The capital loomed like a fortress of marble and stormlight, its towers cutting through the clouds like spears aimed at heaven. Flags of ancient houses fluttered in stiff northern winds. In the heart of that cold stone sprawl, the Citadel waited—a crucible of power where noble names were forged, broken, or buried.
Renard Valtierre entered alone.
He wore no polished sigil, no velvet-lined cloak. Only the black coat stitched with phantom-thread. Dust still clung to his boots from the slopes of Northreach, and above him, a banner bearing his sigil—a shadowed wolf's fang over a cracked crown—snapped in the gale.
And yet, the guards at the gate stepped aside.
Word traveled faster than armor.
The Council Hall was built like a throne room without a throne—oval, sunken, every wall lined with tiered seating for nobles and generals. In the center stood the ironwood table. Circular. Eternal.
Above, banners hung like judgments.
To the east: House Varion, the royal sigil.To the west: empty space—the banner of House Faelin had been removed.
He stepped into silence.
Dozens of eyes followed him.
Lady Nyss sat at the left hand of the king's proxy seat. Dressed in emerald again. No smile this time.
Warlord-King Albrecht Varion IV was absent. But his presence lingered in every eye turned toward Renard.
"Baron Renard Valtierre," boomed the Voice of the Court. "Summoned under order of the crown to testify, strategize, and submit to review under Article Nine: War Doctrine Reclamation and Ascension."
Renard said nothing.
He stood with his hands behind his back.Still. Watching.
From the upper tier, General Ormund leaned forward.
"You humiliated one of Caerenhold's finest commanders," he said. "Aerron Vale. And then brought him here in chains. You used a doctrine we retired for a reason. You exposed traitors in House Faelin—but did so without permission. How do you plead?"
Renard's eyes flicked to him.
"I wasn't sent to ask permission."
Murmurs.
A nobleman rose. "You led a formation of dishonored troops, bastards, and outcasts. And you won. Against overwhelming odds. The court respects victory, but fears precedent. What exactly is your doctrine?"
Renard stepped forward. Slowly. His voice never rose.
"Phantom Doctrine. Ghost Edge variant. Fog-based suppression. Terrain-as-weapon. I led with ghosts. I ended with blades."
The noble scoffed. "You ended with assassinations."
"The system calls them sword techniques," Renard replied, lifting his interface for all to see.
[Combat Style: Ghost Edge – Recognized as Swordsmanship]
"Every kill recorded. Every tactic logged."
Lady Nyss spoke now. "The Kingdom's enemies do not fight fair. Caerenhold used fog, decoys, illusions. Why should we not evolve to match them?"
"And if you evolve into monsters?" General Ormund spat.
Renard turned fully to face him. "Then we become the monsters they fear."
That silence hit hard.
Then the Voice called, "Verdict: Tactical Integration Approved."
A new sigil was raised on the side wall.
Phantom Doctrine: Reinstituted under Baron Valtierre. Strategic Use Only.
And then the court shifted.
Questions turned to the future. War was coming. Caerenhold would retaliate. Border keeps were thin. Nobles squabbled over logistics.
Renard stood through it all.
Until Lady Nyss raised a hand.
"One final matter. Northreach."
She turned to Renard.
"You hold it now. But it's not just a post. It's a gate. A forgotten mouth into the kingdom. Will you guard it?"
Renard tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
"If Northreach is such a key to the kingdom," he said evenly, "why was it left to rot? Why give me broken squads and scattered weapons, then ask me to hold a front line?"
A few nobles shifted in their seats. Nyss, as always, was unreadable.
"You weren't sent there to hold," she said. "You were sent to prove something."
"I did," Renard replied. "With ghosts."
She asked again. "Will you guard it?"
Renard's voice was calm.
"No. I will weaponize it."
Shock.
He stepped forward.
"Northreach isn't a wall. It's a dagger. Let them come through it—thinking we are broken. Let them taste fog and fire. Let them forget what fear smells like."
"And you?" Nyss asked softly.
"I will remind them."Before Renard could leave the chamber, the King's voice—calm, commanding—cut through the murmurs.
"By command of Warlord-King Albrecht Varion IV," the Voice intoned, "and in recognition of exceptional field command—"
The doors groaned open.
Twelve knights marched through in unified step, clad in obsidian-forged plate, faces hidden behind helms marked only with a black circle.
Gasps rippled.
"The Black Sigil," someone whispered. "The Crown's personal blades."
The knight at the front stepped forward, removed his helm, and knelt before Renard.
"By royal edict," he said clearly, "we serve you now, Warden of the North. Until your command is spent... or your war is won."
Renard blinked once.
He gave no speech.
Only a nod.
The ghosts had grown teeth.
As he stood in his temporary quarters in the capital, overlooking the city's endless lights, a raven perched on his window.
Its message was sealed in black wax.
He opened it.
Two weeks. Prepare your forces. The Reach will burn.
Signed only with a silver tree.Lady Nyss.
Renard folded the note, placed it into the candle flame, and turned back to the shadows.
He didn't smile.But his shadow did.