The garden bloomed in defiance of the world.
White stone paths curved through beds of winter flowers that should not have survived this far north, warmed by carefully laid channels of mana beneath the soil. A pavilion of pale marble stood at the garden's heart, its curtains stirring gently in the breeze.
A woman sat there, composed as a painting.
She lifted a porcelain cup with elegant fingers, steam curling upward as she sipped her tea. Long platinum-white hair spilled freely down her back, catching the sunlight like spun silver. Her golden eyes were calm, ancient in their stillness, reflecting more than the garden before her.
A servant approached and knelt.
"Lady Fiona," he said respectfully, head bowed. "Reports from the North."
She did not look at him yet. "Go on."
"The situation in Arkwright has… changed," the servant said carefully. "Frostvein and Blackmoor report losses. Their influence is slipping. The Count they meant to remove survived."
That earned her attention.
Her eyes lifted, sharp and curious. "Survived?"
"Yes, my lady. Not only that he has issued ultimatums. Forced houses to kneel. The Black Veil has refused further contracts against him."
Silence settled.
Then Fiona smiled.
Not wide. Not cruel.
Interested.
"So the boy lived," she murmured. "And now he bares his teeth."
She set her cup down gently. "Observe," she said. "For now."
The servant waited.
"If things spiral beyond control," Fiona continued calmly, "I will intervene."
He bowed deeply. "As you wish, my lady."
When he left, Fiona looked back toward the distant mountains, golden eyes gleaming.
"How very interesting," she whispered.
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Snow fell thick along the northern road.
An army marched through it—five thousand men bound beneath the banners of Frostvein and Blackmoor. Cloth snapped violently in the wind, colors dulled by ice and grime, while the steady rhythm of boots and armor echoed like a distant drumbeat across the frozen land.
At their head rode General Roderic Halvarn.
He was a broad-shouldered man in his early forties, beard streaked with iron-gray, his armor worn smooth at the edges from decades of use. Scars marked his hands old, honest wounds earned in battles fought face to face. His eyes, a muted steel-blue, never stopped moving, always counting, always measuring.
He had led men through worse than snow.
But this march unsettled him.
On the third night, a supply cart burned.
No torch. No drunken guard. Just sudden flame swallowing grain and dried meat while sentries swore nothing had been near it. Roderic watched the fire in silence, jaw clenched, already recalculating rations.
On the fifth day, men began to fall sick.
Not the common cold of winter marches but fevered delirium. Strong soldiers woke screaming from dreams they could not remember, hands shaking too badly to hold spears. Roderic ordered rest rotations, doubled watches, redistributed healers.
It wasn't enough.
By the seventh day, discipline frayed.
Voices dropped to whispers when officers passed.
The land doesn't want us.
Roderic heard it.
He didn't punish it.
He felt it too.
By the eighth morning, the white peaks marking Arkwright territory rose ahead, jagged against the gray sky. The wind cut sharper there, carrying the scent of iron and pine and something else. Something watchful.
Roderic raised his gauntleted hand.
The column slowed immediately.
"Prepare a delegation," he ordered, voice steady despite the ache in his chest. "One hundred men. No banners raised. No weapons drawn beyond ceremony."
An officer hesitated. "General… the lords—"
"I said honorably," Roderic cut in.
He looked back at the endless line of exhausted soldier's boys too young, veterans too tired, men sent by others who would never walk this road themselves.
"If this can end without more graves," he added quietly, "then it will."
He urged his horse forward, snow crunching beneath iron-shod hooves, and rode toward the waiting white peaks toward a Count who had chosen to stand where most nobles hid.
And for the first time since the march began,
General Roderic Halvarn hoped the enemy would speak before he was forced to fight.
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Valen Arkwright stood waiting.
Snow crunched beneath his boots as he faced the approaching force. Dark armor trimmed in silver hugged his frame, his cloak stirring behind him like a living shadow. Behind him stood Arkwright's soldiers fewer in number, but steady, their line unbroken.
Captain Edrik Frosthelm remained at Valen's right, sword resting against his shoulder, eyes sharp and unblinking.
General Roderic Halvarn halted his horse and dismounted.
He studied Valen openly, and despite himself, his brows rose. The Count had come in person.
Not hidden behind banners.
Not shielded by distance.
"You stand where most nobles would not," Roderic said, inclining his head. "Valen Arkwright."
Valen offered a faint smile. "Most nobles didn't survive the North long enough to build it."
Roderic's gaze shifted to the soldiers behind him. "The lords of Frostvein and Blackmoor demand your surrender. Lay down your arms, swear fealty, and your people will be spared. This is your final chance."
Valen didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he turned slightly. "Captain. Report."
Edrik's voice carried without hesitation. "Their march has bled them. Supplies are thin. Men are sick. Morale is failing."
Valen nodded, then faced Roderic again.
"You hear that?" Valen said calmly. "Your soldiers are already paying for decisions made by men who will never walk this road."
Roderic's jaw tightened. "Choose your words carefully, boy."
Valen stepped forward, boots sinking into snow.
"I didn't come here to kill Northerners," he said, voice carrying across the frozen field. "We've buried enough of our own. While we tear at each other, threats beyond these borders grow stronger."
A pause.
"I intend to unite the North," Valen continued. "Not rule its graves."
Roderic's eyes sharpened.
"Your lords sit in warm halls," Valen went on, "drinking wine while you lead their sons into winter and blood. They gamble with lives they do not value."
The general said nothing.
"If they stood here now," Valen said, "they would never accept what I'm about to offer."
Roderic narrowed his eyes. "Which is?"
Valen drew his sword not in threat, but in solemn ceremony. Steel rang once, clean and clear.
"Let this end here," Valen declared. "General to general. Blade to blade."
A murmur rippled through the gathered men.
"In the North," Valen said, "we were forged by steel and winter. When blood must be spilled, we do not waste it."
He lifted his blade and gestured toward the marching army.
"If I fall, Arkwright yields. My soldiers lay down their arms. No more Northern dead."
Then he turned the blade inward, resting it lightly against his own shoulder.
"But if you fall," Valen said quietly, "you will order your men to surrender. Alive."
Silence stretched.
A Count offering his own life to spare his people.
That was not how this was done.
Slowly, Roderic drew his sword and stepped forward, snow crunching beneath his boots.
"You shame the men who sent me," he said evenly. "And remind me why I once believed in this land."
He met Valen's gaze.
"The North remembers honor."
Snow fell heavier.
And the ground held its breath.
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