The Castle of the Blancs was situated upon a small mountain that had been turned into a fortress. The curious thing about the castle was the long barrier-walls, stretching outward like the ribs of some colossal beast, fashioned into bridges so that one could use the tops of them to travel to any part of the city below. From afar they appeared seamless, as though the mountain itself had grown arms of stone and decided to cradle its people within them.
Cendre had inspected these walls himself. With a gloved hand he had brushed away frost, then taken the tip of his dagger and made a careful chip along the inner edge where fewer eyes lingered. The sound that followed was not the hollow knock of laid stone but the dull, stubborn resistance of something far older. It had come to him then that these walls were not constructed in the manner of southern keeps. They were carved and drawn directly from the bedrock of the mountain.
He had time. The Northern lords were late, snowbound or ceremonious, and so curiosity had been allowed to bloom where duty momentarily loosened its grip.
He began asking questions.
But they did not like strangers here.
That much had been evident from the narrowed eyes and the way conversations died when he passed. Yet once they learned he had taken the effort to shape their harsh consonants with his southern tongue, once he stumbled through their idioms and earned a grunt that might almost be approval, their icy demeanor shifted. Not warm, never warm, but less cutting. And so he kept asking questions, more curious about the legends surrounding the walls than whatever ascension to the Duchess' seat there was to witness.
The Northerners would do Northern-folk things. They were the kind who were too duty-bound, no matter how incompetent or brainless the current ruler of the Empire might be. This was their right. This was their duty. Even the current Emperor knew better than to provoke subjects who, in the Empire's long and rotting reign, had never revolted and had always remained loyal. Loyalty here was not loud. It was cold, immovable, and edged like iron left in snow.
Anyway, back to the walls, he finally found his answer through a scholar at the Westernice Pools, some two kilometers from the center of the city. The Pools themselves steamed faintly in the frigid air, mineral vapors rising like pale spirits against the grey sky. The building beside them was low and broad, timber reinforced with stone, its roof heavy with snow.
The scholar was tall and burly, draped in a robe of thick black fur, probably a bear, by the look and smell of it. His beard was braided with thin strips of leather, and a pair of round spectacles perched precariously upon a nose reddened by cold. When Cendre approached, the man raised those glasses with one thick finger and regarded him as one might regard an unfamiliar tool.
"What do you want?" the scholar asked, voice slow, weighed.
Cendre inclined his head slightly, careful not to appear either servile or proud. "Information," he replied. "About the walls that surround the city. I suspect they are carved from the mountain's own bedrock. I wished to know if I am wrong."
The scholar did not answer at once. His gaze lingered, measuring. "Why would you need to know?" he asked instead.
"I do not," Cendre said plainly. "Not for war. Not for trade. Only curiosity. I have seen many keeps. None like this."
The scholar studied him a moment longer, then gave a grunt that might have been acceptance. Seeing that the southerner was not probing for weakness, only legend, he made the effort to tell the tale of how the walls were made.
Long before the Empire's banners had brushed even the edges of the Northern passes, he said, the Shamans and Builders of the Blanc lineage had dreamt of a frost-clad horde rising from beneath the mountain roots, minions from an icy hell where light did not reach and the wind howled with voices not entirely human. The dreams had been shared among them, repeated, and were consistent. And so, fearing what slept below as much as what might descend from beyond the Argent-carved mountains, they resolved to raise walls not upon the earth but from it.
The Shamans had marked the stone with runes burned into rock by oils and flame. The Builders had followed, cutting not block by block but line by line, carving corridors and ramparts as if revealing something already present within the mountain. They did not quarry, they uncovered. The walls were not added, they were exposed, shaped from what had always been there. Raised to existence.
Cendre listened with arms folded, breath misting between them. "And the gates?" he asked. "Surely those were not born whole from prophecy."
A flicker of something, amusement, perhaps, crossed the scholar's heavy features. The gates, he explained, had been added after the walls were raised. Great slabs of ironwood and steel were fitted into openings cut through the living stone. How those openings had been made was spoken of as a miracle. Some claimed the Shamans had sung the rock apart. Others insisted that heated blades of unknown forging had sliced through it like fat. No one truly knew. The records were fractured and the truth buried beneath reverence.
It was rather fascinating in a way that made Cendre wonder how much of Northern pride was put in such tales. A city grown from its mountain, guarded by prophecy, loyal beyond reason. He could not decide whether it was brilliance or madness.
Satisfied with his inquiry, he thanked the scholar with a skin of wine and a few coins for his time. The man accepted both without ceremony, nodding once before returning to whatever parchment lay weighted beneath a stone upon his table.
Cendre rode back to his inn alone, the wind sharper now as evening threatened. Snow creaked beneath his horse's hooves, and the city's long walls loomed above, silent and watchful.
It was then that Ser Humphrey of Daleriver found him.
The knight emerged from between two timbered buildings, fur collar askew, expression pinched with urgency. "Cendre!" he called, striding forward. "Where in the blazes have you been?"
"Just wandering around," Cendre replied, guiding his horse to a slower pace. "Getting to know this city while their lords take their time in the blasted snow."
He looked Humphrey over then, and the assessment was not kind. The man's attire was rumpled, belt half-fastened, and a cloying scent clung to him, some cheap herb attempting to mask sweat and something warmer beneath it.
"I see you've inspected the women," Cendre added dryly.
Humphrey bristled. "The Snowy Lords are coming, Cendre. I heard from a rider that they are near the southern pass. We should prepare!"
Cendre looked at him, then deliberately let his gaze fall to his own cloak, brushed clean of snow, buckles secured, gloves unsoiled.
"Speak for yourself, Ser," he said coolly. "I believe you should take a bath, rid yourself of that odor, and then we'll ride to their Icy Palace and join every bootlicker there is. Wake me when you're done!"
Humphrey muttered something about watching his tongue, about respect owed and appearances to be kept. Cendre did not particularly care, especially it coming from a man who just had his fun. He nudged his horse forward, leaving the other knight standing in offended agitation.
Back in his room, with frost gathering faintly along the window's edge, he removed his gloves and flexed his fingers, considering the walls, the prophecy, and the woman soon to sit upon a frozen throne. Then he lay back upon the narrow bed, allowing himself a short rest before Humphrey inevitably came knocking again.
* * *
Ser Humphrey woke him three hours before midnight.
Cendre stirred with a low exhale, momentarily disoriented by the dark pressed against the window. The inn was silent save for the distant howl of wind slipping between beams. He rose without complaint, splashed cold water upon his face from the basin, and let the sting drive the remnants of sleep from his eyes. He tightened his sword belt with practiced motions and drew on his three-layered cloak, steel plates sandwiched between cotton and leather, heavy enough to blunt the Northern bite. Tapping the plates of his brigantine to ensure they sat properly beneath the fabric, he adjusted the red sash around his waist and stepped out of his room.
Ser Humphrey waited in the corridor, already clad in plated armor polished to a dull sheen beneath torchlight. A thick mantle hung from his shoulders, fur-lined and excessive, the kind that likely cost more than the armor beneath it.
"Ser, do you not have fancier costumes?" Humphrey asked, eyeing Cendre's practical attire.
"No," Cendre replied evenly. "A knight's armor is his clothes. And have you forgotten? These are the Northerlands. If we let our guard down, then they'd treat us unjustly."
Humphrey frowned. "But it is a custom. Besides, Ser, surely you do not believe they'd harm their guests at such a glorious event?"
"Then you've not been listening, Ser," Cendre said, fastening his gloves. "They say the new Duchess has veins of cold and the attitude of a witch. Surely you must have heard about the Central tourneys two years ago? Where she, at merely sixteen, demolished the new upstarts. Wielding a greatsword to tear through armor and horse."
Humphrey's expression shifted as memory surfaced. "Ah, I have. Hmm. From what I heard, she attended the Academy in Central. You were also a student at that time, Ser, no?"
"Yes," Cendre answered. "But she is of higher rank, and I am simply from a Baron's family. And you know how it was in that Academy, so full of politics and factions. They told me to pick a side, but I ignored them."
"And you came out unharmed," Ser Humphrey observed. "Or have they treated you badly?"
"Not really. They are practical enough to understand that doing more than necessary would blemish their family name. And they thought I had nothing to offer."
"Ah, a shame. I was hoping you'd have been acquainted with the new Duchess at least."
"No," Cendre said. "I made a point of avoiding the higher houses of our Empire. Believe me, Ser. It's a quagmire you'd not want to step in."
"And yet it would have been an opportunity."
"I cannot disagree with that," Cendre admitted. "But we are not paupers. Our lands prosper enough, and we do not have to fight like animals and watch our backs at every breath from schemers. I say that is better."
Ser Humphrey did not agree. It showed in the tightness around his mouth, in the faint disappointment that ambition had not been entertained.
Unlike many, Cendre had no qualms about his status. He was only here to witness the ascension for his family head, to represent House Dalens in courtesy and nothing more.
They mounted and rode through the frozen streets toward the palace of the Blancs. The city had grown quieter, though torchlight burned along the elevated walls, casting long shadows down upon snow-packed roads. When they reached the fortress gates, they were admitted after a brief inspection and led into the vast courtyard within.
Carrying their battle arms, they were guided through cavernous halls carved from living stone. The ceilings arched high above, ribbed with natural striations in the rock that resembled the inside of a beast's ribcage. Torches burned in iron brackets hammered directly into stone, their flames steady despite the drafts that whispered through unseen corridors. The air smelled faintly of pine resin, steel, and cold.
They took their place among the gathered lords and knights who had come to pay respects. Fur mantles and heavy cloaks draped broad shoulders that contained the sigils of wolves, bears, stags, and other winter beasts adorned shields and brooches. The murmur of conversation rolled through the hall like distant thunder.
Ser Humphrey was eager to socialize, already drifting toward a cluster of minor lords with rehearsed smiles. Cendre remained at the edges, near a pillar of stone that bore the natural curve of the mountain's growth. He stood like a shadow, observing.
He watched how the Northern lords positioned themselves, close enough to be seen, far enough to avoid appearing desperate. He watched hands rest casually upon sword pommels, even in ceremony. He watched eyes flick toward the grand doors at the far end of the hall.
Then those doors opened.
She entered without fanfare of trumpets, yet the hall quieted as though sound itself feared to linger.
It was Eira Blanc.
The new Duchess.
Her silvery hair fell in a smooth cascade to her waist, catching the torchlight so that it seemed almost luminous against the darker furs lining her shoulders. Her face was arresting, not soft in the southern sense, but carved with a precision that held attention. High cheekbones, a straight nose, lips shaped in a manner that suggested sweetness but did not promise it. Her eyes were red, not the flush of irritation but a deep, unnatural crimson that seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it.
She wore armor even here. Not a ceremonial plate polished for display, but functional steel shaped to her frame, fitted with deliberate elegance. The curves of the breastplate did not diminish the impression of strength beneath. A greatsword rested across her back, its hilt rising above her shoulder, the grip wrapped in dark leather worn from use. The weapon was no ornament. It was large enough that most men in the hall would require both hands and effort merely to lift it.
She moved with the controlled economy of someone accustomed to weight. Each step was steady, unhurried, the sound of her sabatons against stone echoing clearly. Lords who had commanded men in battle lowered their gazes by instinct rather than command.
Beautiful, yes, but in the manner of winter. Sharp. Untouchable. A frost-laced bloom that would cut the hand that reached carelessly.
When she reached the raised dais, she turned to face them.
"My lords," she began, her voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber. It was neither raised nor strained, yet it reached the furthest wall. "You honor this hall with your presence. I trust the roads did not claim too many of your men. Snow is… unforgiving to the ill-prepared."
A faint ripple moved through the assembly.
Half amusement, and half warning received.
"The Northerlands endure," she continued, hands resting lightly before her. "We endure storms, hunger, and whatever crawls at the edges of our mountains. We endure because we stand together. Those who stand with us prosper. Those who do not…" Her lips curved slightly, not quite a smile. "Find the cold less hospitable."
The words were formal. Courteous. Yet barbed beneath the velvet.
Cendre watched her carefully. She did not fidget. Did not glance aside for reassurance. This was not a some girl elevated by accident. This was someone who understood precisely the weight she now bore and how to wield it.
"Tonight," she said, "we mark not an end, but a continuation. The blood of Blanc does not freeze. It flows. And so long as it flows, these lands remain unbroken."
Silence followed, heavy and deliberate.
Then, as if released from a held breath, the hall erupted in affirmation.
Cendre remained still at his pillar, eyes fixed upon the new Duchess. Veins of cold, they had said.
Perhaps.
But what he saw was something far more deliberate than mere frost.