The War Room of Castle Valerius was a place of suffocating stillness. Heavy tapestries of the Gale sigil covered the stone walls, dampening the echoes of the world outside. In the center sat a massive table of dark oak, its surface dominated by a sprawling map of the continent, rendered in exquisite detail.
Ragnar stood by the window, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. He felt the weight of the silver signet ring—Alaric's ring—against his skin. In the North, war was decided around a fire with a shout and a brandished axe. Here, war was decided with tiny wooden blocks and lines of red ink.
"Approach, Alaric," the Baron commanded. He was leaning over the table, his fingers tracing a jagged line that represented the Iron Mountain Range—the border of Ragnar's homeland.
Ragnar stepped forward, his armor clanking softly. He looked down at the map. To the Southerners, this was a puzzle. To him, it was a living, breathing landscape of memories. He saw the "Frost-Bite Pass," the "Whispering Woods," and the "Valley of the White Wolf."
"The King's decree is clear," the Baron muttered, his voice cold. "The Northern incursions have cost the Empire too much in trade. We are no longer content with a border; we want a graveyard. We are moving sixty thousand men through the Three-Finger Pass. By mid-winter, there will be no 'tribes' left to hunt."
The Internal Calculation Ragnar's blood turned to ice, but his face remained a mask of stone. Sixty thousand. The White Wolves had been broken by less than three thousand. If the Empire moved in such force, the North wouldn't just be conquered; it would be erased.
"The Three-Finger Pass is a death trap in winter, Father," Ragnar said, his voice measured. He tapped a wooden block representing a legion. "The snow there doesn't just fall; it piles until it buries horses whole. If the supply lines are cut, sixty thousand men become sixty thousand frozen statues."
The Baron looked up, surprised. "You sound as if you care for the logistics of the terrain, Alaric. You used to only care for the glory of the charge."
"Glory is for those who survive to tell of it," Ragnar replied, leaning over the map. He saw an opportunity—a gamble that could save his people or lead him to the chopping block. "The tribes are clever. They will wait for the snow. If you want a swift victory, you don't go through the pass. you go through the Widow's Mire."
The room went silent. One of the advisors, an older man with a squint, shook his head. "The Mire is impassable for heavy cavalry, milord. The horses will drown."
"Not if you move at night when the ground is frozen," Ragnar lied smoothly. He knew the Widow's Mire. It was a labyrinth of black water and shifting peat. Even in the dead of winter, the gases underneath kept the mud soft and treacherous. "It's the shortest route to their main settlement. If we strike there, we end the war in a week."
The Deception Ragnar was leading them into a slaughter. If he could convince the Baron to redirect the main force through the Mire, the Empire's "Iron-Born" would be swallowed by the earth before they ever saw a barbarian's axe.
"It's a bold plan," the Baron whispered, his eyes narrowing as he studied the map. "Riskier than the King's route, but the reward... it would make House Valerius the heroes of the Empire."
He looked at Ragnar, searching for a flicker of doubt. "You would lead the vanguard, of course? Since it was your idea."
Ragnar didn't flinch. "I wouldn't have it any other way. I want to see the last of them myself."
The Midnight Choice As the council dismissed, Ragnar returned to his chambers. He was no longer just a wolf in iron skin; he was a wolf leading the pack toward a cliff. But he had a problem. He was a "vanguard" of one. He needed to find a way to warn the remaining Northern tribes without alerting the spies in the castle.
A soft knock at the door broke his thoughts. It was Elara. She didn't look like the mourning lover tonight. She looked like a woman who had spent the evening counting the daggers in the room.
"You're sending them to their deaths," she whispered, closing the door behind her.
Ragnar turned, his hand hovering near his blade. "A bold accusation, Lady Elara."
"I knew Alaric," she said, stepping into the candlelight. "He was a fool, but he wasn't a liar. He feared the North. You... you know it too well. You didn't suggest the Mire to win a war. You suggested it to bury an army."
Ragnar stepped toward her, his shadow towering over her. He didn't deny it. "And if I did? What is a Southern lady's price for silence?"
Elara smiled, a cold, sharp expression. "My father was executed by the Baron for a 'mistake' he didn't commit. I don't want the North to burn, Ragnar. I want the Valerius name to rot. It seems we have the same goal, though for very different reasons."