Ingrid would stop at nothing to bring honor to the Salstar noble family. Every action she took, every scheme she wove, was driven by her unyielding determination to make her bloodline the mightiest Yuhia had ever known. She had not been born into privilege or power but clawed her way up from the depths of nothingness—a nameless street rat, destined to perish like so many others deemed too feeble to deserve mercy, too pitiful to earn pity, and unworthy of even being called wendigo.

Yet, where others faltered and fell, Ingrid endured. Where the frail starved, she found sustenance. Where the greedy overreached and the powerless became prey, she adapted, survived, and thrived. Through cunning, strength, and sheer will, Ingrid accomplished what her peers could not so that her lineage might achieve what no other would.

Now, she sat as the wife of Lord Ulfar, the strongest non-royal wendigo in recent memory—a man whose strength and influence matched her ambition. She bore the title of the Sword of the Salstars with pride, embodying both power and purpose in equal measure. While Lord Ulfar, Patriarch of the Salstar house, trained their son to inherit his mantle, Ingrid shouldered the weight of managing the family’s affairs and overseeing their military operations.

As she sat at the head of the grand war chamber, the air was thick with tension. Ingrid addressed the incursion of druid invaders who had dared to trespass on Salstar lands. Her words were precise, her tone commanding, as she pointed to the map spread across the table. Her most vocal detractors, Erik, Haakon, and Raskva Salstar—her brother-in-law, cousin, and aunt-in-law—sat across from her, their expressions as sharp as the blades of their ceremonial swords.

“The targets of the invaders will be Vinterholm, Blodfjell, and Ulvetinde,” Ingrid stated, tapping each location with her finger. “These locations are—”

“Strategically vulnerable because you let these filthy druids into our lands in the first place,” Haakon interrupted, his voice rising as he slammed his fist on the table. “And now you claim to know their intentions? We should never have entrusted our defenses to a commoner. Warrior or not, you are no family head.”

Haakon loomed over the table, his midnight-hued skin and powerful build a stark reflection of the Salstar lineage. His resemblance to Ulfar was undeniable, a living testament to the nighthand’s formidable bloodline. Yet the contrast between him and Ingrid was equally striking—she, a snowfallen, with skin as pale as her namesake, and a lithe frame that belied her strength. Despite the insult, she met his anger with icy composure, masking her fury behind a measured calm.

“I see, Haakon,” Ingrid said, her voice level and cutting. “So, you doubt my military accolades? Tell me, then, what do you suggest we do?”

Haakon leaned forward, stabbing a finger at the map. “Frostheim. That is where they will converge. The reports indicate movement in that direction. If you were a competent commander, you’d recognize that.”

Raskva, ever the opportunist, chimed in with a sneer. “Perhaps Haakon is right. The blood of a snowfallen is ill-suited to lead the Salstars. Leave the decisions to those who understand the weight of true leadership.”

“Relying on outsiders has never been our way.” Erik nodded in agreement. “Our strength is in our blood, not in outsiders.”

The whispers of discontent spread through the room, emboldening the dissenters. Yet Ingrid remained silent, letting their words hang in the air like the sting of a blade. When they finally quieted, she rose from her seat, her movements deliberate and commanding.

“You’re right,” she said, her voice laced with a chilling edge. “Salstar strength is in the blood. Which is why I took steps to ensure that no weakness would undermine this family—especially the weakness of betrayal.”

The room stilled as her words sank in.

“I allowed the druids into our lands,” Ingrid continued, her voice rising, “because I needed proof. Proof that someone within this family was feeding information to the Nazem Noble House. The druids’ movements? Their precise targeting of our vulnerabilities? That was no accident. It was orchestrated by spies within our midst, spies working for Nazem. And I needed the traitors to show their hand.” Her gaze swept the room, cold and unyielding, before locking onto Raskva and Haakon. “And they did.”

The room erupted into murmurs, shock rippling through the assembled family members.

“I misled this council intentionally,” Ingrid pressed on, her voice cutting through the noise. “I fed false information about troop movements and priorities to specific individuals. Only two of them acted in a manner that exposed their loyalties—to the Nazem, not to the Salstars. Raskva, Haakon—do you have anything to say for yourselves?”

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Raskva’s face paled, her composed facade cracking. “You... you’re lying,” she stammered. “This is absurd! Attacks have been happening for weeks. You have shown us reports of livestock, civilian losses, and military assets attacked.”

“Did I?” Ingrid countered, pulling a parchment from her sleeve and tossing it onto the table. “Here are intercepted communications sent to the Nazem court. Written in your hand, Raskva. And Haakon, your seal was found on directives sent to the druids. Care to explain?”

The room fell into stunned silence. The weight of Ingrid’s evidence crushed any protest before it could form. The accused exchanged panicked glances, their guilt laid bare for all to see. Ingrid’s gaze sharpened. Raskva and Haakon stood, their mana bellowing in their aura as scowls played across their faces. Those seated nearest them instinctively recoiled, moving toward the walls for safety. Not from them but from the one who headed the table. They didn’t want to be in the way of the Sword of the Salstars.

“It’s a shame, really,” Ingrid continued, her voice calm but deadly. “This game we’ve had to play. You see, there have been no successful druid attacks on our lands. Not on our military outposts, not on our civilians, not even on our livestock. I’ve been monitoring their movements from the start, leading them to false flags and meaningless targets.”

Ingrid unleashed her aura, her magic flowed from her like a title wave. Her aura was not like that of other mages. She was one of the few exceptions in that way. Where others may have aptitudes in Starlight, Darkness, Elemental, Nature or Spellform hers was unique. Her aptitude lied in Anti-magic, the binding and sealing of magic in any form. As her aura clashed with that of the traitors their mana betrayed them and was sealed beyond their reach.

“What... what are you going to do, Ingrid?” Raskva stammered, barely able to remain standing, her body trembling under the weight of her stripped mana. “We are members of this council! We demand a trial!”

“Demands? Trials?” Ingrid’s voice was a growl now. “You sound like humans, bartering for leniency. We are not humans.”

Her hand extended, and with a flash of light, a massive claymore appeared—its length dwarfing even her frame, its blade etched with runes of sealing. She gripped it with ease, her strength evident in every movement.

“We are wendigo. We are Salstars. We do not settle this with words, or trials, or courts like those beneath us. We stand on our strength.” Her words thundered through the chamber as she pointed the blade at them. Her aura flared again, a challenge that left no room for misinterpretation. “You think you deserve leniency? Prove that I am wrong—not with your cowardly words, but with your might. Grit your teeth, traitors, and stand. Fight. Show me you are worthy of this family. The strong live, and the weak die. You want a trial? This is your trial.”

The chamber was silent as Ingrid stepped forward, her towering claymore resting lightly on her shoulder. Her every movement radiated power, her gaze locked on the two traitors. Raskva staggered, struggling to maintain her footing without the use of her magic, while Haakon gripped his war axe, his expression twisted with fury and desperation.

“Is this the strength of a Salstar?” Ingrid asked, her voice laced with disdain. “Pathetic.”

Haakon snarled, raising his axe. “I’ll show you strength, you arrogant snowfallen wench!”

He charged, his massive frame barreling toward her with surprising speed. The war axe swung in a vicious arc, aiming to cleave Ingrid in two. She sidestepped with effortless grace, her claymore sweeping upward in a single fluid motion. The flat of her blade smashed into Haakon’s ribs, sending him sprawling across the room with a pained grunt.

“You rely too much on brute force,” Ingrid said coldly, striding toward him as he scrambled to his feet. “But without magic, you’re nothing but a lumbering beast. The Salstars are not mindless animals that wield their magic without purpose and their bodies with reckless flailing like a child.”

Raskva made a weak attempt to intervene, clutching a dagger she’d concealed. She lunged at Ingrid’s back, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated. Without turning, Ingrid twisted her claymore downward, the hilt striking Raskva’s wrist with a sharp crack. The dagger clattered to the ground as Raskva fell to her knees, gasping in pain.

“Stay down,” Ingrid commanded. “You don’t even deserve this fight.”

Haakon roared, charging again with wild fury. His axe came down in a powerful overhand swing, but Ingrid met it head-on. The clang of steel on steel echoed through the chamber as her claymore easily deflected the blow. With a sharp twist, she spun around his guard, her blade slicing through his thigh. Haakon staggered, blood pooling beneath him as he dropped to one knee.

“You’ve embarrassed this family enough,” Ingrid’s voice was venomous. She raised her claymore high. “This ends now.”

A single, decisive swing and her blade cleaved through Haakon’s neck. His head hit the stone floor with a sickening thud, his body collapsing in a heap. Ingrid snapped and the body erupted in a blaze of crystalline fire. Raskva screamed as she tried to crawl backward in a futile attempt to escape. It made Ingrid sick that this worm thought she could call herself Salstar. That she was worthy of what that name meant. No, she was worse than those street rats Ingrid knew as a child. Those worthless people at least died nameless. Raskva clung to an honor not hers to wield.

“Please, Ingrid,” she begged, tears streaming down her face. “I—I was only following orders!”

“You followed the wrong ones.” Ingrid said.

Raskva’s plea ended in a choked sob as Ingrid’s blade flashed once more, cleanly severing her head from her shoulders. The room fell silent, the traitors’ bodies lying lifeless at her feet. Ingrid turned to the remaining members of the council, her claymore resting heavily against the floor. Her icy gaze swept over the remaining council, lingering on her brother-in-law for a beat longer than the others.

“Let this be a lesson,” she said, her voice rang with finality. “Betrayal has no place in the House of Salstar.”