Steel rang against steel beneath the pale northern sky.
Valen's blade cut through the air in a clean arc, frost misting faintly around the edge as it completed its path. He flowed into the next movement without pause pivot, step, strike each motion precise, economical, merciless. His upper body was bare despite the cold, skin slick with sweat that steamed faintly in the winter air. Muscles flexed and released in controlled rhythm, scars catching the light as he moved.
The training grounds were empty save for one other presence.
Evelynn sat at a long table near the edge of the yard; a stack of documents spread before her. Her posture was composed, expression focused, dark hair tied back loosely as her eyes scanned reports, supply tallies, intercepted messages threads of a web only she could see clearly.
Valen finished a sequence and rolled his shoulders once, exhaling slowly.
"You're pushing yourself harder than yesterday," Evelynn said without looking up.
Valen didn't stop moving. "Yesterday didn't try to kill me in my sleep."
She allowed herself a small smile, then glanced up at him. "Are you certain they won't try again? Groups like the Black Veil don't appreciate being embarrassed."
Valen's blade paused mid-guard.
"Oh, they won't," he said calmly. "I sent them a little gift."
XXXX
The headquarters of the Black Veil lay far from any city.
A fortress carved into stone and shadow, its halls layered with wards, false corridors, and kill zones meant to turn intruders into cautionary tales. Assassins moved silently through its depths, their presence felt more than seen.
The main hall was filled when the doors opened.
The released assassin stumbled inside.
Blood-stained. Hollow-eyed.
He walked to the centre of the chamber and stopped.
Every conversation died.
Every blade stilled.
He lifted his head.
"Arkwright is closed to your knives," he shouted, voice echoing off black stone. "If you value your lives, you will never take another contract against me."
For a heartbeat
Confusion.
The sigils carved into his flesh flared.
For a fraction of a second, the man at the center of the hall became a silhouette of blazing white light.
Then the explosion came.
Fire and force erupted outward in a violent shockwave, ripping through stone and air alike. The assassin's body was torn apart instantly flesh vaporized; bone reduced to fragments that slammed into pillars and walls with bone-crushing impact. The blast thundered through the chamber, hurling nearby assassins off their feet as the floor cracked open beneath the epicentre.
Shattered stone rained down.
The smell of scorched metal and burnt blood filled the hall.
When the smoke cleared, nothing remained at the center but a blackened crater and fragments embedded deep into the surrounding walls.
Silence followed.
Not confusion.
Not panic.
Understanding.
The leader of the Black Veil rose slowly from his seat, cloak settling around him like a shroud.
"So," he said quietly.
He surveyed the ruined stone, the embedded shards, the trembling assassins.
"Lock the compound," he ordered. "Seal every route. Double the wards. Triple them if necessary."
He turned to one of his lieutenants, eyes cold.
"Send word to our clients. The assassination has failed. We will take no further contracts against Valen Arkwright."
A pause.
"And make it clear," he added, voice dropping, "that if they attempt another approach through another blade or another name, we will not stand between them and what comes next."
No one spoke.
The Black Veil had spoken.
XXXX
The inner gardens of Frostvein were untouched by winter.
Heated stone paths cut clean lines through rows of perfectly trimmed hedges, steam rising softly from vents hidden beneath the snow. Statues of old warriors stood half-buried in white, their stone faces eternally stern, eternally victorious.
Two men walked side by side.
The first ruled Frostvein.
The second ruled Blackmoor.
Their cloaks bore different colors, but their expressions shared the same irritation.
"The Black Veil rejecting the contract changes nothing," the lord of Blackmoor said coldly. "It only proves the boy relied on theatrics."
The lord of Frostvein scoffed. "Twenty years old. Barely a month on the throne. He thinks theatrics will make him feared."
A servant approached, careful, deferential, head bowed low. "My lords. A message from Arkwright."
The parchment was unfolded.
The message was short.
Submit willingly or be made to.
The Frostvein lord laughed aloud. "Listen to him. Fear, dressed up as authority."
Blackmoor's lord's eyes hardened. "Then we stop pretending. No more intermediaries. No more shadows."
"Agreed," Frostvein said. "We strike openly. A frontal advance. Let him see what real banners look like when they move."
"Numbers," Blackmoor added. "Steel. Tradition. The North will follow strength."
They turned, already discussing routes, supply lines, marching orders never noticing the servant standing a step too close, listening too carefully.
Nor did they know that half the gardeners tending Frostvein's immaculate grounds were not sworn to Frostvein at all.
As the two lords departed, the head of Frostvein paused.
"Send word to the Watcher," he said. "Tell them the Black Veil failed. Tell them Arkwright is forcing our hand."
The servant bowed deeply.
"Yes, my lord."
He turned and walked away.
High above the gardens, snow began to fall.
And in Arkwright, the Count waited.
XXXX
Back in Arkwright, steel rang once more.
Valen completed his final form and lowered his sword, breathing evenly. Frost evaporated from the blade as he wiped it clean and set it aside. He walked toward Evelynn, towel slung over one shoulder.
"Any updates?" he asked casually.
Evelynn looked up then paused.
Her expression shifted.
Subtle. Controlled. But unmistakable.
A servant had approached her table and whispered a single sentence.
Evelynn dismissed him with a nod and met Valen's gaze.
Before she could speak
Valen smiled.
Not faintly.
Fully.
"So," he said, already knowing. "They chose force."
Evelynn exhaled slowly. "Yes. And they've reached out to someone else."
Valen's smile didn't fade.
Instead, he stepped closer and caught Evelynn by the waist, drawing her in with an ease that spoke of habit rather than impulse. She went willingly, one arm sliding around his neck, her body warm against his still-cooling skin.
Yet her eyes remained searching.
Concern lingered there sharp, intelligent, unwilling to be soothed by confidence alone.
"You're certain?" she asked softly. "This time they're not hiding. They're coming openly."
Valen looked down at her, blue-green eyes steady, untroubled.
In fact, his smile sharpened.
"Good," he said.
Evelynn studied his face for a moment longer, then exhaled slowly and rested her forehead against his shoulder. If the storm was inevitable, then she would stand at its center with him.
The wind stirred across the training grounds, carrying the scent of snow and iron, lifting her dark hair and tracing cold fingers along bare skin.
Somewhere, far beyond the North, a new player had just been invited onto the board.
And Valen Arkwright
Already stood waiting.