Winter came to the mountains like a conqueror, and Blackcliff Keep became an island of stone in a white, howling sea. The passes sealed with snow, cutting William off from the world and trapping him with the echoing silence of his own rule. He used the frozen months as a weapon of consolidation. With his men and conscripted villagers, he cleared the lower mineshafts of debris, the work backbreaking and dangerous in the frigid dark. He learned the ledger books with Cuthbert, his anxious steward, until the columns of numbers—yields, tithes, repair costs—danced behind his eyelids at night. He enforced his justice with a stern, quiet consistency that slowly, grudgingly, earned a measure of respect from his people. They did not love him, but they began to see him not as a passing storm, but as a permanent, perhaps bearable, feature of the landscape.
When the thaw finally came, it brought not relief, but a summons. A royal herald, mud-spattered and imperious, arrived with a scroll sealed with the king's great lion. William was commanded to attend the spring court at the capital, to "present himself and the fealty of his lands before the throne." It was not a request. Cuthbert wrung his hands. "It is an opportunity, my lord! To secure favor, to petition for aid with the mine…"
"It is a test," William corrected, the parchment heavy in his hand. It was a door opening from his frozen isolation into a world infinitely more dangerous. At Blackcliff, he was the ultimate authority, however shaky. At court, he would be a newcomer, a curiosity, a target.
He rode out with a small escort: Elric, two other trusted valley men, and Cuthbert to manage the protocols. The journey was a revelation in reverse. They descended from the harsh, clean lines of the mountains into the rolling, fertile heartlands, where the air grew thick with the smell of tilled earth and blooming orchards. The capital, when it appeared, was a sprawling beast of grey stone and teeming humanity, its walls towering, its streets a noisy, chaotic river of merchants, pilgrims, and soldiers. The royal palace was a jeweled crown upon its head, all soaring arches, glittering stained glass, and gardens already lush with color.
Here, the hand-and-sword of House Marren meant nothing. He was ushered into the vast, echoing court chamber, a space that could have swallowed Blackcliff's great hall whole. The air was warm, perfumed with incense and sweat, thrumming with the murmur of a hundred conversations. He was presented, a formal announcement that fell into the din like a pebble into a lake. "Lord William Marren of Blackcliff." A few heads turned, eyes sliding over him with brief, assessing curiosity before moving on.
He saw Lord Daerlon immediately, holding court near the dais, resplendent in velvet the color of wine, laughing too loudly at some joke. Their eyes met. Daerlon's smile widened, not in welcome, but in recognition of a player who had entered his arena. He gave a slow, deliberate nod.
William felt like a specter at the feast. His clothes, though his best, were coarse and somber against the riot of silks and furs. His hands, calloused from sword and pickaxe, felt clumsy. He moved through the throng, a man navigating a beautiful, treacherous reef. He overheard snippets: gossip about marriages, whispers of border tensions in the east, a witty, cruel dissection of some absent lord's financial woes. It was a language of subtlety and venom he did not speak.
His audience with the king was brief and formal. The monarch, seated on the lion throne, looked older and more worn than he had on the battlefield. He acknowledged William's service, asked a perfunctory question about the state of Blackcliff's defenses, and dismissed him with a wave. The message was clear: the hero of the hour was now a line on a tax roll. The real business of the court happened in the shadows, not before the throne.
Salvation, of a sort, came from an unexpected quarter. As William stood adrift by a pillar, a calm, measured voice spoke beside him. "The mountain air still clings to you, Lord Marren. It is a refreshing scent amidst all this… cultivation."
He turned to find a man of middle years, with a shrewd, intelligent face and robes of expensive but subdued dark wool. He introduced himself as Lord Tavelin, a master of the king's exchequer. He asked pointed, insightful questions about Blackcliff's mine, the timber yields, the challenges of mountain governance. He spoke not of glory, but of drainage, of labor costs, of logistics. For the first time all day, William spoke of something he understood.
"You are a novelty here," Tavelin said mildly, sipping from a goblet. "A self-made lord in a room of inherited privilege. It makes you interesting. And vulnerable. Daerlon has been telling anyone who will listen that the Silverflow is played out, that your grant was… precipitous." He let the word hang. "He hopes you will fail, so he can petition for the lands to be reassigned to a 'more stable' stewardship—his own."
"The mine can be revived," William said, a defensive edge in his voice.
"I believe you," Tavelin said. "But belief is not capital. Nor is it political will." He leaned closer. "The king values stability above all now. He wants the Northerlands quiet and productive. Prove Blackcliff can be both, and you will have his ear. Appear weak, or become a source of conflict, and you will be replaced. It is that simple."
He was being given the rules of a new game. William felt a familiar sensation—the cliff face before him, invisible holds to be found. "And how does one prove stability from the edge of the world?"
"Connections," Tavelin said. "Alliances. A silent partner with resources. You have something Daerlon and his ilk underestimate: potential. And to some, potential is a currency." He nodded towards a group across the hall. "Observe. Listen. Learn who speaks to whom, and what is not said. I will introduce you to a few men who think in terms of yield, not just pedigree."
Under Tavelin's discreet guidance, William's time at court transformed. He was brought into quieter conversations in side chambers and gardens. He met Lord Beregond, who controlled the river trade, and Sir Malrick, a veteran knight with lands to the south who valued martial prowess over bloodlines. These were men of substance, not just show. They asked hard questions, but they listened to his answers. He learned to speak of Blackcliff not as a trophy, but as an asset. He learned to mask his desperation with a veneer of confident calculation.
He also learned of the court's other, sharper pleasures. He was drawn into the orbit of Lady Elyse, a cousin to the king, a widow with eyes the color of twilight and a smile that promised amusing ruin. She was brilliant, mocking, and fascinated by the "wild lord from the peaks." At a masque, she pulled him into a secluded alcove, her perfume intoxicating.
"They are all so terribly dull, William," she whispered, using his given name as a weapon of intimacy. "You have done something. You have taken a fortress with your own two hands. It is deliciously savage." Her fingers traced the back of his own, where a scar from the climb was still livid. "Daerlon fears you, you know. He should. You are something new."
It was a potent intoxication, this heady mix of political maneuvering and sensual attention. For a few dizzying days, the lonely lord of the mountain was a figure of intrigue in the glittering capital. He almost forgot the weight of the crown.
The illusion shattered one evening after a boar hunt. He was returning to his modest lodgings, his mind still replaying Lady Elyse's laughter, when a figure detached itself from a doorway. It was Elric, his face grim.
"A rider came from Blackcliff, my lord. Pushed hard through the pass." He handed William a folded, travel-stained note. It was from Cuthbert.
My Lord,
Trouble. Raiders from the northern peaks struck the hamlet of Stoneford. Five dead, stores looted, two young women taken. They wore no colors, but the survivors say their leader spoke with the accent of the Borrell cousins' lands. They came and went like ghosts. Our patrols were too few to cover the passes. The people are terrified. They say your absence is weakness. Lord Daerlon's factor was here, asking after the mine's progress. He offered again to sell us "protection." I delayed him. Return with haste.
C.
The cold of the mountains rushed back into William's veins, freezing the court's warmth in an instant. The pretty games of words and looks dissolved. People were dead. His people. Taken. And the jackals were circling, using his absence to undermine him.
He found Lord Tavelin at a late supper. He showed him the note without comment. Tavelin read it, his expression growing somber. "Daerlon moves his pieces. The Borrell cousins deny everything, of course. Plausible deniability." He set the note down. "This is your crossroads, Lord Marren. You can stay, finish the court season, secure the trade agreement with Beregond we discussed. It would bring long-term wealth. Or you can run back to your mountain to fight ghosts and bandits, looking every bit the provincial lord reacting to every spark."
"They are my people," William said, his voice hard.
"They are your responsibility," Tavelin corrected. "A subtle but vital difference. A king does not chase every bandit. He builds systems that make banditry futile. But… systems are not yet built. And a lord who cannot protect his hearth is no lord at all." He sighed. "If you leave now, you will lose face here. Daerlon will crow. Lady Elyse will find another diversion. The trade agreement may stall. But if you do not go, you may lose the land itself, one burned hamlet at a time."
There was no clean choice, only a balance of costs. The court had taught him that much. He thought of Stoneford, a place he'd visited once, a cluster of stubborn houses clinging to a stony ford. He saw not the anonymous "people," but the face of the miller's wife who had shyly offered him dark bread. Now she might be dead, or worse.
He stood. "My lord, please make my apologies to Lord Beregond. Tell him… tell him the mountain calls its lord home to deal with a pest problem. We will treat again when the vermin are cleared."
A flicker of what might have been respect passed through Tavelin's eyes. "You choose the rock over the salon. It is the harder path. I will do what I can to keep your interests here from being plundered in your absence. But go quickly. And William," he added, as William turned to leave, "do not just chase the raiders. Be the mountain. Be unforgiving."
William left the capital before dawn, his small party riding hard for the peaks. The perfumed air of the court was replaced by the crisp, familiar scent of pine and cold stone. As the city faded behind him, he shed the skin of the courtier with a relief that felt like shame. He had enjoyed it. The attention, the possibility. But it had been a seductive distraction.
He was not a courtier. He was the Lord of Blackcliff. And his kingdom was bleeding. The fox's games were over. The wolf was returning to his territory. And as the road began to climb, William felt the hollow crown settle back onto his brow, colder and heavier than before, but now fused to his skull with the grim certainty of duty chosen. The education of a lord continued, and the next lesson would be written in blood and iron.