The great hall of Veyren Keep felt colder than the scaffold had.
The vaulted ceiling, painted with scenes of past victories, seemed almost mocking now. Frost clung stubbornly to the stained-glass windows despite the roaring hearths, as though the very stones of the keep mourned its fall. The long oaken table in the center was filled end to end with nobles, retainers, and soldiers—every eye fixed on the empty high seat at the far end.
Aldrin walked the length of the hall with measured steps, his black cloak dragging lightly against the frost-dusted floor. Conversations hushed as he passed.
Duke Greyheart, seated among the guests as though he owned the place, was the first to speak when Aldrin reached the dais.
"The seat of House Veyren will not remain empty," he said, his voice smooth, calculated. "By the rites of succession, and by the choice of the surviving vassals… we name Aldrin Von Veyren as the fourteenth head of his house."
Aldrin stood before the high seat. He let the silence stretch, long enough to make a few men shift uncomfortably. Only then did he lower himself into it. The chair felt far too large, its carved wolf heads watching him with eternal, frozen judgment.
"I accept," he said simply. His tone was calm, but his eyes swept the hall like a blade, memorizing who met his gaze and who looked away.
An aging steward stepped forward, holding the silver circlet of lordship. Aldrin bowed his head only slightly as it was placed upon his dark hair. It was cold against his skin.
The formalities continued—oaths of loyalty recited by the remaining vassals, signatures in the great ledger, the presentation of the house seal. Aldrin endured it all with the same unreadable expression. Inside, his thoughts moved like quicksilver.
Every word of loyalty was weighed. Every subtle pause in their vows noted. The faces that looked too eager to swear, and the ones that could barely force the words past their lips—he catalogued them all.
When the last oath was spoken, Aldrin addressed them.
"My father's death will not be the end of Veyren," he said. "The snows may retreat for a season, but winter always returns. Those who stand with me will weather the storm. Those who do not…" His gaze rested for a moment on the far side of the table, where his uncle, Lord Hadrien, sat with the faintest curl of a smile. "…will find the cold far less forgiving."
The words hung in the air, sharper than any sword.
Greyheart clapped politely, though the gesture was slow, deliberate—mocking. "Well spoken for one so young. May your rule bring… stability."
The meeting broke soon after, but the tension lingered like a blade's shadow.
As the hall emptied, Aldrin remained seated. The snow outside had begun to fall heavier, casting pale light through the tall windows. His steward, Master Keldrin, approached quietly.
"You played your part well, my lord," the man murmured, bowing. "But you should know—the hall had ears today. And some of them will carry your words far from here."
"Let them," Aldrin said without looking up. "The cold travels faster than gossip."
But when the steward withdrew, Aldrin's gaze drifted to his uncle's empty chair. Hadrien had left the hall early, speaking to no one.
The boy lord leaned back in the high seat, his fingers tapping against the armrest in a slow, thoughtful rhythm.
Already, he could smell the rot in his own walls.