The ride back to Winterfell Keep was solemn. The beast's attack had left us shaken, and though we had slain the creature, questions lingered in the air like a storm about to break. The others rode in silence, their expressions grim. Captain Lorn stayed close to my side, his hand never far from the hilt of his sword, as if expecting another attack at any moment.
The gates of the keep loomed ahead, their iron-bound wood standing as a testament to the strength of the Winterfell legacy. Torches flickered along the walls, and the sight of familiar banners—silver wolves on a field of deep blue—brought a fleeting sense of relief. Yet, as we passed through the gates, I couldn't shake the feeling that the shadows within the keep were just as dangerous as those in the forest.
"Your Grace," Lorn said, pulling his horse alongside mine. "You should have your wounds seen to. The creature's claws may carry infection."
"I'll see Mara," I replied, though my thoughts were already racing ahead. The attack had proven one thing: the Rifts were stirring. If more creatures like the one we faced roamed the North, then Winterfell—and the entire realm—was in grave danger.
We dismounted in the courtyard, where a group of servants rushed forward to take the horses. My steward, Gregory, approached with his usual measured stride, his lined face betraying only a hint of concern.
"Your Grace," he said, bowing. "I trust the expedition was... informative?"
"Informative and troubling," I said, brushing past him. "Gather the council in the great hall. We need to discuss what we found."
Gregory hesitated, his shrewd eyes narrowing. "At once, Your Grace."
I strode through the keep, my boots echoing against the stone floors. The keep was warm, the hearths lit to chase away the winter chill, but the weight in my chest only grew heavier. Servants and guards bowed as I passed, their gazes filled with a mix of respect and curiosity. They had heard whispers, no doubt, of the creature we faced, and I knew the rumors would spread like wildfire by morning.
Mara's chambers were tucked away in a quiet corner of the keep, the scent of herbs and parchment greeting me as I entered. She looked up from her work, her sharp green eyes taking in my disheveled appearance and the blood staining my cloak.
"Thaddeus," she said, rising swiftly. "What happened?"
"A Rift beast," I said, stripping off my cloak and wincing as the movement pulled at my injured shoulder. "In the southern woods. It's dead now, but we barely managed it."
Mara's face paled, but her hands remained steady as she guided me to a chair. "Sit. Let me see the wound."
I obeyed, biting back a groan as she cut away the torn fabric of my tunic. Her fingers were deft, the scent of healing salves filling the air as she cleaned and dressed the wound.
"You're lucky," she said after a moment. "The claw didn't cut deep enough to reach the bone, but you'll need to rest that arm for a few days."
"I don't have time to rest," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "If the Rifts are opening again—"
"Then you'll need your strength," Mara interrupted, her tone firm. "Don't think for a moment that you can shoulder this alone, Thaddeus. The Winterfell legacy doesn't rest solely on your shoulders."
I met her gaze, the weight of her words sinking in. Mara had always been more than just the keep's healer; she was one of the few people who truly understood the burdens I carried.
"Thank you," I said quietly, and she gave a small nod, her expression softening.
When I left her chambers, my shoulder wrapped tightly and the pain dulled to a manageable throb, I headed straight for the great hall. The council was already assembled, their murmured conversations falling silent as I entered. Gregory stood at the head of the long table, his presence commanding despite his age. Beside him sat Captain Lorn, his armor still streaked with dirt and blood from the battle. The others—advisors, knights, and key figures in the Winterfell domain—watched me expectantly.
I took my place at the head of the table, my gaze sweeping over them. "We encountered a creature in the southern woods," I began, my voice steady despite the tension in the room. "It was unlike anything we've seen in a century. Large, vicious, and glowing with an otherworldly light. It bore the unmistakable mark of the Rifts."
A murmur rippled through the room, the weight of my words sinking in. Gregory was the first to speak, his tone measured but grave. "If the rifts are indeed stirring, then this is no isolated incident. We must prepare for the possibility of more attacks."
"Agreed," Lorn said, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "The creature we faced was just one. If there are others, we need to fortify the borders and increase patrols."
"But what caused the Rifts to awaken after so long?" one of the advisors asked, his voice tinged with fear. "And why now?"
I leaned forward, my hands resting on the table. "That's what we need to find out. We can't afford to wait for answers to come to us. We need to act—strengthen our defenses, investigate the Rifts, and uncover the truth behind my parents' deaths. I believe the two are connected."
The room fell silent, the weight of my statement hanging in the air. Gregory's sharp eyes met mine, and I saw the unspoken question there: Was I ready for this? Ready to face the legacy of the Winterfells and the dangers that came with it?
"We'll stand with you, Your Grace," Lorn said, breaking the silence. His words were echoed by nods and murmurs of agreement from the others.
I straightened, the determination in their eyes igniting a fire in my chest. The North was my responsibility, and I would not falter. Not while the blood of the Winterfells ran in my veins.
"Very well," I said. "Then let us begin."