Chapter 6: The Lord's Command
The hall of Frosthold had never felt so full, nor so suffocating. Smoke from the torches curled upward, mingling with the faint stench of pitch and blood that still clung to every stone. The long tables were packed shoulder to shoulder with squires, knights, and grizzled men-at-arms. Every voice fell silent the moment Lord Carrow took his place at the high seat.
He wasted no words.
"The raiders struck and bled us," he said, his tone of iron. "They will come again. Their ships gather like crows beyond the horizon. Frosthold will not wait for its throat to be cut."
A ripple passed through the men. Some stiffened, others looked down at the scarred boards of the table. No one doubted him. The wounds of the raid were still fresh; the keep itself bore them like open sores.
Carrow's gaze swept the room, cold and calculating. "From this night forward, you train not as squires, but as soldiers. Any who can lift steel will stand in the line. Any who falters will be left behind. There is no mercy in the storm to come."
His words pressed down like a weight, a heavy hand on my chest. My stomach clenched, but I kept my head high. Around me, boys who only days before had argued over scraps of bread or games of dice now sat as if awaiting a death sentence.
"Master Hale," Carrow continued, "drill them until their arms break, then bind them and drill them again. They will not shame this keep."
Hale bowed his head once. "Aye, my lord."
"And you—" Carrow's eyes locked briefly on Joran, then flicked to me. "—I hear you stood firm when others faltered. Hold to it. Prove yourselves again, and perhaps this keep will yet have men worth the name."
Heat surged in my chest, pride and fear clashing together. I gave no answer but a stiff nod. Joran said nothing, his jaw set like stone.
Carrow rose, and the hall seemed to breathe again as he left, his guard trailing behind. But the air did not lighten. If anything, it grew heavier with the certainty of what was coming.
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The days that followed ground us to dust. Hale barked orders from dawn until the moon rose, his wooden staff cracking across our blades and shields. Blisters gave way to calluses, bruises to scars. Every strike was meant to harden us into something more than boys.
Joran thrived beneath the strain, his movements sharp, his strength undeniable. He became a figure others measured themselves against. I struggled to keep pace, every muscle screaming, yet something within me refused to yield. I would not break—not yet.
At night, when exhaustion threatened to drag me into oblivion, the visions returned—flashes of cities aflame, banners torn by storm winds, and armies marching across endless snow. Each dream left me shivering, the taste of ash thick on my tongue.
I could not tell them. Not Joran, not Hale, not anyone. Who would believe me?
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On the sixth day, the horn sounded again—not alarm, but summons. We gathered in the yard, armor half fastened, swords belted at our sides. Lord Carrow stood before us, his cloak snapping in the wind.
"A ship has been sighted," he announced. "Not a fleet. A single sail."
Relief flickered across some faces—too soon.
"It comes under a banner unknown to us," Carrow went on, his voice hard as steel. "It does not belong to the raiders. Nor to any ally we can name. They make for Frosthold's harbor. And they will answer to me."
A murmur rippled through the ranks. Unknown sails rarely brought good news. Eyes shifted nervously, hands tightened on hilts.
Carrow's eyes scanned the crowd once more. "I will meet them at the pier. A handful of you will join me." His finger lifted, pointed, and landed on Joran. Then, to my shock, on me.
Ice flowed through my veins.
Joran's hand brushed my arm briefly, steadying me for a heartbeat, before falling away. His eyes held a spark I could not read—pride, warning, or both.
We were chosen. But for what?
The ship was coming. And with it, I felt, so was the next shadow of the storm.
[End of Chapter]
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