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Chapter 6

  Two months passed.

  The snow never left.

  It crept higher each week, burying the stone paths and rooftops in heavy silence. It blanketed the woods and valleys, turning the world pale and still. It killed the weak and slowed the strong.

  But it didn’t stop us.

  The keep had changed.

  The people, more than anything.

  Every man and woman in my hold now trained with blade or bow.

  Every patrol moved in squads of four — never alone.

  The forges burned longer. The guard rotated faster.

  The cookfires used twice the salt, and no one complained.

  We'd buried five more since the last snow.

  Three from exposure. Two from infection.

  No one blamed me. But they looked to me, all the same.

  And I gave them what I could.

  Ryel trained daily. Quietly. Relentlessly.

  He never asked for praise, and I gave it only when it was earned.

  He began to earn it often.

  His stance had hardened. His grip, firm. He still rushed the second form too fast — eager to finish — but he was learning. And more than that, he was watching.

  That mattered more than anything.

  A warrior with open eyes lives longer than one with quick feet.

  We encountered two more Abyssal creatures in those weeks.

  One — a stag with a split skull and too many eyes — was killed by my second patrol without losses. They burned it the way I taught them.

  The second — a beast that had once been a bear, now bloated and bristling with spines — took four men with it.

  We buried them with blades in hand.

  The ice didn’t care about heroes. It swallowed them just the same.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Then, this morning, the banner arrived.

  A single black spear against a field of crimson.

  House Drakenvyre.

  The riders came shortly after — twelve knights in black-scaled armor, their cloaks lined with white fur, their spears gleaming with frost-forged steel.

  And at their head: Darian Voss.

  I waited for them in the great hall.

  The knights entered in perfect formation, boots striking in rhythm against the stone. Darian entered last — tall, sharp-featured, golden-eyed. His cloak hung just slightly off his shoulder, revealing a silver blade slung at his side.

  He looked young.

  Too young for the weight in his gaze.

  He scanned the room, the walls, the guards flanking me. His eyes lingered briefly on Ryel, who stood at my right, dressed in plain winter black.

  Then he stepped forward.

  "Baron Vorran," he said, voice calm, clipped, practiced. "I bring word and will from my father, Lord Harvan Voss of House Drakenvyre."

  I nodded once. "Speak it, then."

  He produced a scroll — sealed in black wax — and handed it to Merren, who cracked it open and read silently.

  Darian watched me the entire time.

  Eventually, Merren looked up.

  "They’re offering ‘reinforced presence and martial aid against unnatural threats in northern Virelya,’" he said, tone unreadable. "Translation: they’re sending troops, and they expect housing, access to roads, and reports on any Abyssal incursions."

  "And the real reason?" I asked.

  "Recognition," Merren muttered. "They want to claim your vigilance as foresight. Turn the North into a training ground for their rising heirs."

  I turned to Darian. He didn’t flinch.

  "You're here for glory," I said.

  "I'm here for monsters," he replied, level.

  I watched him. His stance was balanced. His shoulders relaxed. Not cocky — confident. The kind that came from earnedvictories, not soft duels in marble courtyards.

  "Have you killed before?" I asked.

  "Three duels," he said. "Two Abyssal spawn in the woods outside Northenham. And one traitor knight during the Cull of Valeford."

  No hesitation. No boast.

  I nodded slowly.

  "Then you can stay," I said. "Your knights too. You’ll train under my command. Patrol under my schedule. And if you go hunting—"

  "I bring the heads back for your walls," he said, cutting me off.

  Our eyes met.

  Behind his pride, there was something else.

  A question.

  A challenge.

  I didn’t blink.

  "Exactly," I said.

  We showed them to their quarters — one of the lower wings we’d sealed off before the frost. It was spartan but solid. Enough room for a dozen, plus racks for weapons and armor.

  As Darian followed Merren down the hall, I turned to Ryel.

  "Thoughts?" I asked.

  Ryel hesitated.

  "His posture’s perfect," he said. "Balance is clean. Sword’s real — not decorative. And he walks like he’s already killed someone important."

  I raised an eyebrow.

  "Jealous?"

  Ryel frowned. "No."

  "Good."

  He looked up at me, face serious.

  "But I’ll be better."

  Later, in the war room, I studied the map again.

  Red pins for sightings. Black for deaths. Blue for burns.

  The clusters were growing. Not fast. Not everywhere.

  But growing.

  And now, Drakenvyre had taken interest.

  They weren’t the only ones who would.

  The moment the Empire caught scent of fear in the North, they’d send their own.

  The Theocracy would send priests.

  The Free Cities would send coin.

  And the Abyss would send worse.

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