Calling off the slaughter, Mark allowed the remnants of the mutant army to flee. He wanted them to spread the word about his decisive victory. Without people knowing what happened, the victory would fall hollow.

Once the butchering and looting were done, close to a hundred prisoners were taken back to Winterclaw. Housing a hundred prisoners was an issue, so he placed them in the cellars they had dug out for the new keep, deciding that they would make good cells.

The two giant brothers were kept locked up with twenty-four-hour guards. Mark wanted to deteriorate their morale for a while before he risked trying to make use of their slave labor. However, the weaker and more cowardly enemy warriors were turned into slaves almost immediately upon their arrival in Winterclaw, and their labor was used to lug stones for the keep’s construction.

The long-term goal of Winterclaw was to have a kingdom of strong laws and justice, but wartime called for special exceptions, and Mark was pragmatic if anything.

He watched over the chain gangs as they got to work. The mutants mightn’t have been the most organized bunch, but on average, they were significantly stronger than their human counterparts, and the stream of stone marching into the keep and put into place under the guidance of their mason was a sight to behold—with this added workforce, they might actually finish the keep before the war.

Meanwhile, Mark loaded the throne ships up with his posse to head back to the western clans. Unlike last time, he planned to take both ships, traveling with Callum and several others from Winterclaw—most of which would be warriors.

He wanted to make a show of their visit, so he ensured Payon prepared metal armor for everyone who attended, not just his knights. He also collected jewelry and their finest furs and leathers to dress up his entourage.

Unfortunately, Winterclaw, up until now, had been entirely survival-focused, and he hadn’t developed much in the way of luxuries and certainly not anything that would impress any developed state. This was something Mark realized needed to change. He wouldn’t be able to do anything in time for their visit west and would have to hope that the visit would turn out okay with what little they had. However, it was unlikely to be the last time they needed to woo foreign heads of state, and Mark wanted to make sure they had luxuries worthy of a kingdom the next time they found themselves in this position.

Many around Winterclaw raised concerns about both him and Callum leaving with both throne ships after the battle, worried that the wargs might try to take their vengeance with a counterattack. But Mark wasn’t particularly worried about this. Not only were the wargs engaged in a battle already, but he had landed a significant blow against them and doubted they would be foolish enough to charge into another battle unprepared after what had happened. And the trip West wouldn’t take long, at least not compared to preparing an army—even if the ceremonies took an entire week—that would hardly compare to the time needed for a well-organized counter-attack.

Once the ships were loaded, they pulled into the icy winds above Winterclaw, hovering for a moment to observe the buzz of activity around the keep, and then pushed on to the west.

The mountain that the Warmandy clan was built into looked different this time around. Flags from hundreds of different clans lined the snowy approach to its stone facade, flapping in the blizzarding winds like a United Nations gathering, and a hundred or so people—all rugged up in thick furs—congregated on the platform entrance to the temple that doubled as a settlement.

As the two throne ships lowered onto a clearing marked by painted stones, dozens more funneled out of the cavernous settlement’s entrance, coming to see Mark’s arrival.

“Wow, there’s so many of them,” a mercenary warrior said as they landed.

“I’ll say. They must really dig our lord.”

“Alright,” Mark said, rising from the cockpit and addressing his squad of mercenaries, acolytes, and warriors he had hand-picked from Winterclaw. Thick, dark furs covered the scalemail they were dressed in, provided by Payon, who had worked tirelessly to craft the suits for them. “This is a diplomatic mission, first and foremost. And as such, you must all be on your best behavior. We must prove to these people that we are the right people to lead the Frontier going forward. Understood?”

“Yes, King Atlas,” came an echoed reply.

“Make me proud,” Mark said and marched to the exit hatch, opening it with a smack.

The crowds rushed forward as the hatch’s panel touched down against the snow-blanketed rock, tightly packed as they eagerly awaited.

A combination of cheers, scowls, and wary gazes fell upon Mark as he led his people from the ship.

The people of the West were effigies of strength, their skin tough and weatherbeaten. Each of them looked like they possessed the bodies of warriors beneath their thick furs.

It’s obvious not everyone is happy to see me, but at least these people look like they’ll make good allies.

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“My lord,” a bearded man waved. “Patriarch of the Wesard Clan, if I could–”

“Lord King, let me introduce myself, Caretaker Jarrod of the Kranks.”

“Move over,” a bald man growled, pushing through the crowd. “Yandis Kirk of the Jeromi,” he waved, pushing toward Mark. “If I could have a minute–”

“Let the king through,” one of Yelinda’s captains said as a group of her warriors cleared a path toward the temple. “You will all have time to make your requests when we gather in the great hall.”

“Lord King.”

“King Atlas,” another waved.

“My lord! I only need a moment–”

The crowd grew unruly, pushing against the armored guards, and Mark followed their lead and was ushered into the temple as the people continued to push against the human barrier created by the guards.

He wasn’t worried about the clans but didn’t want to insult potential allies during the unfolding chaos.

“This way,” the warriors led Mark and his people inside. They traveled down a stone corridor and were dropped off at rooms similar to the one he had first stayed in.

“The Body of the Goddess requests that you remain in your lodgings until she calls for you, my lord,” the guard said. “Everyone understands the importance of this day and what is happening in the East, and many will try and leverage the situation for their own benefit. She said she hopes you understand.”

“It’s fine,” Mark said, waving the guards away. “You don’t need to worry. We’ll remain in our rooms.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the guard bowed and gathered his men to leave.

Stepping into their room, Mark turned to a large man in his entourage. “Trayox, do you think you could go undercover?”

“What are you asking?”

“Remove your armor and pretend to be from one of the clans. Don’t go sticking your nose anywhere it doesn’t belong. Just get a feel for the situation and the people gathered here. Right now, we have essentially zero information on our situation. I’m hoping you can improve that.”

“I can try,” Trayox nodded.

“Good, that’s all I ask.”

Once Trayox had removed his armor and wore leather and a heavy fur cloak, he looked no different than many of the men who had greeted them on arrival.

“Good luck,” Mark nodded as the large man left. “As for the rest of us, we may as well enjoy our stay while we can.”

“Does that mean…” one of the mercenaries stammered, his eyes lighting up.

“Did the rumors of this place reach you?” Mark said, a smirk creasing his face.

The men nodded in anticipation.

“Sorry, but you might have to wait—at least until one of our attendants arrives.”

‘So, it’s true then?”

“Oh, you’ll see what this place has to offer. I assure you.”

**Trayox**

Making his way through the crowd, Trayox stopped by people marked by the clan colors he recognized. Even though every clan in the West had been invited, there would no doubt be many who weren’t worth eavesdropping on due to the fractured nature of the West. Some clans consisted of little more than tiny hamlets with a few homes huddled together at the edge of civilization.

However, he quickly spotted one of the most powerful clans—the Vaghani. About a dozen people, mostly men, stood in a tight circle. A couple of them had long, white beards bound by metal rings—who were likely the clan elders and patriarch—these men were some of the most important people in the entire West.

The Vaghani was one of the few clans that compared in size to the major clans of the east, with multiple settlements and even a town that could loosely be considered a capital, at least by Frontier standards, which was home to a couple thousand people. Trayox was well aware of who they were, and he knew that their power wasn’t just measured by what the Vaghani directly ruled over but their influence over smaller clans. If they voted not to support Winterclaw, hundreds of microclans would do so in unity, even if the general consensus among others was to support Winterclaw.

“Do you believe this so-called king? Arriving with a retinue of Imperials when he hopes to rule over our lands? What an insult,” Trayox overheard one of them saying.

“He thinks we'll fall for his charm if he brings a token Westerner with him? What kind of fools does he think we are?”

“So, have we decided on our response, then?”

“I say we walk out,” one of the elders said. “Many of the minor clans will follow us. Let’s make our stand here and make it clear.”

“And what if the wargs defeat them? Will we be safe hiding here in the West?”

“I, for one, would rather fight the wargs on my home ground, not some foreign land,” another elder said. “At least we know this land.”

“Foolish. We’d be lucky if we could call up a thousand warriors, even with the aid of the minor clans. What chance would we have against the combined forces of the warg armies? What you suggest is a slow suicide.”

“And you would have us put our warriors under the command of a foreign lord? What’s to stop them from bringing the Imperium here once they are done defeating the wargs? Why should we shed our blood just to be subjugated by another lord?”

“Don’t pretend to be naive, elder. I know you have your spies in the east. This so-called king might not be what he claims to be, but we all know he is no agent of the Imperium. The way he treats the easterners would be nothing short of sacrilege for those barbaric people in the Imperium.”

It seems there is no clear consensus on what to do. This could go poorly.

Trayox turned away, moving toward other groups of clan leaders. Not that the impression of Mark and Winterclaw altered much among the other. Clearly, the people shifted between fear of the wargs and wanting to stand united and remain within their homelands.

Trayox mightn’t have been a political mastermind, but even he could see that these clans required a firm hand to guide them. They needed to be convinced that putting their trust in their king was a wise decision. In fact, he doubted their distrust of having a foreign leader was all that important. The way he saw it, it was an excuse scared men made. No one, not even the greatest fool, would believe there was no difference between bowing to a human king and a warg, not unless they had already fallen for the lies of the Seven-Headed Wolf God.

After another hour of making his rounds, Trayox turned back to their accommodation.

“Do you have it?” Trayox heard a hushed voice as he passed through a crowd.

“Quiet down, fool,” a cloaked man said, glancing over his shoulder and continuing in an incomprehensible whisper.

“Here, take it,” the man replied, handing the cloaked man something. “Remember, we never met.”

“Shhh,” the cloaked man raised a finger to his lips.

“And don’t forget my reward.”

“You’ll have it,” the cloaked man said, waving and turning away.

Trayox turned, pretending to be a part of another group as the man looked around and then turned down one of the temple’s many hallways.

What are these schemers up to?

Tayox glanced down the hall, turned around, and cautiously followed. There was no time to alert others of a possible scheme. Whoever that was, he had to find them and confirm whether or not they were a threat, and if possible, deal with them.