The room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Alaric had described Boss's appearance to his closest confidants, but many had dismissed it as mere exaggeration—until now. The idea of a demon possessing such a serene demeanor, almost humane, even coming down to the ground as a mortal for a talk, had seemed too surreal to believe. Yet here stood that very demon, a gentle smile playing on his lips, clad in a black suit reminiscent of Lady Noira's style, but black. Perched between the horns of this towering figure was a giant crow, its feathers as black as the void, with multiple irises gleaming like sinister stars.

For the first time in his life, Alaric swore he could hear the sound of silence so loud that he became acutely aware of each thudding heartbeat. Before anyone in the room could muster a word, Lord Blackblood removed his hand from John's sword and raised a single finger, commanding attention.

"I understand what you're all thinking," he addressed the crowd with a disquieting calmness. "But let me be clear: I don't take offense at your thoughts. However, rash actions will not favor all of you or Lord Stormraven and his family."

The room remained steeped in silence, which Boss took as an agreement. He turned to the young boy, gently lowering him onto the cold, unyielding stone floor. His hand hovered over John's chest, and from his palm, a white flame flickered into existence, its faint glow tinged with a mesmerizing rainbow hue. Though trembling with fear, John felt an unexpected comfort as the warmth seeped into his skin, soothing his frantic thoughts.

"Breathe in and out, slowly," Boss instructed, his voice surprisingly gentle, almost comforting. "And... done." He stepped back, allowing John to rise on his own.

John slowly stood, his pain miraculously gone, but fear lingered as regret began to seep into his consciousness. Boss chuckled softly, a sound so subtle yet so unsettling that John was sure everyone in the room felt it. The giant demon extended his hand and snapped his fingers. His form instantly shifted into that of a very young man, his features painted in a pristine white, like fresh snow. It was a beauty that defied convention, a beauty which many kings and queens would pay for a massive painting to hang in their hall—an ethereal blend of masculine and feminine.

"Now," Boss casually tossed his long, platinum hair over his shoulder before fixing his black side-shield sunglasses, "about what happened..."

Alaric's thoughts churned in a chaotic storm. Over and over, in that fleeting moment, he questioned himself: where had he gone wrong? John had always been brash and proud, but that pride had been well-earned through countless battles against lords and men at arms twice his age. He was the dutiful elder brother, the one all his siblings looked to for guidance.

John knew defeat well; over the years, he had challenged many visiting lords and had been bested more than once. Yet, each loss had only fueled his resolve. Never before had he responded with bitterness, let alone treachery. And now, the honor of House Stormraven dangled by a thread.

The guards and Ludwin had informed Alaric that John issued the challenge. Rare for a woman to walk the warrior's path, rarer still that she possessed the strength to shatter a Damascus sword as though it were mere ice.

Alaric's throat tightened as he fought the urge to scream. His son—his pride and joy—had led them to this precipice. After all, the burdens of the children are the burdens of the parents.

Despite his son's foolish action, Noira had shown restraint. John would have died had she not been toying with him. Worse yet, it was not Legien who had intervened. And what had his son done? Attempted to stab Lady Noira in the back. For the first time in living memory, guest rights had been broken in Frosthaven—a crime punishable by permanent banishment.

"Well done," Boss said, clapping his hands lightly.

Aside from his wives, everyone's eyes widened at the words. John had just attempted to violate guest rights—a taint, a shame that would stain their family for generations. And Boss was praising him?

"Not quite." Boss turned to Alaric, whose breath was caught in his throat. Could it be—?

"No," Boss shook his head with a knowing smile, "I'm not reading your mind, although I could. I simply find it rude to invade another's thoughts unless absolutely necessary."

"And for your question," he continued, pointing at John, "despite the violation against the guest's right, your child handled it well. He didn't choose to go against his word; he took it head-on like a man. From the injured party, that's enough."

"Hellooo? Dude, I'm the 'injured' party here." Noira interjected with a teasing smirk, sauntering up behind him before grabbing his ass and leaning against him with one leg.

"Oh, really?" Boss asked, arching an eyebrow as he looked down at her. "Don't see any 'injuries,' though."

"My expectation sure is. Ehehehhehehe—" Noira tried to stifle her gremlin laugh, only to yelp in pain as Boss pinched her cheek. "OW! OW! OW!"

"Lord Alaric," Boss said, releasing Noira and letting her perch on his arm while his other hand held Legien's, "do you mind continuing this discussion after dinner? And in a more private place, please?"

-------------

Alaric Stormraven sat slumped in his war room, his head buried in his hands as he murmured a prayer to the Divines. The weight of the day's events pressed down on him like a vice, squeezing the breath from his lungs. The damage had been done, and there was no undoing it. Half of Frosthaven had witnessed the brawl; by nightfall, the other half would know every sordid detail. There was no question—Lord Blackblood's gold would have to be returned with interest. Alaric knew this was only the beginning. What followed, he dared not imagine. His son had given Lord Blackblood a clear and undeniable reason to declare war. Their first encounter had raised disturbing questions about the Blackblood household's powers, questions Alaric had hoped would remain unanswered. Tonight's events shattered those hopes. The strength and magic they possessed were no mere parlor tricks or charlatan's illusions.

It was real. He had seen it. His people had seen it.

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

But what would be the price for peace? Not friendship—that was a hopeless dream—but mere, fragile peace? What would he be willing to sacrifice to secure it? The thought of becoming a vassal to Lord Blackblood, as he had been offered before, made Alaric's stomach churn. He forced the thought away, refusing to let his mind wander down that dark path.

The people of Frosthaven, former slaves who had fled the Empire to this frozen wasteland, deserved better. They had endured so much already—frostbite, hunger, and death had claimed many on their perilous journey to this harsh refuge. But even those hardships seemed a small price to pay compared to the torment they had fled. They had come so far, only to face yet another threat.

Bjorn stood beside him in silent solidarity. He knew better than to speak; Alaric would not have heard him anyway, not in this state. The heavy silence was broken by a knock at the door. One of Alaric's men entered, announcing the arrival of Lord Blackblood and his wives. They were escorted by the old Maester Fraud, who, with his usual meticulousness, observed the newcomers as he approached Alaric's side.

As the Maester withdrew, memories surfaced unbidden in Alaric's mind; fragments of conversations that had once seemed so distant now painfully haunted him back:

'Never once in my life did I think my skull would be crushed by a woman...'

'The third reason, and why I proposed vassalization instead of an alliance, is my wife...'

'Words cannot describe how erratic she is. And yes, like me, she's powerful. Very...'

'Only two people have ever managed to wound me—my dead sister and my dear husband...'

Though Alaric had offered the war room for this very meeting, as the lord and his wives, the room seemed to shrink around them. Alaric felt small; his people diminished in their presence.

"Lord Stormraven, thank you for seeing us this late," Lord Blackblood said, bowing with a practiced politeness that seemed almost mocking under the circumstances. The words pulled Alaric from his spiraling thoughts. "Do forgive the delay."

As much as he expected derision or contempt from the younger-looking lord, he found none. There was no scorn in Lord Blackblood's voice, no mockery in his gaze. This unnerved Alaric more than anger would have. Anger he could understand, could anticipate.

"There is nothing to forgive, Lord Blackblood," Alaric replied, the irony of his own words weighing heavily on him. He masked his inner turmoil—dread, guilt, and shame simmering beneath the surface—and gestured to the empty chair before him as if nothing were amiss.

Boss passed the offered seat and shook his hand, afraid his statue would break the chair. "Our presence troubled you enough; the least I want is more damage in your house."

"Is your firstborn handling this well?" Lord Blackblood inquired, his voice steady as his gaze, concealed behind the glasses, settled squarely on Alaric.

"There were no fatal injuries," Alaric replied, his tone tight with controlled emotion. "For that, you have my gratitude, Lord Blackblood." He offered a stiff nod. "He's currently with his mother."

"Ooooh... yikes," Noira winced, her expression of exaggerated sympathy.

Alaric stood up, the weight of the situation pressing on him as he offered a formal bow. Bjorn, Fraud, and the soldiers in the room turned, their eyes widening in surprise.

"I apologize for my son's actions," Alaric said, the words burning like ash in his mouth. "What he attempted to do... there is no excuse."

"I beg your pardon?"

The unexpected question made Alaric look up, confusion flickering across his face. He had played this scenario out in his mind a hundred times, fearing what Lord Blackblood would demand in retribution. Yet, nothing had prepared him for the perplexed expression on the old yet young lord's face.

Lord Blackblood stared at him, a furrow forming on his face. "Your son thought he was fighting for his life. Despite the odds, he finished what he started."

A stunned silence fell over the room. Alaric glanced at his advisors, their dumbstruck faces the only confirmation that he had not imagined Lord Blackblood's words.

"He stabbed your wife in the back," Alaric said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

"Huh," Lord Blackblood feigned surprise before turning to inspect Noira's back. "I don't see any wound, though." He chuckled softly before continuing. "I understand your concerns, Lord Stormraven. To be fair, your son was fighting Noira. The duel was rigged from the start. I was her past arch-nemesis, so I understand why your son did what he did."

"Arch friend-emesis," Noira corrected, leaving Alaric and his men bewildered by the strange term.

"Think of us as an old, grumpy, toxic married couple, Lord Stormraven," Lord Blackblood explained, his tone almost casual. "Most of the time, they're willing to kill each other over minor inconveniences, like who gets the best slice of bread in the morning. Then, later on, they sit down and enjoy their tea together, holding hands as if nothing happened." He sighed, turning to Legien and gently patting her head, which she leaned into with a contented smile. "Thankfully, dear Legien here hasn't followed in her footsteps."

"Hey!" Noira protested.

"Yes, yes," Lord Blackblood hushed her with more affectionate pats. "Love you too, little gremlin."

Turning his attention back to Alaric, Boss continued with a calm reassurance, "So, that's the point. I take no offense whatsoever. Let this burden fall away from you—worry has already taken too much of a toll."

Alaric and the others struggled to process the words, their disbelief nearly tangible. How could the man before them, who had every right to demand retribution, so casually overlook an attempt on his wife's life and the violation of sacred guest rights? Alaric stared at the giant, questioning whether it was Lord Blackblood who had lost his sanity or if he was the one adrift in madness.

"That… is kind of you to say, Lord Blackblood," Alaric managed, feeling as if a lifeline had been thrown to him while he drowned. But he knew this reprieve was temporary, a breath of air before the inevitable plunge. "But John is my son. Rules are rules, and he must be held accountable as such."

The words felt like poison on his tongue, a bitter defense that simultaneously condemned his flesh and blood. Yet they had to be spoken. John's actions brought dishonor to their house, a stain that could not be ignored.

"What he did was an act of kinslayer, an anfront to men and gods alike. The gods may choose to be silent, but I doubt the mens."

Lord Blackblood nodded, a smile playing on his lips. "True. Sometimes, rumors and words are a kind of poison of their own. Your heir has committed a grave crime, and the least he can do is take responsibility for his actions."

The giant lord hummed thoughtfully before snapping his fingers like an idea had just occurred. "How about this? As the injured party, here's my sentence: from now on, have your son serve as a disciple under Noira's tutelage."

Every eye in the room turned to the giant in shock, his wives and even his crow companion sharing in the collective disbelief.

"Dude, you're fucking serious?" The crow's sudden voice cut through the air, making Alaric and his advisors flinch. They had been silent since Boss first stepped into Frosthaven, and hearing the bird speak so bluntly was jarring.

"Loove," Noira interjected, raising a finger. "Hate tae side wi' yer schizophrenia, but Birdy has a point. 'Sure ye want heem under mah caur? … Arenae they descendants ay yer best friends, as in th' progenitors?" She gestured toward Alaric.

The Lord of Frosthaven's thoughts spun in turmoil again. Friend of the progenitors of his bloodline?

"Yes, I'm sure," Lord Blackblood nodded, his decision unwavering. "The boy has talent, no doubt. Fending off multiple men at his age is no small feat. And you," he pointed at Noira, "are far more skilled with a sword than I am."

"Killing the kid outright would be more merciful," the crow scoffed as if discussing something trivial, completely ignoring the presence of John's father.

"Compared to what she put me through in the past, this is like drinking plain water. Right, Legien?" Boss countered with a smirk, glancing at Legien, who nodded in agreement.

"So," he held his hand to Alaric, "what do you say, Lord Stormraven?"

Alaric hesitated, needing something concrete to cling to, some assurance that this wasn't a cruel trick. "The members of your order will not protest the training of an outsider?"

The words sounded absurd to his ears, but he needed to focus on the practical and banal. He needed to know that Lord Blackblood's offer wasn't a false hope to be dangled before him only to be snatched away.

The giant lord smiled, a dangerous and final certainty in his voice. "Not as long as it related to me."

"My son breaks guest rights, and you would have him study under a warrior of great skill as punishment. Many would consider that a reward." Alaric took Lord Blackblood's hand, shaking it firmly. "House Stormraven cannot thank you enough."

"This costs me nothing, Lord Stormraven. You have tormented yourself well enough, and I am long past taking offense on a child’s actions. I also confess that this would return a favor to your forebears."

"What... what are you saying?" Alaric's voice was hoarse, nearly a whisper, his mind reeling from the unexpected words.

Boss smiled faintly at his reaction. The kind of smile that hinted at nostalgia and stories lost to time.

"Would you believe me if I told you that your forebears, both the husband and his wife, once served me in the past?"