The Great Hall of Blackiron Keep was more freezer than courtroom. The fires had been kept deliberately low to conserve wood, and the gathered Lords sat huddled in their furs, their breath puffing out in white clouds that mingled with the smoke of the torches.
Elyana stood at the foot of the dais. She had declined the high seat, choosing instead to stand on the floor, on the same level as the men she sought to convince. Kyle stood to her right, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword, his eyes scanning the room for threats.
Opposite her sat Lord Karst. He had forgone the hard benches, having one of his own servants bring a cushioned chair from his baggage. He looked bored, picking at his fingernails with a dagger.
Around them sat the jury: Lord Glover, Lord Cerwyn, Lady Tallhart, and a half-dozen lesser bannermen. They looked tired, hungry, and impatient.
"We are not here to trade pleasantries," Lord Glover rumbled, his voice echoing off the bare stone walls. "The storm is worsening. Speak your piece, Lady Elyana, so we might decide if this trip was worth the frostbite."
Elyana stepped forward, her voice clear and projected, a skill learned in the courts of the South but applied now with Northern steel. "You are here because Blackiron is dying. Not by the hand of winter, and not by the will of the Gods. But by the hand of man."
She signaled to Kyle. He stepped aside to reveal a table draped in a cloth. With a sharp tug, he pulled the cloth away.
Beneath it sat three sacks of grain, cut open to reveal the black, oozing rot within. Next to them sat a small, innocuous glass vial.
"Three weeks ago, our granaries were full," Elyana said. "Enough to see us through the winter. Overnight, the rot took it all. A fungus that grows in heat, not cold. A fungus that was introduced."
She picked up the vial. "We found this in the quarters of a stable hand who tried to flee the night the rot was discovered. It contains a concentrated spore culture. Alchemists in the South use it to break down compost. Here, it is a weapon of mass starvation."
Lord Karst chuckled. The sound was dry and dismissive. "A tragic tale," he said, not bothering to stand. "And proof of nothing but your own mismanagement. You Southerners don't understand the damp of the North. Your grain rotted because you didn't turn it. Now you seek a scapegoat to hide your incompetence."
"And the vial?" Elyana challenged.
"Planted," Karst waved a hand. "Or perhaps a medicine. Who can say?" He looked at the other Lords with a conspiratorial grin. "She brings us here to look at moldy wheat and listen to fairy tales. I told you, she is desperate."
A murmur went through the room. Glover looked skeptical. The evidence was damning to Elyana, but circumstantial to them. Karst was one of them; she was the outsider.
"I have more than wheat," Elyana said, her voice dropping an octave, becoming deadly quiet. "Bring him out."
The heavy oak doors creaked open. Two Blackiron guards dragged a man between them. He was bound, bruised, and weeping. It was the stable hand.
"Tell them," Elyana commanded.
The man fell to his knees, trembling. "He... he paid me. Ten gold dragons. He said it would just spoil a few sacks. He didn't say it would kill the town."
"Who paid you?" Glover demanded, leaning forward.
The man raised a shaking finger, pointing directly at the man in the cushioned chair. "Lord Karst's steward. The man with the scar."
Silence descended on the hall, heavier than the snow outside.
Karst's smile vanished. He stood slowly, his hand drifting to his belt. "You torture a peasant and expect us to believe his lies? I could pay a man to say the Moon is made of cheese."
"Perhaps," Elyana said, stepping closer to the center, putting herself in the line of fire. "The man might lie. The grain might be a mistake. But there is one truth that cannot be forged."
She turned to face the assembly, spreading her arms. "Look at us. Look at Lord Glover's hollow cheeks. Look at my guards, thin as rails. We are starving." She whipped around to point at Karst. "Now look at him."
All eyes turned to Karst.
"He is flushed with wine," Elyana declared. "His men are thick-waisted. His horses are fed on oats while ours eat bark. He claims the roads are blocked, yet he arrives with a hundred men and heavy wagons."
She walked toward Karst, her eyes locking onto his. "If you are innocent, Lord Karst, if you are a true son of the North who cares for his neighbors... prove it."
Karst narrowed his eyes. "How?"
"Open your wagons," Elyana demanded. "Share your surplus. If you have enough to feed an army, you have enough to help us survive. If you are innocent, you will aid your kin. If you are guilty... you will hoard it, hoping we die so you can claim our lands when the snow clears."
The trap snapped shut.
The room held its breath. If Karst agreed, he lost his leverage and fed his enemies. If he refused, he confirmed his malice.
Karst looked around the room. He saw the hunger in Glover's eyes. The suspicion in Cerwyn's. He realized too late that hunger was a more powerful motivator than tradition.
"My stores are for my people," Karst snarled. "I will not starve my own to feed your failures."
"Your 'people' are back at Karst Hold," Lord Glover said, standing up. His voice was rough like grinding stones. "The men outside are soldiers. You are feeding an army to conquer, not a family to survive."
Glover turned to Elyana. "You have your proof, My Lady. Not in the word of a peasant, but in the greed of a Lord."
Karst's hand gripped the hilt of his sword. Behind him, his two personal guards tensed. Across the room, Kyle drew his blade with a ringing scrape of steel. The sound triggered a chain reaction; a dozen swords left their scabbards around the room.
"Treason," Karst spat, his face twisting into a mask of rage. "You conspire with this Southern witch against your own blood?"
"We conspire against starvation," Lady Tallhart said coldly.
"You cannot leave," Elyana said, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her. "The storm has buried the gates. We are snowed in, Lord Karst. You, me, and the truth."
Karst looked at the door, then back at the circle of hostile Lords. He was trapped in the wolf's den, and he had just realized he wasn't the wolf.
"So be it," Karst hissed, backing slowly toward the wall where his guards flanked him. "But know this. My men hold the courtyard. You may have the Hall, but I hold the castle. Let us see who starves first."
The blizzard howled against the stone, a wild, shrieking laughter that mocked them all. Inside, the line was drawn. The Council was over. The siege within the siege had begun.