It was like two storm fronts meeting in the tiny common room. Skin pebbled. Hairs raised. Men used to drawing steel in anger, hard men forged in bitter places, went silent. A rain of coin hit tabletops, benches, and chairs squealed against the floor, and they all found their way out. Baor, a man who'd spent three decades of life managing this rowdy place, paled and stepped back. Mir tapped his fingers on the tankard, signaling for a refill.

  "Well, well, well... you must be the alchemist we've heard so little about."

  Mir didn't turn, his focus on the mead Baor poured him. No water this time. A farewell drink, perhaps before the innkeeper made himself scarce. He did, however, analyze the footsteps as the owner of the voice left the doorway. Heavy stride, a mix of armor and muscle, a slight drag suggesting either a current injury or an old issue with one leg. Confidence in each step, this man wasn't afraid of Mir.

  That was foolish.

  The man compounded his error as he positioned himself on what he thought was Mir's blind side, a rude move for a polite negotiation. Smart though if you expected hostility, good to take a power position. Clearly, he'd been told what Mir wanted the world to know, that the alchemist obscures his left eye. Everyone assumed that meant the eye was missing.

  "I can't speak to what you have or have not been told, but I am a peddler of potions."

  The man sat himself down on a stool, still in Mir's presumed blind spot, helping himself to the bottle of mead that had been left. He sniffed it, scoffing a bit, and then took a drink. "You're a Northman?"

  It was fairly obvious Mir was Northern from his accent and the numerous little things about his person. The way he wore his hair. The way he covered his eye. Even his choice of cloak and how he pinned it. He wasn't trying to hide his heritage, he was proud of it. Just because he'd left Holtheim behind didn't mean he wasn't a child of that frozen bosom. He took another drink, swirling the mead in his mouth before setting the tankard down. "If you have to ask..."

  "Just checking, brother! Plenty who wear our heritage without any connection to our Ancestors." The man laughed, too loud, too much edge in his forced cheer. He was evaluating Mir. Weighing and measuring him.

  It was unfortunate that he missed the way Mir's jaw tightened at being called 'brother'. Or maybe the strained over-familiarity of it was the point.

  It stayed like that for the duration of Mir's drink. The silent tension kept increasing between them, a pressure in the air so dense it could be felt in the ears. Mir finished his drink and, without the bottle to fill it or Baor to bring another, was done. He reached into his cloak and brought out the coins, setting them carefully next to the tankard on the bar. "Well, interesting as this has been, I've a ways to go to get home tonight." He'd decided against staying in the village. He'd seen what he needed. It would do him no good to sleep in this place tonight, or any other.

  He stood, turning slightly as he did so, and getting his first look at the man who'd been next to him. Short for a Northman, stocky. His head was shaved, but he made up for it with a richly braided beard. He was wearing House colors, a tabard, and a gambeson in black and red with a stylized snarling wolf crest. A vampire whose colors were black and red? The Baron continued to disappoint. A strong hand, fingers blunt and nails square, shot out and gripped Mir's wrist in a bruising grip.

  "I don't think we're done talking."

  "Really? I don't have anything further to say."

  Green eyes studied Mir's face, a smile lacking friendship and full of sharpness, framed by that beard. "It's been a long time since I've talked to anyone from Home. Has courtesy changed since then? We've had a drink together, but no discussion of clan and kin? No formal greeting?"

  Mir's returned gaze was glacial. "If sitting on a man's blind side and taking his mead before he offers is the standard for courtesy these days, then yes, it has indeed changed."

  The grip around Mir's wrist intensified, and the stocky man's smile took on a feral edge. "It's always on the man of lesser standing to introduce himself first, and I represent the Baron."

  A pale brow arched. "And who is the Baron to me?"

  Clearly, the other man didn't expect that response from Mir. His chin jerked in shock, eyes widening slightly. "He's the lord of this land. Your lord."

  Mir's hand came down, gripping the other man's wrist and squeezing till something popped and the fingers holding his own went limp. "I'm sure that line works on the peasants in this village, but you've made a grave error in lumping me in with them, brother." There was a humorless smile of his own to accompany that last word. He claimed no kinship with this petty creature.

  The man pulled his hand back swiftly, giving his wrist a discreet rub as he got to his feet and pushed into Mir's personal space. Mir had a longer reach, this was a tactical decision, equalizing their playing field. It was also traditional for a clash of egos that could become drawn steel, slapping chests together, and posturing. The man stopped short of making contact, though, his lip curling instead.

  "It's not a line. It's the truth. Your words don't change that, just go read the proclamation. It's on the common house door. I'm sure a learned man like you can read."

  "I'm very literate, thank you. I can read more languages than you can imagine." He cocked his head to the side, looming down with his height advantage. "Another thing I can read is a map. Your lord is living rather close to his northern boundary, don't you think? In fact, his border is only a half day from here, the old stone bridge over the Ribbon River. My home is further past that still, in the unclaimed land that buffers his territory from Duke Stokes."

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  He leaned down, ivory hair flowing around his skull and dragging close to the shorter man's face. "I'm a freeman holder."

  "You owe him respect as-"

  "I owe him nothing."

  There was a little power behind that word, enough to add a static charge to the air. It was a calculated barb. Men from the North didn't swear themselves to the service of foreigners often. The Baron would have promised this man power and honor on top of more material rewards. Once the oath was complete, the Baron's honor became this man's honor. Mir refusing to offer even the most basic of respect, spat all over that.

  It had the desired effect. The shorter man jerked forward, his solid bulk smacking against Mir's in challenge. Mir's tail cracked like a whip as he returned the shove. The dance had begun. A ritual as old as time, bred into the bones of every man who'd ever been born and raised in Holtheim. Most men would have thrown punches by now. Drawn steel. Or, those from particularly refined places might have started this whole thing off as a debate of thinly veiled insults. Northmen fought in the same way animals did, with displays and blows that were aimed to force submission, not injury. In the North, injury was a drain on the clan and could often mean more deaths than just yours.

  For the stout man, this was likely a courtesy he didn't realize he was extending. For Mir, it was a refreshing game.

  They took a step back, eyeing each other.

  The stout man broke first. "Do you dare speak your Ancestors, alchemist?"

  This was the core of it. Who held higher honor. Who your clan was, who your Ancestors were, carried weight. Their triumphs. Their sins. It was the platform from which a man climbed toward his own place in the world. In conflict, laying bare the foundation of your strength spoke to your confidence and gave them honor even in death. At the end of the day, your Ancestors were there to be revered, though. Your personal honor meant more than they did. Sadly for Mir, his honor and reputation weren't exactly viable.

  "I am of the Waste, but the stones of my birth were cast in Boreal Bay. I am a heul caster, learned of sky and rune. I can speak the Word. I have left my blood upon the Blue Snow, and I have been blooded by the beast of frost and darkness in turn. I am Vladimir, last of my name and last of my kin. Who are you and your lord to me, stranger?"

  The man deflated slightly, on the backfoot and wary now, eyes seeking the outward signs of Mir's claims. Those scars were old and deep, the memory of the man he'd been before he'd become Vladimir Grimm, Dark Lord. They were hidden under layers of fabric and years of transformations. The man didn't give him face for all of them, understandable. The world was full of liars.

  "So you say..." The man's murmur was thoughtful. "I am of the Reach, the stones of my birth buried in Sky Hall. I am axe-bound, trained in blood and fire. I have left my blood on the Stones of Mist and have been blooded by a wurm from the lower sea in turn. I am Broll, son of Skoll, and I serve the Baron Alastair Greystone in honor."

  Skoll's fist slammed against his own chest, slapping the wolf crest displayed there. Honor to his lord. Proof of his service.

  "...so you say..." Mir was less worried now than he had been before. This man was a common warrior from Sky Hall, best with an axe and good at sea. A mercenary raider whose best kill was a small sea serpent. Not worth his time. "Well then, Broll son of Skoll, I believe we are concluded. I've no further business at this inn and certainly no business with you and your lord. Enjoy your drink."

  Broll moved as he did, a shifting of bulk that implied he would keep Mir here. "I've been very polite out of nostalgia for the old days and the old ways. But we're not in the North now, stranger." A calculated insult given they'd just shared names, one that set Mir's eye narrowing. "You're currently in the Baron's territory, regardless of whether you live in it or not, and you're causing a problem here. I'm well within my rights legally to do something about it as a keeper of the peace."

  "A keeper of peace? Really? I haven't felt any peace from you. From the first moment you walked in and saw me sitting there, you've been hoping for one of two things. My capitulation or my violence." He laughed slightly. "One you shall not have, and the other you will not handle. I'm offering to go in silence. A wise man would take that offer."

  Broll was a fighter. He had to have instincts. He was old enough to have sat around fires and heard stories that should have passed on a healthy level of fear to him. Maybe he'd been in softer lands for too long. Maybe he'd enjoyed too much victory, sweet on the tongue, that he'd forgotten the bitter lessons failure taught. Or maybe, most likely, knowing what the Lord he served actually was emboldened him beyond sufficient reason. Whatever caused it, the mistake still happened. He still got in Mir's way.

  "You do not have the grounds to bargain, Ley-Scarred. You'll come to the castle with me. You'll see the Baron, and you'll give accounting to his Lordship. If you do not, then perhaps you'd like to take it up with one of the more zealous clergy members that could be invited here?"

  Mir burst out laughing. "Did the servant of a common vampire just threaten me with The Church of all things? Oh, you're really special. Any priest that your Lord would feel comfortable having here isn't going to do anything about a Ley-Scarred alchemist, you insufferable cretin. Or did you think I didn't know? I can smell the reek of your master everywhere, and he smells weak. So go ahead, wrap yourself in the armor of his power. I do not fear what I am incapable of respecting."