The problem with war was that it never asked for permission before arriving at your doorstep.

  Reivan had been dealing with rumors, noble politics, and the Church’s meddling when word arrived. A border conflict had broken out—mysteriously, suddenly, and in a way that was far too convenient to be anything but deliberate. Reports were scattered, but the general picture was clear: a group of armed forces, supposedly bandits, had attacked a trade route along the Holy Kingdom’s border.

  But the thing about "bandits" was that they usually weren’t well-funded, well-armed, or suspiciously well-positioned to attack at a moment when Reivan’s influence was under scrutiny.

  The timing was too perfect.

  The empire had sent word—since it was his mercenaries protecting the trade routes in that region, he was expected to deal with the problem. The message had been polite but firm.

  "This will be a test of your capabilities."

  That was noble speak for "If you fail, we’ll strip you of power."

  So now, instead of resting, Reivan was riding towards a battlefield he hadn’t chosen, trying to prevent a manufactured conflict from spiraling into something worse.

  He had brought Garm with him, obviously. Because if anyone enjoyed a fight a little too much, it was Garm.

  The mercenary was grinning as he rode beside him. "You look like you’d rather be anywhere else."

  "I would," Reivan said dryly.

  "Come on, this is your first real fight! I mean, your first official one. The one where people expect you to do leader things."

  "Leader things?"

  "You know, wave your hand and say something inspiring before the battle. Maybe throw in a speech about honor."

  Reivan sighed. "I’ll pass."

  Garm chuckled. "Fine, fine. I’ll do the yelling. You do the smart parts."

  The camp was already being set up when they arrived. His mercenaries—the Red Fang and the newly absorbed Reapers—were organized into rough formations. Unlike imperial soldiers, mercenaries didn’t waste time on ceremony. They prepared because they had to survive.

  Garm strode in like he owned the place, which he partially did. The men greeted him with respect, and even the newer recruits followed his orders without hesitation.

  Reivan watched from the edge of the camp, noting the preparations.

  The "bandits" had already attacked once, but they had retreated quickly, almost like they had been testing the defenses rather than actually trying to break through. That only confirmed his suspicions.

  This wasn’t some random raid.

  This was a staged event, and they were waiting for his response.

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  Sylpkx stood next to him, arms crossed. "You’re thinking too much again."

  "It’s a bad habit," Reivan muttered.

  She smirked. "So? What’s your read?"

  "It’s obvious," he said. "This isn’t a real conflict. It’s a probe."

  "From the Church?"

  "Or someone else trying to force my hand," he said. "Either way, they want a reaction. They want me to look like a warlord overstepping his place. If I handle this wrong, the nobles will finally have their excuse to strip me of power."

  Sylpkx’s eyes glinted with something sharp. "So handle it right."

  Easier said than done.

  By the time the enemy made their next move, Garm was already in position.

  The attack came at dusk—typical for mercenaries and "bandit" forces, but a poor choice if your opponent was expecting it.

  And Reivan?

  Reivan had been expecting it.

  Garm led the front charge with his usual enthusiasm, bellowing like a man who had waited too long for a good fight. His forces met the enemy head-on, but that was never the real battle.

  Because while the enemy was focused on the mercenaries in front of them, Reivan had already sent a second force through the ridgeline.

  A group of Reapers, led by veterans who didn’t believe in fair fights.

  So when the "bandits" realized they were surrounded from both sides, they hesitated.

  And that was all it took.

  Garm never wasted a chance. The moment the enemy faltered, he pushed hard, breaking their formations. The Reapers collapsed from behind, cutting off their retreat.

  It wasn’t a battle.

  It was a massacre.

  By the time the fighting stopped, the enemy had lost half their forces. The survivors surrendered quickly.

  Garm wiped a bit of blood off his gauntlet and looked back at Reivan. "So. Was that good enough for your leadership test?"

  Reivan exhaled. "It’s not over yet."

  Because this fight wasn’t the real battle.

  The real battle was figuring out who sent them.

  The captured men were too well-equipped to be bandits, but none of them would talk. At least, not yet.

  Reivan studied the battlefield, his mind already shifting to the next step.

  Sylpkx walked up, kicking one of the discarded weapons. "This is imperial steel."

  Reivan’s eyes narrowed.

  That meant the weapons came from inside the empire.

  Which meant this wasn’t just the Holy Kingdom’s doing.

  Someone inside the empire had helped stage this.

  He turned to the captured commander. The man was young, barely out of his twenties, but his posture was too disciplined for a normal mercenary.

  "Who do you work for?" Reivan asked.

  The man didn’t answer.

  Reivan sighed, rubbing his temples. "Look. I don’t enjoy torture."

  The man visibly tensed.

  "Not because it’s cruel," Reivan continued, "but because it’s messy." He looked at the prisoners. "And really, I don’t have time for messes right now. So let’s make this simple."

  He crouched down, keeping his voice level. "You’re not a mercenary. You’re not a bandit. You’ve been placed here to create a conflict that doesn’t exist. If I had to guess, you were given just enough orders to believe this was a real job, but not enough to question the people paying you. Am I right?"

  The man flinched, just slightly.

  That was all Reivan needed.

  He smiled. "Good. That means you’re not beyond saving. So let’s try this again. Who sent you?"

  The man swallowed. His eyes darted to his own men, some of whom were already looking uncertain.

  Doubt.

  That was Reivan’s opening.

  "You think your employers are going to protect you?" Reivan asked. "Because I have bad news. The moment this plan failed, you were already dead to them."

  The man hesitated.

  Then, finally, he spoke.

  "The Church," he whispered. "And… a noble. But I don’t know who."

  Reivan exchanged a glance with Sylpkx.

  There it was.

  Proof that someone inside the empire was working with the Holy Kingdom.

  This skirmish had been a setup. But instead of trapping him, they had handed him a weapon.

  Reivan stood, looking over the battlefield, then back to the prisoners.

  He had won the battle.

  But now, he had the means to win something bigger.

  Because if there was one thing nobles feared more than war, it was being caught.

  And Reivan was going to make them regret playing this game.