REIN
Rein Winterbane sat at his desk in the dimly lit office of Coldcave, his quill scratching rhythmically across the parchment as he meticulously recorded the kingdom's affairs. The flickering candlelight danced around him, casting long shadows that mirrored the weight of his thoughts. Just as he reached for the inkwell to add another note, a firm knock interrupted his concentration.
"Come in," Rein called, setting aside his work.
Henrik, his trusted seneschal, entered with a purposeful stride, a rolled parchment in hand. The look on his face was serious, betraying the urgency of the moment.
"What is it?" Rein asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You should read it yourself, my lord," Henrik replied, extending the message toward him.
With a nod, Rein accepted the scroll, unfurling it to reveal the carefully penned words. As he read, his heart sank. The report detailed unsettling news: some of Seyran Ravenshade's supporters had begun to rally, driven by a fervent desire to create a kingdom free from the constraints of monarchy—yearning for a realm akin to the Republic of the North. The lady of Seyran had emerged as their head, leading this nascent rebellion.
"What should we do, my lord?" Henrik asked, concern etched on his face.
Rein's mind raced as he considered the gravity of the situation. After a moment of silence, a plan began to form. "We must act swiftly. I will send Ronan to Seyran. He's already near there and can assess the situation firsthand."
Henrik nodded, the tension in the room palpable. "And if he encounters resistance?"
"Then he will remind them of their loyalty to the crown," Rein replied firmly, resolve strengthening in his voice. "We cannot allow this rebellion to fester."
RONAN
Ronan Winterbane sat in the modest yet elegant study of the vassal house, reviewing the accounts and correspondence that had piled up during his stay. The air was thick with the scent of parchment and ink, a familiar comfort as he focused on the task at hand.
A knock broke his concentration, and moments later, one of the House Heads entered, a look of urgency on his face.
"Lord Ronan," he began, bowing slightly in respect. "A messenger has arrived today from Coldcave."
Ronan straightened, setting aside the papers. "What news do they bring?" he asked, leaning forward in anticipation.
"The message is of great importance," the House Head replied, handing over the sealed letter. "It pertains to recent unrest in Seyran."
Ronan took the letter, his brow furrowing as he broke the seal.
Ronan unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the words quickly. As he read, he realized with a jolt that his father had penned this missive himself. The content struck him like a blow; it detailed the troubling news of the Seyran public's rebellion, driven by their desire for freedom akin to that of the Republic of the North. The Lady of Seyran had risen as their leader, challenging the very fabric of their feudal loyalty.
"How can a lord of one land punish another lord of a different territory?" Ronan pondered, frustration simmering beneath his calm exterior.
His gaze fell to the remaining lines of the letter, where Rein's writing took on a more assertive tone. He granted Ronan the authority to act as needed, mentioning that he possessed the king's command through the king's seal.
With a sense of resolve building within him, Ronan folded the letter back up, tucking it securely into the pocket of his leather tunic. The attire was practical yet noble—a dark leather tunic over a light linen shirt, fitted trousers, and sturdy boots, allowing him ease of movement while maintaining an air of authority.
Ronan looked at the House Head, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice. "How long until we reach Ravenshade Castle?"
The House Head thought for a moment, his expression serious. "It's only four days away, my lord. If we set out promptly, we can arrive before any further unrest escalates."
Ronan nodded, contemplating the timeline. "Then we must prepare for the journey. Every moment counts."
A FEW DAYS LATER AT OBSIDIAN HOLD
The towering black walls of Obsidian Hold loomed ahead as Ronan Winterbane approached the castle of Seyran. Its silhouette was sharp against the sky, the dark stone glinting ominously in the pale light. As Ronan rode closer, his eyes narrowed on the sight of banners fluttering in the cold wind—sigils of various vassal houses he recognized, their emblems marking the presence of men whose loyalty was now in question. Outside the castle gates, groups of armored soldiers stood vigilant, their eyes tracking his every movement.
The unease among his own men was palpable. One of his soldiers rode up beside him, his voice lowered but edged with concern. "We shouldn't be here, my lord. At least not right now."
Ronan's jaw clenched. "Are you mad? We ride under the Winterbane name," he growled, his voice firm with resolve. "We can't afford to look weak. These foxes will pounce at the first sign of hesitation."
Without another word, he urged his horse forward, accelerating toward the looming gates of Obsidian Hold. As they closed the distance, the gaze of countless eyes followed him, watching, waiting. His soldiers fell in line behind him, their hooves striking a rhythm of defiance against the stone path.
When Ronan reached the gates, he reined his horse to a halt. The guards stepped forward, eyeing him suspiciously, uncertain of the visitor before them. One of them opened his mouth to speak but hesitated when his gaze fell upon the wolf-headed pommel of Ronan's sword—a weapon that marked him unmistakably as a Winterbane.
Their demeanor shifted instantly. "My lord," one of the guards stammered, bowing hastily. "Please, come inside. I'll summon Lord and Lady Ravenshade at once."
Ronan gave a curt nod as the gates creaked open. Inside, the tension was even more palpable. The grand hall was filled with nearly two dozen vassal lords, their expressions guarded, their postures rigid. Not a single voice greeted him, the silence hanging thick in the air. It was clear: rebellion simmered here, and they made no effort to hide it.
After a tense few moments, the doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and Owen Ravenshade entered, his stride calculated. Beside him walked Lady Ravenshade, her eyes sharp with arrogance, her lips curled in a faint, disdainful smile. Owen's gaze settled on Ronan, his tone deceptively casual as he greeted him.
"Ronan Winterbane, son of one of the disciples of the deities," Owen said, his voice carrying across the hall. "What brings a man like you to my humble domain?"
Ronan met his gaze steadily. "Lord Owen," he began, his voice measured, "I would have offered a more pleasant greeting had the circumstances not been so dire."
The words clearly struck a nerve. Murmurs rippled through the assembled lords, and Lady Ravenshade's lips tightened in anger. Before she could speak, Owen raised a hand to silence her.
"What circumstances?" Owen's voice was cool, but a flicker of irritation crossed his face. "If you've come seeking truth in rumors, I'm afraid you'll leave disappointed."
Ronan's eyes flicked to the vassal soldiers positioned around the room. "Then why are these vassals gathered here? Why do they stand outside in armor?"
Caught off guard, Owen faltered for a moment before responding. "Border security," he said, pausing as if to consider his words carefully. "You know the Seyran cold is coming. We needed to discuss preparations for winter—the council was necessary."
Ronan wasn't satisfied. His tone sharpened. "And what of the soldiers? Why are they armed as if ready for war?"
Owen hesitated again, but he quickly composed himself. "The vassals don't trust each other," he admitted with a dismissive wave. "And I… I'll confess, as a lord, I'm not the best at maintaining peace between them."
Ronan studied him carefully, sensing the lie beneath the words. "Then I assume it won't be a problem if I stay here for a few weeks. After all, I may need to investigate further."
Owen stiffened, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Unfortunately, Lord Winterbane, all the rooms are occupied by the vassals. We wouldn't have the space for you."
Ronan's patience thinned, his jaw tightening in anger, though he remained silent. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Very well, Lord Owen. I hope we don't need to cross paths again."
With that, Ronan turned on his heel, his soldiers following close behind. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the hall, the tension so thick it was suffocating. As Ronan and his men reached the doors, a soft, mocking voice cut through the silence.
"The next time you come here," Lady Ravenshade sneered, "you won't be walking out, you fucking wolf."
The hall erupted in laughter, the jeering voices of the lords echoing off the stone walls. Lady Ravenshade's smirk widened, her eyes gleaming with malice.
Ronan halted in his tracks. His body tensed, every muscle coiling with a silent fury. Slowly, he turned back toward her, his gaze locking onto hers. The room fell deathly quiet, as if everyone sensed the storm that was about to break.
In a single, fluid motion, Ronan drew his sword. The steel gleamed in the dim light as it sliced through the air with lethal precision. Before anyone could react, the blade met its mark, and Lady Ravenshade's head fell from her shoulders, her lifeless body crumpling to the ground.
The hall was plunged into stunned silence, the air thick with shock. Blood pooled on the floor where Lady Ravenshade's head had rolled, her mocking smile forever frozen on her lips.
VERNON
A month had passed since Vernon and Nina's grand wedding, a celebration of beauty and joy—though not everyone shared in the happiness. Vernon had remained at his in-laws' residence, while his sister, Seraphina, was stationed at Edric Voss's palace. In this short time, Vernon had already captivated the minds of the people within the Darnell territory, embedding his vision of rule deep within their hearts. The people were prepared to fight, even die, for him. Meanwhile, Seraphina had been quietly assembling a fleet with Edric, preparing for their attack on Seyran.
Returning from inspecting the castle's defenses, Vernon dismounted his horse. His movements were heavy with exhaustion, his eyes betraying a weariness that sleep could no longer chase away. A knight, panting and wide-eyed, rushed towards him.
"Your Grace, there's an urgent matter," the knight called out, his voice strained with urgency.
Vernon, bleary-eyed and unwilling to entertain any more crises for the night, waved it off. "Later... I'm tired." He turned and began walking towards the palace, eager to find some semblance of rest.
But the knight's next words cut through the cold night like a blade. "It's related to the Skaldrith."
Vernon froze mid-step. The biting winter winds whipped around him, and within moments, snow began to cling to his motionless form. He slowly turned, his voice low but sharp, "Continue."
"Yesterday, not far from here, our soldiers captured a group of Skaldrith. It seems they were lost," the knight reported, his breath visible in the icy air. "They're in the dungeon now."
Vernon's brow furrowed in confusion. "The dungeon? Isn't that space too small?"
"Only three of the tribe members were taken," the knight replied.
At the mention of the number, Vernon's eyes widened, tension immediately washing over his face. Without another word, he broke into a run, heading straight for the dungeons, his heart pounding with the weight of whatever dark fate this encounter with the Skaldrith might bring.
Vernon reached the dungeon, the cold stone walls thick with the stench of blood and torment. His eyes fell on the two Skaldrith captives, hanging limply by their wrists, their chests bare and slick with blood, their hands raw from the brutality they had endured. Tortured beyond recognition, their hollow gazes barely registered his presence.
As he stepped forward, his boot nudged a discarded fur-lined coat on the ground—a sign of the tribe's arrival. Scattered around were leather boots and hoods made from animal pelts, leading a trail to the second cell. The cold of winter pressed in as Vernon's breath fogged the air, and with a growing dread, he approached the barred room.
Inside, the sickening sight unfolded. A man was kneeling over the third captive, a woman, her body splayed naked on the cold stone floor. Her skin, once warm and alive, had turned as pale as the snow outside, and though the man moved atop her, she made no sound—no pleas, no cries for mercy. She was already gone, lost to the torture long before Vernon had arrived.
"What are you doing?!" Vernon's voice thundered, his face contorted in anger and disgust.
The man, startled, looked up. Before he could utter a single word in defense, Vernon's dagger flashed in the dim light, slicing through his throat. Blood sprayed across the cell, and the man collapsed, lifeless, his body falling atop the woman's corpse.
Vernon stood there, the scene of death and degradation before him, his breathing heavy as the cold dungeon air wrapped around him like a noose tightening on his soul.
Vernon approached the two men hanging by their wrists, their bodies barely holding onto life. He spotted a hammer nearby and, with fierce determination, smashed it against the chains binding them. The sound of metal breaking echoed in the dungeon until, finally, the chains gave way, and both men collapsed onto the cold, hard ground.
One of the men groaned, his face twisted in agony. Vernon knelt beside him, quickly realizing he was the only one still clinging to life. He offered his water bag, but the man refused, his voice hoarse with pain. "Leave this place… if you want to live," he rasped.
Vernon's brow furrowed, sensing the weight behind the man's words.
"My Drak… he's already on his way here… with a thousand of our people," the man continued, grimacing from the pain wracking his body. His hand weakly reached for Vernon's dagger, resting on his belt, a silent plea for release.
Vernon hesitated, then drew the blade and placed it gently against the man's neck. "Can't we avoid battle?" he asked, his voice quiet, searching for any chance to prevent the bloodshed to come.
The Skaldrith warrior looked into Vernon's eyes, the depth of his resolve clear even in his weakened state. He gave a slight shake of his head, a silent refusal, before closing his eyes, accepting his fate.
With a heavy heart, Vernon pressed the dagger forward, granting the man a merciful end. The silence that followed was colder than the winter outside, a grim promise of the conflict yet to come.