The Banks of the Northreach River – Makeshift Paper Mill. Two Weeks After the Debt Payment.
A pungent stench, reminiscent of rotten eggs, choked the air along the rushing riverbanks. It was the acrid reek of sulfur and simmering wood pulp.
"I swear, Rianor, this smell is unbearable," Lady Rumina complained, pressing a silk handkerchief to her nose. She wore a heavy leather apron over a dress that had already been stained with grime. "If my friends back at art school saw me now—working as a wood pulp cook—they'd burst into tears."
Sir Rianor, currently inspecting a fine wire mesh screen, let out a dry chuckle.
"Bear with it, Rumi. That's the scent of money," Rianor said. "In this world, people write on parchment made of sheepskin or vellum from calves. It's expensive, bulky, and reeks of old leather. If we can master making paper from wood fibers, we'll hold a monopoly on the media itself."
Rianor lifted the screen. Atop it lay a thin, even layer of wet pulp. He pressed the excess water out and laid it onto a heated copper plate to dry.
A few minutes later, Rianor peeled back the result.
A single sheet of paper.
It was ivory-white, thin, smooth, and remarkably light.
"Voila," Rianor murmured.
Rhea, who had been sitting in the corner of the shack sharpening her daggers, approached. She ran her fingers over the surface.
"Unbelievable... it's so smooth," Rhea remarked. "It's like eighty-gram bond paper, but in a fantasy setting. We're going to sell this?"
"No," Rianor replied, a cunning glint in his eyes. "We aren't going to sell blank paper. We're going to sell the words written on it."
Rianor laid the sheet on a table and picked up a quill dipped in black ink.
"Roland reported that Duke Varkas has started a smear campaign against us in the Capital. He's claiming we obtained our gold through banditry or the dark arts."
"So we're going to counter his lies?" Rumina asked.
"Not with lies. With facts," Rianor smirked. "Rhea, you were a Literature major. Write this down."
Rianor dictated the headline in a booming voice.
"THE NORTHERN SCANDAL: IS DUKE VARKAS HOARDING GRAIN WHILE THE PEOPLE STARVE?"
Rhea arched an eyebrow. "Seriously? We're going with clickbait?"
"It has to be sensational. Beneath that, write down the leaks we gathered from the original Rianor's memories—the illegal tolls Varkas is collecting at the southern border, and his hidden mistress in the port city."
"God, this is total tabloid gossip," Rhea laughed, her hand beginning to glide across the paper in elegant, flowing script.
"We'll print five hundred copies using basic woodblock techniques. Then, we seed them in border taverns, marketplaces, and the Capital itself."
"And the goal?" Rumina asked innocently.
"To shatter his soldiers' morale and turn the other nobles against him," Rianor answered coldly. "Ancient warfare is all about information. Whoever controls the narrative, wins the war."
Three Days Later – A Tavern in the Borderlands.
(Neutral Territory between Sudrath and Valerius)
The tavern was packed with merchants and mercenaries taking a midday break. Suddenly, a cloaked man—one of Garrick's spies—entered and "accidentally" left a stack of papers scattered across the tables.
A stout merchant picked up a sheet.
"What is this? The parchment is so fine... soft as silk."
He began to read. His eyes widened.
"What?! Duke Varkas is planning to raise bridge tolls by twenty percent next month in secret?!"
"What?!" another merchant snatched the paper. "That bastard! No wonder my margins are getting thinner!"
At another table, a group of mercenaries read the gossip section.
"Hey, look at this! 'Duke Varkas spent a thousand gold on his dog's birthday party, while his gate guards' wages are two months overdue.'"
"Son of a..." one of the mercenaries grumbled, a man who happened to have served under Varkas once. "That sounds like him. I was there. He's a stingy prick."
Within hours, the papers—dubbed "The Northern Voice"—spread from hand to hand. Its contents became the talk of the town. Anger simmered. It wasn't the edge of a sword that cut them, but the weight of the words.
House Valerius Castle – The Duke's Study.
CRASH!
Duke Varkas, a massive man with a thick red beard, slammed his fist into his desk until the wood splintered. In his hand was a crumpled wad of Rianor's paper.
"Who... WHO WROTE THIS?!" Varkas roared, his face a violent shade of crimson.
Baron Gorm, standing before him, bowed in trembling fear.
"T-there is no author listed, my Lord. But... this paper... the quality is..."
"I don't care about the paper!" Varkas shrieked. "The contents! Everyone is talking about me! Merchants are refusing to pass through my lands! My own soldiers are whispering about pay raises!"
Varkas tore the paper to shreds.
"Sudrath... it has to be those Sudrath rats."
Varkas strode to the window, staring North. Hatred burned in his eyes like a forest fire.
"Gorm!"
"Y-yes, my Lord?"
"Mobilize the troops. Not for debt collection. For war."
Varkas turned, his eyes wild with madness.
"They want to play with fire? I'll bring them hell. We march on Iron Hearth in one month. Burn it all to the ground. And find out who wrote this trash—then cut out their tongue!"
Iron Hearth Castle – The War Room.
Sir Rianor laid the intelligence report on the map table. The Sudrath family was gathered in full.
"The bait has been taken," Rianor said calmly, though his heart was hammering against his ribs. "Varkas is incensed. He's mobilizing."
"How many?" Lucian asked.
"Garrick's intel estimates... roughly three thousand infantry and five hundred cavalry," Rianor replied.
Roland swallowed hard. "We have thirty village boys, fifty of Garrick's mercenaries, and... the nine of us."
"Thirty-five hundred against ninety," Riven muttered, crossing his massive arms over his chest. He didn't look afraid; instead, a feral grin played on his lips. "The math looks abysmal, Rianor."
"On paper, we lose," Rianor admitted. He pointed to the map, specifically a narrow valley that served as the only entrance to Northreach. Mist Valley.
"But this isn't a standard battlefield. This is Tower Defense."
Rianor picked up a knight chess piece and placed it in the valley.
"We aren't going to fight them in the open. We're going to drag them into Mist Valley. There, their numbers will count for nothing."
Rianor looked at Rumina.
"Rumi, is the stock ready?"
Rumina nodded hesitantly. "It is, Rianor. But... it's an explosive. If we mess up the mixture, we're the ones who'll go up in smoke first."
"Explosives?" Aurelia asked, stunned. "Since when did you children start making bombs?"
"Not modern bombs, Mother," Rianor reassured her. "Just... simple Black Powder. Gunpowder. A mixture of sulfur, charcoal, and potassium nitrate."
Rianor looked at his father, Duke Lucian.
"Father, Varkas wants a conventional war. We're going to give him a guerrilla nightmare. We will turn Mist Valley into a mass grave for that 'Iron Pig' and his army."
Lucian stood up, his aura as a General flaring to its full, intimidating height.
"Sir Riven. Ready the troops."
"Lady Rhea. Prepare the traps."
"Sir Rianor. Ensure your 'fireworks' are on time."
"Let us welcome them," Lucian said coldly.