Chapter 7: The Stranger's Sail
The harbor of Frosthold lay cold and gray beneath the morning sky, its waters dark as hammered iron. Waves lapped against the stone pier in a rhythm too slow, too heavy—like the heartbeat of something vast and waiting just beyond the horizon. The wind carried salt and smoke, reminders of the fires that still smoldered from the raid two nights past. Scorched beams jutted from the shore like broken teeth, proof that peace had already been shattered.
Out of that bleak horizon, the ship came.
It was no proud vessel of the northern clans, no trader's galley bright with banners. Its sail was patched and weatherworn, sagging in the cold wind, bearing a sigil none among us knew: a black sun riven by jagged cracks, as though light itself had splintered and died. The sight of it clawed at my chest, for I had seen that mark before—if not in life, then in dream. In visions where snow turned red and skies broke apart.
Lord Carrow rode ahead, his cloak snapping like a banner in the wind, his presence cutting as sharp as steel. Joran and I followed on foot, guards fanning out with spears leveled, boots ringing against the stone. The air felt tight, drawn to a single point, every breath bound to the same unspoken question: was this ship come as friend—or as foe?
The vessel groaned as it touched the pier. No war cry, no hail, no flight of arrows—only silence. Even the gulls had vanished from the sky.
Then a plank dropped against stone with a crack that echoed too loud in the hush. A figure stepped ashore.
He was tall, wrapped in dark furs that trailed behind him like raven wings caught in the wind. Ink traced his face—lines and sigils etched in blue across pale skin, winding over his cheekbones and brow. One eye was storm-gray, alive with watchful light. The other was clouded white, like frozen glass. He bore no sword, no shield, no banner. Only a staff capped with iron, plain and heavy as a burial stone.
The guards shifted uneasily. Even Carrow's jaw tightened, though his voice, when it came, was steady as iron.
"Name yourself."
The stranger's gaze swept across us, slow as the tide, pausing on Joran, then on me. When he spoke, his voice rolled deep, carrying the weight of distant thunder.
"I am Kael of the Broken Shore. I bring warning."
A murmur stirred the men, low and uneasy, but Carrow silenced it with a hand raised high.
"Then speak truth. Frosthold has no time for riddles."
Kael inclined his head, unbothered by steel points or hard stares.
"The raid you endured was no chance. The clans gather, yes—but not for plunder. They are driven, bound by something older than thrones. Something that stirs in the deep snows." His clouded eye fixed on me, cold and unblinking. "The storm you fear is no longer coming. It has begun."
The words struck me like a hammer blow. In the space of a heartbeat I saw again the shadows of my visions: the frozen plain, the broken sky, the black sun hanging above a field of corpses. For nights I had feared these glimpses were nothing but madness gnawing at me. Yet here stood a man who spoke them as truth.
Carrow's face was carved from stone, yet a flicker betrayed him—distrust warring with the weight of Kael's words.
"And why," he asked slowly, "bring this warning here? Why to Frosthold?"
Kael's reply was simple, heavy with certainty.
"Because your walls will be the first tested. If Frosthold falls, the coast burns. If you stand, perhaps others may yet rise beside you."
The silence that followed pressed as heavy as the sea itself. The guards' hands tightened on their spears. Beside me, Joran's hand brushed his hilt. His voice was low, sharp with suspicion.
"This reeks of trap."
"Maybe," I whispered back. "But what if he's right?"
Kael's eyes found mine again. Gray and white, steady and knowing. It felt as though he saw not only the man before him, but the visions that haunted my nights. The hair at my nape rose.
Carrow broke the silence at last.
"If you mean truth, you'll prove it. Frosthold does not bend to strangers' words. Until then, you walk under my watch."
Kael bowed slightly, unshaken. "So be it."
Guards moved in around him, steel at the ready, but he did not resist. Only once did he turn, mismatched eyes meeting mine. A faint, knowing smile ghosted his lips, gone as quickly as it came.
I shivered, though the wind had stilled.
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That night, Frosthold whispered with unease. Some called the stranger a prophet, others named him spy. Men muttered in the halls, torches burned lower, and even the stones seemed restless beneath our feet.
But I lay awake with his words echoing in my skull: It has begun.
And for the first time since the raid, I wondered if my visions were not a curse—
but a chain binding me to what was coming, a fate already written in the snow.
[End of Chapter ]
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