Eir stood alone in the dusk-lit corridor, her gloved hands resting on the stone balustrade overlooking the practice yards below. The sounds of swords clashing had faded for the day, leaving behind only the faint hum of the city settling into evening.
Footsteps echoed behind her. She didn't turn.
"You should leave me well alone," she said coldly.
Santi stepped into view, expression unreadable. "You're still angry."
"I'm still a Westerner in their eyes," she replied, eyes fixed on the courtyard. "Apparently, that's become a mark of shame."
"You know that's not true. You were not treated any differently from any of us. You just... acted out of line, and Vignir only meant..." He studied her for a moment. "You question the marriage."
"I question Killan's judgement," she snapped, then caught herself. "Lady Svedana's capable. But she is not from here. This city will swallow her whole if it wishes."
Santi leaned beside her. "Or she might do the swallowing. You forget—she carries a crown of her own and if the stories were true, she had made a lot of people bend their knees to her will."
Eir's jaw clenched. "She was trained to rule stone fortresses and raise soldiers. Not to balance councils of scheming men."
"Who can really say, Eir? We don't know her mind, but I believe Killan does and that we should trust him," Santi paused and sighed. "Lady Aya's not your enemy."
"She's not my Queen either. Not yet."
"You speak like someone who lost a battle she didn't admit to fighting," he said gently.
They stood in silence, Athax breathing around them — a city caught between its seasons, and now between its rulers.
Meanwhile, far west in the halls of Ceadel, the great castle of House Islan, the fire in the war room crackled low.
Lord Therin, silver-haired and sharp-eyed despite his age, sat at the long stone table flanked by his sons and favored captains. A folded parchment lay open before him, its seal broken and the wax still fresh.
"The spies are certain?" Therin asked without looking up.
"Yes, my Lord," said the younger of the brothers, Maric. "The Northern Lady is in Athax. And they've announced a union."
A long pause followed. Only the fire spoke.
Therin's eldest son, Dane, stood by the arched window, fists clenched behind his back. His voice was low but thick with restrained fury. "She was promised to me."
"That promise was made by her mad father," Therin said flatly. "King Ive's words were only for show, Dane. With his death and no proclamation, I don't think it was marked."
"It was a King's promise," Dane said, turning.
"She was ten and unknowing," Therin reminded him. "She didn't know who you were, and I highly doubt her father told her anything. And she will be Queen now. A crown changes everything."
Maric leaned forward. "What do we do?"
The old Lord looked into the fire for a long time before speaking. "We do nothing rash."
"You would let the South claim her?" Dane demanded.
"I would not derail our plans just because a toy was snatched away from you," Therin replied sharply. "This union — North and South — is dangerous. But premature war is worse. I've lost a lot of men by her. Surely you remember that."
He turned to Dane. "You will not act without my order."
Dane stepped back, eyes dark with quiet rage.
"Good," Therin muttered, and then to his other captains, "Double our watch on the border. And tighten the flow of grain from the hills. If the South wants the North… let them feed her."
The great hall of Ceadel had grown quiet.
The air was thick with unspoken tension, the kind that settled just before war—or something worse. The Western Lords waited, watching their Prince as the news of the Southern alliance hung heavily in the room.
But Dane said nothing.
He sat still in his chair, head bowed slightly, one hand resting on the carved wolf of his seat. A vein in his temple twitched.
He had heard the report: Aya of House Svedana, the girl promised to him in oath, was to wed the South's golden King.
His thoughts were not in the room. They were years back, in the cold stone corridors of their court, when King Ive had brought his daughters to the West for the first and only time before he broke every single oath and brought destruction down on their forces.
Emeryn, her older sister, was promised to Maric, Dane's brother. She had been quiet, meek-mannered, her dark hair braided in the Northern way, her gaze unreadable even then.
But it was Aya who had stayed in Dane's mind.
She had been younger—only a child—but not meek. He remembered her defiant storm-colored eyes, the way she squirmed from her father's grip when he pushed her forward. She hadn't spoken, but Dane had felt it — the cold fury radiating from her even as she stood there in a cloak too large for her vulnerable body.
And then the shouting had begun.
King Ive had declared the bargain sealed. The land, the soldiers, the future — secured by blood and marriage. Emeryn would leave with Maric. Aya, when of age, would be bound to Dane.
Dane remembered the way she fought as her sister was taken — kicking, clawing, screaming. Her voice had broken through the chamber like a blade. No one had expected that kind of rage from a girl that small.
And King Ive had smiled through it all.
Dane's fingers curled around the edge of the armrest. He could still see the flash of tears on her face, not for herself, but for her sister. For the betrayal.
She had known, even then. And so had he.
Her older sister was never coming back. Maric was not known for his kindness—only his cruel and manipulative nature. And in less than a few months, the news that Lady Emeryn had taken her own life to escape her miserable fate reached the ears of her siblings in the North.
How he wished back then that he had secured that little girl's position in his House. He would have done anything. But until she was of age, she was to return to their cold keep in the North.
Now, years later and many battles where she forced their hand in submission, she was to be crowned beside another man — and the King who had promised her was long dead.
But promises made by kings did not simply vanish. Not in the West.
Dane rose at last from his chair. He gave no speech, no declaration. Just a simple command:
"Summon the riders."
The Lords of House Islan stirred. Whispers rippled through the stone hall like wind over a frozen lake.
A grizzled man stepped forward — Lord Revic, Dane's war captain. "To whom shall they ride, my Prince?"
Dane looked toward the banners of his House.
"To our old allies in the northwestern vales," he said. "And to those on the eastern banks of Ruen. Quietly."
"Quietly," Revic repeated, understanding. The King, his father, must not find out.
There would be no open threats, not yet. The West had learned patience — had learned the value of shadows over swords, at least until the right time came.
They would call in old debts. They would watch. And when the time came, when their enemies were distracted by celebration and ceremony, they would move.
The Wolf of Islan had not forgotten the terms of the treaty King Ive had made.
And he would not forgive their breaking.