Rumor has it... the Baron is verifying land claims, looking into property transfers made under your authority."

His heart thumped. "Is he investigating me?"