Dagger—Final Part

At the manor, Jeremy leaned over the table with Rosina and Beaver beside him. A map, torn letters, and false correspondences lay scattered across the surface.

"We are almost there," Jeremy murmured. 

Rosina nodded. "He will try to reassert control, maybe stage a bold move to remind Atkins why he trusted him."

Beaver narrowed his eyes. "Then we give him the stage—but we write the script."

Jeremy had a razor-sharp grin. "Exactly."

That night, a fire broke out at one of the supply depots of Baron Atkins. Controlled, surgical, and oddly… suspicious.

Pinel was the first to send his men to help.

Too quickly.

Too cleanly.

Baron Atkins arrived at the scene later that evening, watching his men shovel ash. He did not miss the smug tilt in the posture of Pinel.

"My lord," Pinel said smoothly, "the damage was minimal. We stopped it just in time."

"Just in time," Atkins echoed quietly. "How fortunate."

Back at the manor, Clinton reported in. "The fire worked. Atkins suspects Pinel started it just to look like a hero."

Jeremy nodded. "Now we isolate him fully."

He unrolled a letter forged with the seal of Pinel, and there were promises to a rival house for trade concessions.

"Rosina, you will deliver this to our contacts, and then they will pretend to have received orders from Pinel. Dayton and Atkins have not spoken in years, but this—this will spark something."

"Forged enough to be believable. Dangerous enough to create paranoia," Rosina murmured, impressed.

Jeremy tapped the parchment. "After this, Pinel would not be suspected. He will be condemned."

The next morning, Baron Atkins sat in his study, fingers steepled.

His steward entered quietly. "My lord… House Dayton just sent a formal complaint. They accuse Lord Pinel of bribery and subterfuge."

Atkins did not flinch. He closed his eyes and exhaled. "Send word to Lord Pinel. Tell him not to return and tell my guards… to never allow him into my presence."

The steward answered."Yes, my lord."

Pinel received the message by sundown. He read it three times.

And still, the words did not make sense. 

"Barred?" he whispered. 

Panic. 

Real panic.

His hands trembled as he grabbed his sword. "No. No. Someone is behind this. Someone is turning him against me."

He rushed to his carriage. "To the estate. Now!"

But the guards met him halfway and blocked his path.

"Lord Pinel," one of them said coldly, "Baron Atkins requests you return to your manor. He will summon you if necessary."

Pinel paled. He wasn't a partner anymore. He was a pawn—disconnected and exposed.

And he didn't even know who to blame.

Rain poured like a judgment from the heavens.

Lord Pinel sat in silence, staring at the fire. The blaze crackled, but he felt no warmth—only the cold weight of isolation. His house, once a lively center of influence, now felt like a gilded cage. Servants whispered behind doors. Couriers stopped arriving. The silence was screaming.

Then the knock came.

Three precise raps. Not hurried. Not fearful.

His steward entered with hesitation. "A messenger, my lord."

Pinel's brow furrowed. 

He paused, but his pride overrode caution. "Send him in."

A lean boy entered, drenched from the rain but wearing a polished insignia on his chest. He bowed. "My master sends his regards and hopes to forge new ties with you, Lord Pinel. This is the initial proposal."

He handed over a scroll, sealed not in wax—but in salt and ash. He broke the seal, unfurled the scroll—and paled.

The letter was blank.

Except for one symbol in red ink:

The fox bites the tail of a lion.

"Who is your master?" Pinel growled.

But the boy was already gone.

Back in Headow, Steven watched as Jeremy rolled the chessboard back into its box. The young strategist was calm, but his words were sharp.

Jeremy said. "The game has shifted now… it is a storm in daylight."

Clinton crossed his arms. "He will become more desperate."

"That is the point," Jeremy replied. "We let him struggle—and fall into the pit."

Beaver stepped forward, unrolling a parchment. "He tried to reach out to two minor houses this morning. Both turned him down. Our contacts made sure of it."

Rosina smirked. "The isolation is working. Even his loyal men are losing faith. All it takes now is one nudge—one scandal."

Jeremy looked at Steven. "It's time."

Meanwhile, Lord Pinel stood on his balcony, staring out at his once-loyal lands. Behind him, two of his servants argued.

"The Baron isn't answering our missives—"

"We need to act! Call in favors, spread rumors—"

"Enough," Pinel snapped, his voice low and dangerous. "I have enemies. I know that now. But whoever they are, they made one mistake…"

He turned slowly, eyes glinting with hatred."…they let me live."

A moment later, another knock came.

This time, it was no messenger. A group of guards entered. "Lord Pinel," the captain said, "Baron Atkins summons you."

Pinel didn't speak.

But in his mind, gears spun fast and loud.

The grand hall was heavy with silence. Lord Pinel stood at its center, drenched not from rain—but sweat. Around him, retainers lined the walls like vultures watching a wounded lion. At the high table, Baron Atkins sat, his eyes unreadable, a sealed letter in his hand.

"You summoned me, my lord," Pinel said, forcing composure into his voice.

"I did," Atkins replied coolly. He held up the letter. "You recognize this seal?"

Pinel sank as he realized the seal was his own. The letter had been forged… and masterfully. Inside it, false correspondence painted a tale of betrayal—suggesting Pinel had been plotting not only against Talvace but against Atkins himself. 

Strategic leaks. 

Secret negotiations. 

Falsified agreements with rival houses. 

All signed and sealed. 

He struggled to get words out of his mouth. "I do not know where that came from, but—"

"Silence," Atkins snapped. "Do you know what angers me most, Pinel? Not your betrayal. I expected that from men of ambition. No—what angers me is how sloppy you became."

Whispers rippled through the hall.

Pinel clenched his fists. "I have stood by you for years. Built your influence. Crushed your enemies. You know I—"

"I know you are a man of schemes," Atkins said coldly. "But it seems a new player has joined this game. And unlike you… he does not make mistakes."

A pause.

Then the Baron pointed. "Strip him of his lands. From this moment forward, Lord Pinel is no longer welcome here."

Gasps echoed.

The guards moved forward.

Pinel backed away. "You cannot do this! You will regret—"

A hard slap of steel on stone echoed as the guards drew their swords.

Pinel snarled but did not resist. He turned his glare toward the crowd. "I will return," he hissed. "This is not over."

In Headow, news traveled fast. Jeremy sat by the fireplace, calmly sipping tea as Twyford burst into the room.

"It is done," the warrior said. "Atkins has cast Pinel aside."

Clinton raised a brow. "That fast?"

Jeremy shrugged. "The Baron moves quickly when his pride is on the line."

Beaver stepped in next, dropping a sealed report on the table. "And now? The whispers say Pinel has gone rogue. Word is, he is on the run."

Steven entered last, arms folded. He glanced at Jeremy. "It is over?"

Jeremy smiled faintly. "We give Pinel what he gave others—exile. No power. No allies. No future."

The next morning, a messenger was dispatched.

He carried a single item: a black pendant once worn by the traitorous nobles Pinel had bribed. It had been found in a Headow cellar—planted there by Beaver.

It would be the final proof.

It would seal the fate of Lord Pinel.

And ensure Baron Atkins never welcomed him back again.

Far beyond Headow, in the cold woods north of Ironhold, Lord Pinel rode alone. Just a sword… and the fire of vengeance burning in his chest.

"Fox…" he muttered. "I do not know who you are—but I will find you."

He spurred his horse into the dark and disappeared into the wilderness.

The moon hung high, silver and solemn as if mourning the man stumbling through the cold woods of Ironhold. Cloaked and unshaven, Lord Pinel moved like a ghost—once a noble, now a fugitive. Mud clung to his boots. His sword, though still sharp, felt heavier with each passing hour.

Every echo snapped his nerves. Every rustle drew his hand to the hilt.

He had not slept properly in days. Since the fall. Since Atkins turned his back. Since his allies vanished like smoke.

He cursed the fox with every breath. "Coward. Puppet-master… You think I will die out here like some dog?" he growled to the wind.

But the wind offered no reply.

Only silence—and the shadow that trailed him, unseen. The moonlight glinted off a dagger.

Lord Pinel heard nothing. The assassin was skilled—he never saw the shadow slip through the trees, never noticed the breath behind his own.

Only when the steel slid between his ribs did his knees finally give way.

His body collapsed onto frostbitten leaves, a crimson pool spreading slowly beneath him.

He looked up at the assassin but saw only a mask of black.

"You…" he gasped. "Who sent—?"

"No names," The assassin replied quietly. "Only coin. And silence."

The fire faded, and just like that, an ambitious man, Lord Pinel—was dead.