The wind howling through the "Needle's Eye" gorge was deafening, but the sound of the axe biting into the hemp rope was louder.
We stood on the far side of the chasm. The captured spies were bound and gagged in the back of the prisoner cart. Ser Garrick stood by the anchor post, his axe raised.
"Do it," I ordered.
Garrick swung. The thick hemp, already half-sawed by the traitors, snapped instantly.
The massive iron chains whipped back with a sound like a cracking whip. The wooden bridge, deprived of its tension, twisted violently and collapsed. Planks and beams rained down into the mist below, crashing into the invisible river three hundred feet down.
Silence returned to the gorge.
"Now we are ghosts," I said, looking at the empty space where the bridge had been.
"Advisor Corvin will send a scout to check on us in a week," I explained to the gathered knights. "They will see the broken bridge. They will assume the structure failed under the weight of the... heavy wagon. They will assume we are dead at the bottom."
I turned to Giles, who was looking pale. "That buys us six months. The Capital won't send a repair crew until spring. We have untethered the North."
"We are trapped, My Lord," Giles whispered.
"No," I corrected, climbing back onto the wagon. "We are fortified. Drive."
The journey into the Duchy of Boreas was a descent into entropy.
The landscape changed from pine forests to jagged grey rock. The temperature dropped with every mile. By the third day, a biting frost coated the wagon wheels.
Then, we saw it. Boreas Keep.
It sat on a spur of black rock, overlooking a valley of frozen scrub. It had once been a formidable fortress, but now it looked like a dying beast. The outer curtain wall was high, but I could see jagged fissures running down the masonry—stress fractures from freeze-thaw cycles that hadn't been repaired in decades.
But the architecture wasn't the worst part.
As the caravan rumbled up the winding causeway, I saw the people.
There were hundreds of them. Men, women, and children huddled against the base of the outer wall. They had built makeshift shelters from scrap wood and tattered canvas, pressing themselves against the cold stone to steal a fraction of shelter from the biting wind.
They looked like grey wraiths. Skinny, hollow-eyed, and shivering.
"Why are they outside?" Elara asked, her voice low. She was watching a woman try to warm a crying infant inside her coat.
"Because the gates are shut," I said, my anger rising not as a prince, but as a manager seeing wasted resources.
We reached the main gate. The timber was rotting. A guard, looking barely better fed than the refugees, peered down from the battlements.
"Open the gate!" Ser Garrick bellowed. "Duke Valian commands it!"
The gates groaned open on rusted hinges. We rode into the courtyard. It was empty, save for drifts of snow and a few chickens pecking at the frozen dirt.
A man in a rusted breastplate hurried out of the main keep. He was older, his face scarred by frostbite, walking with a limp.
"My Lord," he wheezed, falling to one knee. "Captain Hareth. We... we did not expect you until spring. We have no fires prepared."
I ignored the apology. I pointed a gloved hand back toward the gate.
"Why is the civilian populace camped in the kill-zone?"
Hareth blinked, confused. "The refugees? My Lord, the standing orders from the Capital... civilians are not permitted inside the Keep unless under siege. We don't have the rations to—"
"Open the gates fully," I interrupted. "Bring them inside. All of them."
Hareth gaped. "All of them? My Lord, the Great Hall... the dirt..."
"The outer wall blocks the wind, but the ambient temperature is still lethal," I stated coldley. "A dead population pays no taxes and mines no ore. Bringing them inside reduces convective heat loss. It preserves the workforce."
I leaned down, staring into the Captain's eyes. "Did I stutter, Captain?"
"N-no, My Lord!" Hareth scrambled up. "Guards! Open the main gates! Get the people into the lower bailey! Move!"
Elara watched me, a strange look in her eyes. "You talk of them like tools," she murmured. "But you just saved a hundred children from freezing tonight."
"Maintenance," I said, hopping down from the wagon. "If you don't maintain your engine, it seizes."
I turned to Giles. "Distribute the potatoes. One hot meal for everyone. Then setup a triage center with the herbalist."
I didn't wait for thanks. I walked toward the main keep structure. I needed to see the basement.
The interior of the Keep was stone-cold, but it was dry. I summoned Captain Hareth, who was still looking at me like I was a benevolent madman.
"The mines," I said, unfurling a map on a dusty table. "Tell me about the cursed caves."
Hareth shuddered. "They are three miles up the valley, My Lord. The 'Black Blood' leaks from the walls—a thick, stinking sludge that burns if you touch a torch to it. And the air... men walk in and just go to sleep, never to wake up."
Crude oil and carbon monoxide, I translated. Perfect.
"And the Keep itself?" I asked. "Does it have a dungeon?"
"Yes, My Lord. Two levels down. But we don't use it. It's damp and smells of earth."
"Show me."
We descended. The stone stairs were slick with moisture. As we went deeper, the biting cold of the surface faded. The air grew heavy and humid.
We reached the lowest level. It was a vast, cavernous space carved directly into the bedrock. There were no windows. The floor was packed earth.
Hareth held up his torch. "You see? Useless. Too damp for grain storage. The rot takes everything."
I took a deep breath. The air was stale, but it was temperate.
"Giles," I said. "What is the temperature outside?"
"Freezing, My Lord. Perhaps ten degrees below."
"And in here?" I asked.
I didn't need a thermometer. I could feel it. It was roughly fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit (12°C).
"It's... warm," Giles realized.
"Geothermal stability," I said, my voice echoing in the dark. "Below the frost line, the earth maintains a constant temperature year-round, regardless of the blizzard above."
I walked to the center of the dungeon, kicking the dirt. It was rich, dark soil—accumulated dust and rot from centuries of neglect.
"Hareth," I said. "Clear this entire floor. Tear down the cell bars."
"For what, My Lord?"
"For the rabbits," I said. "And the potatoes."
I turned to my confused team.
"The invasive grass I bought? It doesn't need much sun, just moisture and dirt. We will plant it here. The potatoes will grow in the back. The rabbits will live in the cells."
I gestured around the damp, gloomy dungeon.
"This isn't a prison," I smiled, my black teeth glinting in the torchlight. "This is a climate-controlled biosphere. While the blizzard kills everything outside, we are going to be farming underground."
I looked at Tessa, who was shivering less down here.
"And once we get the oil from the mines," I said, "we're going to turn this keep into the hottest place in the North."