Chapter 96: The Black Propaganda
"They had archers stationed at the back of the walls," the commander said quickly, as if to justify their failure.
For the first time that night, something flickered in Turik’s eyes—something sharp and calculating.
"Indeed," he murmured, "General Odin is an exceptional strategist. He anticipated every move you made, Mayor."
Fuerte’s hands clenched into fists. His entire body trembled—not just with rage, but with a terrible, creeping realization. Had he backed the wrong side? Was he doomed?
"Did you send men to pursue them in Mount Roca?" he demanded.
The commander lowered his gaze again. "They’re on higher ground, Mayor. Pursuing them in the dead of the night would be suicide."
A wave of frustration crashed over Fuerte, his thoughts spinning wildly. He began pacing the room, his boots clicking against the wooden floor. "Magus, what now? You agreed to burn the town hall, and what did it accomplish? Nothing! Our soldiers even died by our hands." His voice cracked, raw with anger. He addressed the old advisor by his first name, showing the intensity of his anger.
Turik chuckled. A slow, deliberate sound that sent a shiver of irritation down Fuerte’s spine.
"Nothing?" Turik echoed, shaking his head with amusement. "Oh, Mayor... you underestimate the power of public hatred." He leaned forward, his lips curling into a sinister grin.
"Spread the word," he said smoothly. "Tell the people that the Northem soldiers burned the town hall. Let them believe it. Let them hate their supposed protectors. Fan the flames of their anger."
Fuerte’s eyes widened.