As Thalric and Duke Raktor spent their days ambushing every supply line Palman had revealed, the lands under their control slowly twisted under the weight of fear. Forts, towns, and cities felt as if a giant invisible hand was pressing down on them, squeezing tighter each day as the war crept closer.

  Only weeks ago, people had watched Thalric’s forces sweep through their settlements like a wildfire—burning those who resisted, forcing everyone else to kneel. And now, with the Lombards storming through the west and reclaiming forts one after another, the rumours running through the streets said everything might happen again.

  The thought was so scary that it alone made families sleep with their bags packed, and made soldiers glare at the horizon every night, expecting flames.

  Whiterun—one of the larger cities in the western region—felt the pressure the most. It was usually loud and full of merchants, but now the whole city seemed to be holding its breath. Market stalls were boarded up. Shops that once kept lanterns glowing till midnight shut down before sunset. Soldiers patrolled every corner, stopping young men with barely any muscle and dragging them off for conscription. Ever since word spread about the Lombard threat, Thalric’s men had become desperate, grabbing anyone who could hold a spear.

  And in the middle of this tense, suffocating city, a single man walked with his head lowered and his cloak tight around him.

  Arel.

  A member of the Watchers, and the person responsible for the lightning-fast capture of Solmere just weeks ago. Because of his accomplishment there, Knight Killian had personally promised him a promotion, then sent him ahead of everyone else to the western territories to plant himself quietly among the citizens.

  So for the last three weeks, Arel had been living as someone else.

  A polite, soft-spoken young merchant who claimed to have been stranded in Whiterun when the war lines shifted. He had sold cheap goods in the market, smiled at guards, helped old women carry water, and pretended to shake whenever someone mentioned Thalric’s name.

  All a mask.

  He had already set the foundations of his new mission—orders he received a week ago—but this time, the task wasn’t simple at all.

  His orders weren’t to plant bombs this time, but to start a movement—something far more delicate and far more dangerous, and a mission that could go wrong very easily. And today, Arel suspected, might finally be the day he watered those scattered seeds enough for them to sprout into something real. The thought alone made a quiet smile tug at the corner of his lips, though he kept his head lowered, shoulders rounded, playing the role of a harmless young man.

  The streets were crawling with soldiers. Half of them weren’t even soldiers a month ago, just city folk forced to pick up spears. They had conscripted so many people that even women were being pushed into formation now. If a person had two hands, they were sent to the walls. Arel couldn’t help thinking that forcing terrified civilians into the army might be the single biggest mistake this army had ever made, if his plan worked.

  Keeping his eyes down, he slipped through the main street and turned into a narrow alley, then another, until he reached a road lined with cramped bars and inns. This was where the desperate came to drown their dread. When he pushed open the door to the largest tavern—marked by the soft clink of a hanging bell—warm air and noise washed over him. It was only the afternoon, yet nearly every table was filled.

  Arel’s smile deepened. War always emptied pockets but filled taverns.

  He scanned the room once, caught the tavern owner’s eye, and gave him a small nod. Then he began weaving his way between tables.

  “Arel! You’re here! Come, sit with us!”

  Arel turned at the call, his expression brightening into the friendly persona he’d been wearing for weeks. In the corner sat a group of men he’d slowly warmed up to—former miners, shopkeepers, labourers—now unwilling soldiers in Thalric’s failing army.

  “I thought I’d find you all here,” Arel said warmly as he joined them, slipping easily into the illusion he’d crafted.

  Gael slid a mug toward him. “Where else could we be?” he grumbled. “Those bastards make us run at dawn, force us to practice spear forms till our arms fall off, then dump us on the walls like we’re slaves. Today’s the first free shift we got, so of course we came here.”

  Kaipo let out a tired laugh and rubbed his face. “I don’t even feel like going home to see my kids. If I go, I won’t have the heart to come back to the walls. Some days I swear I feel like grabbing a bow and shooting the prince myself.”

  The moment the words left his mouth, the table grew stiff. Gael shot him a sharp look and jerked his chin toward a group of soldiers at the far side of the tavern—real ones, not conscripts like them.

  “Hey, Kaipo,” Gael hissed. “Voice down.”

  But Kaipo only shrugged, anger simmering through his exhaustion. “What did I say wrong? They keep us up there day and night. We can barely see our families. And for what? To die the moment the barbarians show up at the gates? You heard the rumors.”

  Several men at the table muttered in agreement. The tiredness on their faces said more than their words ever could.

  One of the younger conscripts shot Arel a jealous look, lifting his mug. “Wish I had earned as much as you. I would’ve bribed those bastards to leave me alone.”

  Arel snorted into his ale. “Bribe them? Wouldn’t work for long.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “They’re squeezing more and more coins out of me now. They’ve already taken a chunk of the rations I brought to sell.” His shoulders sagged. “Once I’ve got nothing left to give… I’ll be worse off than all of you.”

  He let out a soft sigh and lowered his head, letting his shoulders slump the way a tired young merchant would.

  “Rather than this,” he muttered, voice small but loud enough for the table to hear, “I should’ve followed that merchant I knew and given everything to Duke Arzan. I’d be living far better by now… maybe even away from this war in Veralt.”

  The men at the table turned to him at once, surprise flickering across their faces. Gael leaned forward first, brows rising. “How would that make your situation better? Wouldn’t giving everything you own to the Duke leave you starving in a ditch?”

  Arel shook his head slowly, just as he had rehearsed dozens of times in his room.

  “No,” he said quietly. “I got a letter from that merchant before I came here. After giving everything he had to Duke Arzan, the Duke gave him a place to stay. An estate, mind you. He doesn’t even have to worry about food. The Duke promised him a good position after the war too.”

  A couple of men blinked at that, stunned.

  “And he’s not the only one,” Arel added. “Every merchant who did the same is getting benefits. Their families are safe in Sylvan Enclave. You know that part of the kingdom hasn’t even seen the shadow of war.”

  The men around him nodded slowly, eyes narrowing in thought. Arel hid a smile behind his mug. For days he had been dropping small comments like these, letting rumours of Sylvan Enclave and Duke Arzan’s treatment of civilians spread like warm honey through cold minds.

  Kaipo leaned in next, worry etched across his face. “Duke Arzan has conquered a fair bit, hasn’t he? Is he handling those places well? I heard he changed every city he captured.”

  Arel lifted his mug, pretending to think, though he already knew exactly what to say.

  “I don’t know every detail,” he said. “But from what I’ve heard, yes. He leaves the citizens alone. Doesn’t tear apart their homes. And…” Arel lowered his voice, letting reverence sharpen the edges of his words. “He’s a man of the Goddess Lumaris. Every city he enters, he rebuilds the churches first.”

  Ellis, who had barely spoken until now, finally lifted his head. His voice was quieter than the others, but it carried more weight because of it. “What about conscriptions?” he asked. His fingers tapped nervously against his mug, as if he already feared the answer.

  Arel leaned back slightly, pretending to think. “I haven't heard anything about that,” he said, lowering his voice to match Ellis’. “If I’m honest… if the gates were open for us to travel, I would’ve already tried to get to Matilla City. Viscountess Vaessa is one of Duke Arzan’s supporters, and she treats the citizens there the way he instructs.”

  That got their attention. Several men paused mid-sip. Ellis nodded slowly. “I also heard that Duke Arzan is there. Honestly… I haven’t heard anything bad about him these last few years.”

  A few heads bobbed in agreement. Someone muttered that they wished their own lords were half as competent. The ale loosened their tongues, and soon the tavern buzzed with comparisons—quiet ones at first, but growing braver with each shared frustration.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Through all of it, Arel kept stealing glances at the nearby tables.

  He saw exactly what he wanted: Thalric’s soldiers had begun to lean in. Their shoulders were tense. Their expressions were tight. They clearly didn’t like what they were hearing.

  Perfect.

  Arel hid his satisfaction behind his mug and went on in a casual tone, almost careless. “Yeah… at this point, I wouldn’t mind Duke Arzan taking over the city if even half the rumours about him are true.”

  The table fell silent for a heartbeat. The kind of silence that felt like someone dropped a stone into still water.

  Then Gael let out a breath. “Yes,” he said, voice shaking a little. “At least I wouldn’t be conscripted.”

  He pushed back his mug, leaning forward. “If he beat one of the princes already, I’m sure he’ll win the war. Then maybe—finally—we’ll be free of the royal family tearing each other apart.”

  More heads nodded. More voices murmured agreement.

  And just as the talk began to swell—just as Arel felt the tension shift toward something dangerous and useful—he noticed one of the soldiers rise from his seat across the tavern.

  The man’s boots thudded against the wooden floor as he walked straight toward them. Conversations died instantly. Mugs froze mid-air. And all of a sudden, people were holding their breaths.

  Gael swallowed and asked, voice tight, “Do you… need anything?”

  The soldier’s boots thudded against the wooden floor as he stopped beside their table, his jaw tight and eyes sharp.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about Prince Thalric,” he said. “And wishing for his defeat.”

  Arel put both hands on the table, keeping his expression calm. “We were just discussing things. We’re no one to wish anything about the prince.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me.” The soldier leaned closer, breath hot with ale and fury.

  “We aren’t. It’s just a—”

  A fist cracked across Arel’s face before he could finish. His head snapped to the side, the taste of copper filling his mouth as the soldier snarled, “Shut the fuck up, you traitor bastard!”

  The benches screeched back instantly. Gael shot to his feet, rage flashing in his eyes.

  “You think you can just punch him?” he barked and without another word, he slammed into the soldier, tackling him into the next table.

  Tankards toppled, ale splashed across the floor, and half the tavern lurched to get out of the way. The soldier hit the ground with a grunt, scrambling to rise.

  “How fucking dare you tackle me!” he spat.

  That was all it took. His friends at the other table sprang up like kicked dogs, their faces twisted with anger as they closed in on the group of conscripts.

  “You lot seem to forget you’re nothing more than slaves,” one soldier snapped, pointing at them with his chin. “Just because they shoved a spear in your hands doesn’t mean you can mouth off to real soldiers, or talk shit about King Thalric.”

  A ripple of anger passed through the conscripts. Some clenched their fists. Some stood half out of their chairs. But before any of them could speak, Arel wiped the blood from his lip and stepped forward.

  “He’s no king,” Arel said sharply. “Barely a prince. And you don’t get to talk like that when you’re forcing half the city into becoming meat shields. Thalric has done nothing but destroy this place.”

  “You dare—!” The tackled soldier lunged again, swinging at Arel, but this time Arel stepped aside smoothly, letting the punch slice through empty air.

  The tavern held its breath for a heartbeat, then everything exploded.

  Another fist swung past Arel’s cheek, close enough that he felt the air scrape across his skin. The soldier had overextended—too angry, too sure of himself—and Arel stepped in rather than back. His hand snapped out, catching the man by the collar, and with a twist of his hips he hurled him into the tavern wall. A dull thud shook the shelves, and bottles rattled on their hooks.

  Before the soldier could even breathe in to curse, Arel drove a hard kick straight into his groin.

  The man folded with a broken gasp, hitting the floor on his knees, both hands between his legs, eyes watering. Chairs scraped. Someone swore. Half the tavern seemed to lurch to its feet at once.

  Arel wiped the back of his hand across his cheek where he’d been struck, glaring down at the soldier.

  “Enough! We’re not going to keep getting kicked like mules for one prince’s ambition! Look around you—this city is dying because of them. They’ve destroyed everything for a war they’re already losing!” His eyes met the conscripts. “Do you want to go back to the walls? Listening to orders from men who will push you to your death at the first sign of enemy?”

  His words shook the air more than the punch ever had.

  Across the table, Gael stiffened. His fingers trembled before he slammed one of the mugs down, face twisted between anger and fear.

  “No,” he said, voice rough. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to die because these fuckers are incompetent.”

  A murmur rippled through the tavern—then another, louder. A dozen voices, then two dozen, rising like a wave. Not just the conscripts Arel had been drinking with, but strangers from the other tables too. Men and women who had been silent a minute ago now stood with clenched fists, muttering agreement.

  Eyes turned toward the cluster of soldiers at the far end of the room. Realisation dawned on those soldiers one by one—they were outnumbered, cornered, and the door was their only escape.

  Two of them made a run for it, panic plain on their faces, but the tavern owner stepped out from behind the counter. The old man moved faster than Arel expected, slamming the door shut and planting his back against it.

  “You aren’t going out now,” he said simply.

  One soldier shouted, “You can’t do this to us!”

  A conscript stepped forward, shoulders squared, jaw locked.

  “We can do anything. It’s our city. And we’re taking it back.”

  He didn’t wait for permission. No one did. The crowd surged as one.

  The first soldier went down under a storm of fists. Another tried to lift his spear, but a chair crashed into his side, sending him sprawling. Shouts filled the tavern—rage, pain, relief. Weeks of fear and resentment finally snapping loose in one violent moment.

  Soldiers were dragged from benches, shoved against walls, punched until they curled in on themselves. A table split in half.

  Arel stood at the center of it all, chest rising and falling, the heat of the room pressing against him. The scene was chaotic, messy, loud and brutal.

  Exactly what he wanted.

  And as he watched the soldiers get driven to the floor by the very people they had bullied for weeks, a slow, wicked smile tugged at Arel’s lips.

  The plan to kick out Thalric’s forces was going better than he’d dared hope.

  ***

  A/N - You can read 30 chapters (15 Magus Reborn and 15 Dao of money) on my patreon. Annual subscription is now on too.

  PS:

  Book 3 is officially launched!If you’re on Kindle Unlimited, you can read it for free—and even if you’re not buying, a quick rating helps more than you think. Also, it's free to rate and please download the book if you have Kindle unlimited. It helps with algorithm.