The court was behind her, for now. The rumors still clung like smoke, but Zareena had walked out of the storm standing tall.
Now back at the estate temporarily, she moved swiftly—before another scheme could root.
Letters were sent before dawn.
By noon, she was sitting across from a grim-faced mercenary captain in a quiet corner of a weapons market near the city's edge. He didn't ask many questions—just eyed her guards and her coin.
"I don't need your swords," Zareena told him plainly. "I need grain. Wool. Iron. Leather. And I need you to get it past the blockades."
The mercenary's brow lifted. "And what's in it for us?"
She handed him a sealed agreement—one drafted by her own hand. Protection. Trade rights in the north. A foothold no other noble dared promise.
Later that day, she found herself in a dusty apothecary shop tucked between two bakeries. It smelled of fennel, crushed root, and slow death. The woman who ran it had one eye and a sharper tongue than most generals.
"Let me guess," the apothecary said, not looking up. "You need someone who can treat frostbite, fever, and field wounds with three herbs and no miracles?"
Zareena smiled. "You'll be paid in coin and safety."
The woman looked up. "I don't believe in nobles."
"Good," Zareena said. "I'm not one of them."
By the end of the week, her ledger was full of contracts—not for court favor or silk, but for iron, flour, wool, and ashwood. The kinds of things needed to keep a town alive when war comes knocking again.
And war would come.
She could feel it. In the way the ravens flew lower. In the silence of her messengers on the western roads.
But this time, Vireloch would not be caught starving or shivering.
This time, they would be ready.