Tale of Conquerors-Chapter 135: Act I / Iron in the Veins

The room was smaller this time—no banners, no servants, no silver trays to mask the raw intent within—just stone, dust, and strategy, a chamber carved deep into the bowels of Branthelm Hall. Its walls pressed close, cold to the touch, smoothed only by age and the faint sheen of firelight, their gray surfaces pocked with time's quiet scars. The air hung heavy with the musty scent of old parchment, its brittle edges curling on the table, mingling with the sharp tang of iron from the sword rack in the corner, where blades gleamed dully, their hilts wrapped in worn leather. A single hearth burned low, its embers glowing a sullen red, casting flickering shadows that danced across the map-strewn table and the men seated around it—men who no longer spoke of courtly affairs, but of futures stolen or forged in silence, their breaths fogging faintly in the chill.

Count Alric Deren sat with his fingers steepled, his sharp features unreadable in the dim glow, the firelight carving deep lines into his angular face, his dark eyes glinting like polished steel. Viscount Prell hunched beside him, restless, his pale hazel eyes darting with a nervous sheen, his slender frame taut beneath a wool cloak that rustled faintly as he shifted. Baron Elric Maddel, gaunt and thin-lipped, tapped one foot on the stone floor in a soft, insistent rhythm, the sound a faint echo against the walls, his skeletal hands folded tightly before him. And Baron Vaust, broad as two men, leaned forward in his seat, his heavy hands resting on his knees, his thick fingers flexing, the creak of his chair a low groan under his weight.

The only man standing was Duke Branton Mervaille, arms crossed, his silhouette framed by the hearth's dancing glow, the light catching the silver thread in his dark doublet and painting his lean form in shifting hues of shadow and flame.

"I spoke with one of my guild contacts in Westmere," Vaust began, his voice low and gravelly, rumbling like stones shifting in a quarry. "He says Dominion traders are paying three times the standard rate for certain materials—tungsten, refined oils, high-grade coal. Bulk shipments. Quiet orders. No fanfare."

Maddel looked up, his sunken eyes narrowing. "And?"

Vaust's jaw clenched, a muscle twitching beneath his weathered skin. "And they're feeding it all into their black forges. The ones that deal with Tenebrium."

The temperature in the room seemed to dip, the air growing colder, heavier, as if the word itself carried a chill. Branton's eyes narrowed, glinting like frost on steel. Alric sat forward, now listening intently, his steepled fingers parting as he leaned on the table's edge.

"Tenebrium," he said, his voice a low growl, testing the weight of it. "They're accelerating?"

"Yes," Vaust replied, his thick hands curling into fists. "That cursed alloy—light as myth, strong as vengeance. Silent. Sharp. You don't hear the cut, you just feel the heat and fall. My contact's nephew saw Dominion riders skirmishing with desert raiders near the Spine Hills. He said their blades tore through hardened leather like parchment soaked in rain, the edges gleaming black even in the dust."

"They've always had access to the ore," Prell muttered, though his voice wavered, lacking conviction, his fingers tracing the table's grain nervously.

"But now they're investing in it," Vaust countered, his tone hardening, eyes fixed on the fire. "Not just for war—for infrastructure. Workshops are being built around it—not just swords, but specialized tools. Measuring gear. Gear for shaping repeatable parts. They're advancing. Quickly."

"Guild-level craftsmanship," Maddel murmured, his voice a faint thread, his foot stilling as he leaned closer. "Or better."

"Word is," Vaust added, his breath fogging briefly, "they're producing tools that rival our own master forges. And the guilds are beginning to take notice, their whispers reaching the trade halls."

Alric frowned, drumming his fingers against the table's edge, the soft tap a counterpoint to the hearth's crackle. "That level of output... they're planning for more than defense."

"They're laying the foundation for self-reliance," Branton said, stepping forward from the hearth, his boots scuffing the stone, voice steady as the bedrock around them. "Not for battle. For statehood."

"How many workshops?" Alric asked, his gaze piercing the dimness.

"Thirty confirmed," Vaust answered, his voice rough with certainty. "Maybe more under construction. The black metal facilities are still under government control. But everything else? Being sold to locals—craftsmen backed by loans, Dominion-backed loans, funded through the state's coin reserves. But all payments, all trade, run through Varenian marks."

Prell blinked, his pale eyes widening. "Our own currency?"

"They're not minting their own," Vaust said, his thick neck shifting as he shrugged. "Not yet. They're using our system to stabilize theirs. Their traders walk into Varenian markets with coin stamped by our mints—it's... clever. No resistance, no friction. Just quiet growth."

Alric let out a long, cold breath, fogging in the air before him. "They want to be taken seriously. They want their economy to be seen as compatible. Familiar."

"They're softening the merchants first," Maddel added, his thin lips tightening. "And the guilds. Not the throne."

"Soon," Branton murmured, his voice a low rumble, eyes glinting with dark intent. "The Dominion's strength is not only in iron—it's in imitation. And ambition. The way they've structured their lending system, the way they're investing in standardization—it's not just production. It's strategy."

Prell leaned back, his chair creaking faintly, the sound sharp in the quiet. "And if they shift from farming tools to spearheads? From plows to polearms?"

"They could equip an army in silence," Alric finished, his voice cutting through the stillness, hands stilling on the table. "One we wouldn't see coming until the banners were already raised."

"But they're not preparing for war," Prell said, his tone wavering, a question more than a statement. "Are they?"

Branton's gaze was like ice, unyielding, piercing the haze of smoke. "No. They're preparing to endure one."

He stepped to the map wall, unfurling a scroll with a soft rustle, revealing the Dominion's frontier in clean, bold lines—major roads etched in black, mining sites dotted in red, trade paths threading through the expanse. Red ink marked the Tenebrium forge clusters, stark against the parchment; black circles noted workshop expansion zones, their sprawl like a creeping shadow.

"The Dominion isn't stockpiling to march tomorrow," he said, his finger tracing a forge cluster. "They're stockpiling to outlive tomorrow. Every coin spent now buys a decade of stability. What we're watching is not a rebellion—it's a slow coronation."

The room fell silent, the hearth's embers hissing softly, their glow dimming.

Vaust's shoulders shifted uneasily, his bulk creaking the chair. "And we've given them the time to do it."

"No," Branton corrected, his voice sharp, turning from the map. "The King gave them time. We will use that against him."

His eyes hardened, glinting like iron in the firelight. "If they're doubling down on Tenebrium, we press that in court. We present it as an arms race—a challenge to Varenian sovereignty, a sign of separatism. We don't cry treason—we whisper preparation. Let the nobles see shadows. We'll make them believe they're real."

"The King will resist," Maddel said, his foot resuming its soft tap, voice low. "He still views the Dominion as a diplomatic win. A puppet that stays quiet."

"Then we remind him," Branton said, his tone smooth, resolute, "what happens when arms are raised without heraldry. We stir fear. We feed uncertainty. And when panic comes... the Kingdom will act."

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Prell's eyes narrowed, his fingers tightening on his chair's armrest. "And when they march west..."

"The eastern front will thin," Alric said, a faint smirk tugging his lips. "And with Eldoria's next push—"

"The throne stumbles," Branton finished, his voice a quiet blade, cutting through the air. "And in that stumble, we rise."

They sat in silence, watching the firelight flicker on the map's edges, the red ink glowing like blood against the parchment.

The Dominion's strength was not the threat—it was the illusion of peace, a quiet growth that masked its iron core. That was what scared them most.

In the stillness, the air seemed to thrum with unseen tension—the beat of marching feet not yet summoned, the faint ring of Tenebrium blades being tested in secret forges, the weight of history teetering on a quiet lie.

Branton raised his cup—not to toast, but to seal the plan, the pewter cold against his palm, its surface etched with faint scratches.

"The Dominion sharpens its tools," he said, his voice steady, commanding. "Let us sharpen our story."

And the others nodded, their silhouettes stark against the dying fire, agreement sealed in the cold, dusty air.

Because power did not always need armies.

Sometimes, it only needed fear.