Unsurprisingly, I am glued to the window as we enter the fort. And saints, is it a sight to see.

A light snow falls from the gloomy gray sky. Not enough to be a problem but more than enough to justify thicker clothing and cloaks. Packed away in my luggage is a simple cloak. Completely unnecessary in keeping me warm but something to blend in. It seems like an unnecessary precaution as the first people I see are bare-chested and barefoot. Young men running in neat lines while an older man, also bare-chested and barefoot, runs beside them, shouting expletives.

That isn’t the only point of activity. In fact, the whole area is bursting with activity. Carriages move back and forth, pulled by massive…donkeys? It’s hard to tell with the thick, shaggy hair covering their bodies but they are shorter than horses and stout. Despite that, they move at a quick pace. So fast it’s rather amazing there are no accidents. If there are any roads or markings to direct people, they’re covered by a layer of snow. Despite that, no one seems to have any problem getting where they need to go.

It’s not simply restricted to the ground. There is plenty of activity in the air. Like the men running in lines on the ground, another group, this one dressed in full armor, flies in formation overhead, dipping, rising, separating, and coming back together when the corresponding order is shouted at them.

Once we’ve rode for several minutes, I see a very interesting sight. A circular field. At least, I’m assuming it’s a field from its flatness. Stakes have been driven into the ground around its edge and rope tied between them. Thoroughly unremarkable if not for the seating arranged around it.

Long, curved benches made from what looks like compacted earth. Most likely the work of an earth caster. It takes eight benches, long enough to seat ten people, to encompass the whole of the circle. They are arranged in rows of six, each one raised higher than the one before it, ensuring every member of the crowd will have no problem seeing the festivities. For some reason, I don’t think they invite jesters and musicians to play for them.

We take a right at the field and I feel a small twinge of nostalgia as we ride past several fields. It reminds me of being on the Foundation Fields at the Hall, though the training I’m witnessing is far more intense.

On the first field of those closest to us stand a line of heavily armored combatants, enough metal and fur covering them to make them thick as trolls, holding shields tall enough to shield even their impressive bulk. Before them, is a giant creature with white fur, powerful limbs as thick as logs, long teeth that jut out of its mouth, and angry eyes. More impressive is the bare-chested man holding the creature with one hand, fingers twisted in its first.

I watch as the man lets it go and it runs forward, throwing its formidable bulk at the knights with all its might. The ones in its path brace but it makes a quick turn, aiming for another part of the line. It finds its new targets just as prepared. Their shields come together as they brace for the impact. The poor monster doesn’t stand a chance, bouncing off the metal wall with a pained yowl. As it struggles to its feet, its handler grabs it by its fur and drags it backward.

The next field is more tame. Men in armor doing drills, one half swinging their swords while the other jabs out with spears. I suppose it’s impressive how they are so coordinated. There is no variance or hesitance in their motions, as if they are being controlled by one mind rather than shouted orders.

The last of the fields is hardly worth mentioning in comparison. A gathering of boys and girls of varying ages, none of them having reached adulthood, doing their best to imitate those on the field in front of them. They are dressed but not enough for a sane person. The young ones shiver, red-faced, as they practice their swings but the older trainees endure the low temperature with bland looks.

That must be the group Alana talked about. Youths with talent that the duke sponsors, training them up to join the Bleak Moons. The group Alana joined once her father acknowledged her existence. Saints, did she endure the same thing? No wonder she’s so fearless. As a girl, she learned how to swing a sword while watching men push back massive monsters, knowing if they failed, the thing could tear her apart in seconds.

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Off to the side are a few buildings with deeply slanted roofs, including a stable that houses more of the shaggy-haired donkeys. And, finally, I get my first glimpse of the James manor.

I don’t know what I expected. A smaller fort made of gray bricks, short, blocky, and as unattractive as it is sturdy. A tall, iron gate with monster heads mounted all along it, birds pecking out their eyes. Many other blurry visions of imposing might and effortless intimidation.

Instead, a simple estate is revealed. Sure, it has a few oddities. There is a gate, though it is made of ice of all things. The sloped overhang over the entrance and the roof are both made of grooved metal sheets from what I can see, something I’ve never seen and no doubt incredibly expensive. Then of course there are the swords buried in the yard. I suppose it’s too cold for a garden but there had to be a better option than stabbing several dozen blades into the ground. It’s not very welcoming.

With dark blue and white paint that reminds me of the knights from earlier, the gloomy picture that is the James’ family home is complete. I find it hard to picture anyone having a happy childhood here.

My poor saint reinforces that opinion with her stiff frown as she prods me into dismounting the carriage. She waves for us to stop before the overhang over the front door. What the—is she not even allowed to walk up to her own home!? This is getting ridiculous.

Nevertheless, I wait beside her, getting snowed on, as we wait for someone to notice us. Thankfully, that happens relatively quickly. A sharply dressed manservant steps with silver hair, deep wrinkles, and a hard stare steps out, leaving the door open and pausing at the end of the overhang.

Alana places a hand over her heart. “The daughter of the north has returned sword in hand, ready to strike down our enemies.”

“Alana.” Despite his age, the servant’s voice is deep and powerful. “The howling winds of the north call your blood to battle once again. You fight against overwhelming numbers and impossible odds but, as a James, you must lead the brave into the worse of winter. Do you accept your duties, knowing all it entails, including its consequences? No one will judge you if you turn away now.”

“I do,” she returns solemnly.

He bows at the waist. “Then welcome back, young Lady James. May your swords be sharp and your heart stay warm. Victory or death.”

“Thank you, Bulliard.”

I follow Alana as she steps into the house. The first thing that greets us is a wave of warmth. An unnatural one. My eyes flick about, searching for the source. Eventually, I look up and spot the gleaming red of a fire affinity stone embedded in the ceiling. An enchantment then.

After ascertaining that, I glance at the welcoming room. One of the more important rooms in a noble estate, a proper one. It gives visitors a sense of their host and their values. From the large hearth, mounted heads of manabeasts, and copious number of furs lain over the floor and thrown over the furniture, the values off the north can’t be mistaken.

“My lady.” Bulliard bows his head beside us. “Your father gave word that he wanted to see you upon your arrival. I will show your guests to their rooms.”

Again! It’s more subtle but the disrespect is obvious to anyone accustomed to the ways of nobility. Never, and I do mean ever, does a servant tell their master what they are going to do. He was very close to telling her what to do!

This is…unthinkable. The Tome family are basically beggars compared to the nobles of the capital but our servants, the few of them we had over the years, never dared to speak to my father that way, nor me.

“They will be put in the room besides mine.”

The servant furrows his brows. “My lady—"

“It is necessary. Kierra.” She looks over at my wife. “Make yourself comfortable while I have a chat with my father.”

At least Alana isn’t letting it faze her. If anything, she’s getting angry. So angry she just gave Kierra an order, haha. Is she preparing to lash out? That’d be a sight to see.

Or maybe she’s thickening her hide in preparation of a worse emotional beating.

Luckily, my elf can read the room and doesn’t complicate matters. She reaches for the manservant. He instinctively attempts to dodge her grasping hand. She moves faster, grabbing him by the shoulder and surprising him, from his wide eyes. “Come, old soldier. Take me to where I shall sleep.”

“…right away. Young Lady James, your father is waiting in the training room.” With my wife’s strong grip on his shoulder, the manservant bows his head once more before walking off, Kierra right behind him.

Left alone, I reach for Alana’s hand. I take it as a good sign that her hand clasps my fingers tightly rather than pull away. “Ready?”

She scoffs. “I should be asking you that. I have no idea how he’s going to react.”

“You don’t have to tell him about us right away.” I have a feeling it’d go over much easier after we return victorious, heh, from the Bleak Peaks.

“My father does not take well to anyone hiding anything from him. And I think us sleeping in the same bed will raise questions.”

I grin. Thought we’d be separated since we have our own room. “If that’s what you want, I’m all for it.” She takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Say the word and we’ll leave this house. We never have to come back.”

She snorts. “You’re wrong, Lou. I’ll always come back. Victory or death. There’s no other choice.” With those ominous words, she squeezes my hand and pulls me deeper into the house.