The dwarves returned three days later, their wagons creaking under the weight of oak barrels bound in iron. The road we had repaired groaned beneath them, stones shifting but holding. I watched from the keep's lower yard as the convoy rolled in, breath misting in the cold air, soldiers lining the path with disciplined stillness.
Gorrim Stonekeg rode at the front, perched atop a squat, thick-legged mule that looked capable of carrying a siege engine if asked. He dismounted without ceremony, boots striking stone, eyes already assessing everything—the road quality, the gate hinges, the spacing of guards, the tension in the yard.
Elizabeth stood beside me, cloak drawn tight, a ledger tucked beneath her arm. This was her battlefield.
"Your road holds," Gorrim said, nodding once. "Barely. But it holds."
"For now," I replied. "It will improve."
He grunted approval, then turned his gaze to Elizabeth. "And this is the ice princess who runs your numbers."
"I am Elizabeth Flameviel," she said calmly. "And I will be the one ensuring neither of us is cheated."
His beard twitched. "Good. I hate soft-spoken liars."
So did she.
We met in the lower hall, where the air was colder and the stone older. Barrels were rolled in and stacked carefully, each one marked with dwarven sigils burned into the wood. Elizabeth laid out our grain records, ration counts, and projected surplus. Copper coins clinked softly as scribes took positions, ready to record every exchange.
The tension was immediate.
Dwarves did not like human scarcity. They respected endurance, not desperation. And Frostmarch, for all its progress, still smelled of hunger.
"You offer less grain than agreed," one of Gorrim's merchants said bluntly. "Your people eat too much."
Elizabeth did not flinch. "Your wine ferments in warmth you do not pay for. My grain grows in frost that kills men. Scarcity is not shame. It is context."
The dwarf snorted. "Context doesn't fill barrels."
"No," she replied evenly. "But honesty sustains trade."
She slid the ledger forward. "This is what we can provide without starving villages or soldiers. This is what you can provide without weakening your stock. If either of us presses beyond that, the trade collapses—and neither of us benefits."
Gorrim watched silently, arms folded. His eyes flicked between the numbers, the scribes, and Elizabeth's face.
"You speak like stone," he said at last. "Cold. Unyielding."
"I speak like survival," she answered. "Which your people understand better than most."
That earned a low chuckle from him. "Aye. We do."
The negotiation dragged on for hours. Grain weights were adjusted. Barrel counts refined. Spoilage rates accounted for. Elizabeth refused to inflate figures, refused to beg for leniency, refused to soften the truth of Frostmarch's condition.
Some of the dwarves bristled. One slammed his fist on the table, accusing us of hiding reserves. Elizabeth calmly ordered the ledgers opened, the stores inspected. I accompanied them myself, unlocking doors, showing sacks, letting them count.
There was nothing hidden.
When they returned to the hall, the tone had shifted. The hostility remained—but it had changed shape. It was no longer disdain. It was respect tempered by pride.
"Humans usually lie when starving," Gorrim said quietly. "You don't."
"We can't afford to," I replied. "Frostmarch breaks liars faster than enemies."
By dusk, the agreement was finalized. Wine-for-grain, adjusted quarterly. Emergency clauses for winter shortages. No coin exchanged—only goods, trust, and reputation. Gorrim sealed it with his mark pressed into wax, the Stonekeg sigil unmistakable.
"This does not make us friends," he said as he stood.
"No," Elizabeth said. "But it makes us reliable."
He nodded once. "That's better."
As the dwarves departed, barrels left behind and grain loaded onto their wagons, I walked the yard with Elizabeth. The first snow of the season had begun to fall, thin and sharp.
"You didn't bend," I said quietly.
She shook her head. "If I bend once, they'll expect it forever. Dwarves respect limits. Humans forget that."
I studied her profile, the calm strength in her expression. "You handled them better than I would have."
"That's why we work," she replied simply.
That night, as the first cask was tapped for inspection, the scent of wine filled the hall—rich, sharp, promising. Soldiers gathered, morale lifting subtly. Trade would bring more than sustenance. It would bring information, leverage, and presence.
Gorrim Stonekeg was not a friend. He was not an enemy. He was something far more valuable in Frostmarch—a neutral force with pride intact and interests aligned.
As I stood by the window, watching snow settle on stone and road alike, I understood something fundamental.
Frostmarch was no longer begging to survive.
It was negotiating its place.
And that was how power truly began.