The days following the riot were a blur of tension and frantic preparation. The "double ration" Elyana had promised had drained the stores dangerously low, but it had bought them silence. The castle of Blackiron Keep held its breath, waiting to see if the Lady's gamble would pay off.
Elyana stood in the center of the Great Hall, her breath misting in the air. Servants were scrubbing the stone floor, removing the soot and grime of neglect.
"No tapestries," Elyana instructed the steward. "Leave the walls bare stone. And do not set the high table with silver. Use the iron plates."
Kyle, standing by the hearth where a meager fire struggled to consume damp logs, frowned. "You want them to see us poor? Lords usually try to project wealth to command respect."
"They know we are poor, Kyle. If I feast them while the smallfolk starve outside, they will call me Marie of the Reach—oblivious and cruel. No, we will serve them venison stew and dark bread. We will show them that House Blackiron suffers with the North." She smoothed the front of her wool dress. She had put away her silks. Today, she dressed in the greys and blacks of her husband's house. "We are not trying to impress them with gold. We are trying to unite them with shared hardship."
A horn blast echoed from the battlements—low, mournful, and deep.
"The first of them," Kyle said, his hand instinctively drifting to his sword belt.
They moved to the courtyard as the heavy portcullis was winched up. The first banner to emerge from the swirling snow bore the silver fist of House Glover. Lord Glover was a man of sixty winters, his face like cracked leather, riding a shaggy garron. He was followed by a dozen men-at-arms who looked grim and travel-stained.
Elyana stepped forward as he dismounted. "Lord Glover. Blackiron welcomes you."
Glover handed his reins to a stable boy and looked Elyana up and down, his eyes lingering on her Southern features before flicking to Kyle. "I did not ride three days through a blizzard for pleasantries, my Lady. Your letter spoke of treason. It spoke of poison."
"And you shall see the proof," Elyana promised. "But first, the warmth of our fires."
"Warmth is scarce these days," Glover grunted, but he inclined his head—a bare minimum of respect.
Throughout the afternoon, they trickled in. The Cerwyns, silent and watchful. The Tallharts, loud and complaining about the state of the roads. Each arrival heightened the tension in the keep. These men were neighbors, but in the North, proximity often bred rivalry rather than friendship. They eyed the thin guards on the walls and the empty granaries with calculating looks. They were predators measuring a dying beast.
By nightfall, the guest chambers were full, but the most important guest was missing.
Elyana stood on the battlements with Kyle, watching the southern road. The snow was falling harder now, a white curtain drawing across the world.
"He won't come," Kyle said. "Karst is too clever. He knows this is a trap."
"If he stays away, he admits guilt," Elyana countered, though she felt a knot of worry in her stomach. "He has to come to deny it. His pride demands it."
"Or," Kyle said quietly, "he gathers his army to finish what the famine started."
As if summoned by his doubt, a tremor ran through the ground. It wasn't the wind. It was the rhythmic thud of hooves—many of them.
Through the gloom, torches appeared. Not one or two, but dozens. A column of fire snake its way up the causeway.
"That's not a retinue," Kyle swore softly. "That's a war party."
Elyana gripped the icy stone of the parapet. "Close the gates behind them. Once they are in, no one leaves."
"Elyana, if he has a hundred men—"
"We have the walls. And we have the truth. Let them in."
The column thundered into the courtyard, filling the space with the noise of steel and the snorting of warhorses. These men were not gaunt like the Blackiron guards. They were well-fed, their armor polished, their cloaks thick crimson wool.
At their head rode Lord Karst. He was younger than Elyana expected—perhaps forty, with a beard trimmed into a sharp point and eyes that glittered with amusement. He swung down from his black charger with the grace of a dancer.
Elyana descended the stairs to meet him, Kyle a shadow at her shoulder.
Karst pulled off his riding gloves, smiling as he took in the shivering Blackiron guards. "Lady Elyana," he boomed, his voice rich and mocking. "And the Bastard of Blackiron. You look... thin."
"Lord Karst," Elyana said, her voice freezing the air between them. "You brought many swords for a Council of peace."
"The roads are dangerous, my Lady," Karst said, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Bandits. Wolves. And rumors of mad Southern witches poisoning the grain. One must be careful."
The insult was blatant. Kyle stepped forward, his jaw set, but Elyana placed a restraining hand on his arm.
"The Great Hall is prepared," she said. "We discuss the future of the North at dawn."
Karst glanced around the courtyard, noting the other banners. "Ah, a full audience. Good. I do enjoy an audience." He stepped closer to her, invading her personal space. He smelled of wine and spices—luxuries that Blackiron had not seen in months.
"You play a dangerous game, little flower," he whispered, low enough that only she could hear. "You think these Lords will side with a stranger against their own blood? Tomorrow, I will not just take your castle. I will take your reputation, and then I will take your head."
Elyana met his gaze, refusing to blink. "Tomorrow is a long way off, My Lord. Tonight, you sleep under my roof. And the guest right protects you... for now."
Karst laughed, a sharp, barking sound, and signaled his men to dismount.
Elyana turned and walked away, her back straight, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. The pieces were set. The trap was laid. But as the blizzard howled outside, sealing them all within the walls, she realized she had locked herself in a cage with a tiger.