The carriage rattled to the front of the coliseum. By far the largest structure in all of Wintercall, it was planted in the center of the city, dwarfing the city around it. The sharp winter wind hit Vlad’s stone face as he stepped out of his carriage. There were fifteen normal entrances into the coliseum and every one of them had a line stretching a few city blocks. Inn’s were empty, home’s were cleared out. Traffic moved an inch a second.
Von stepped out of the carriage behind Vlad, yawning. He fixed his white cloak over his coat and turned away from the coliseum. “Enjoy the show, come find me when it’s my time to be sold.”
“You’re not leaving,” Vlad said flatly.
Von smirked, walking backwards. “You’ll know where to find me.”
“You’ll not be seen in Wintercall’s brothels with some common whore,” Vlad warned his colder than the wind.
“Of course not. You’d prefer the whole world see me with a child.”
Vlad’s jaw tightened. “We're over this, Von.”
“Yes, we are.” Von vanished into the crowd, his white cloak swallowed by the sea of bodies.
Vlad sighed. Sometimes he felt worse for the poor girl marrying that man.
“Is that the Legendary Titan of the North?” The high-pitched, sing-song voice grated on Vlad’s ears before he even turned. Sir Leanor, another fool half-bred northmen, all bright smiles and self-important swagger, was already making his way over, his blond hair shining like spun gold.
Vlad ignored the slender blond, stepping past the dual guards into the coliseum's exclusive entrance. The coliseum’s interior was colder than outside, the stone staircase spiraling upward like a frozen serpent. Torches lined the walls, their flames flickering in the icy drafts. Guards, clad in furs and chainmail, stood at intervals, their faces impassive.The coliseum was fifteen stories high. Getting to the top would feel like double the time with Sir Leanor talking his ear off at every step.
“I hear this year’s attack on the Wall was the biggest in a decade!” Leanor chirped, trailing behind. Genuine interest lit up his eyes. “What was it like?”
“Cold,” Vlad replied without slowing.
Leanor pouted. “Has anyone ever told you you're the worst conversationalist?”
“Plenty.” Vlad counted the levels remaining until he reached the top.
“Have you heard?” Cayne said.
“Heard what?”
“Of the grand event today. There is a duel of honor for the hand of Lady Tilda, the second daughter of House York.”
Vlad’s expression faltered. He had received news that she was already engaged to Uriel of House Cayne. “Was she not already promised to your brother, Uriel?”
“Oh, she was,” Leanor replied with a grin. “My dear sensitive brother had his honor challenged by some young master of a minor house…Hildran was his name.”
“Lady Tilda isn’t some low commoner. Her marriage cannot be decided by something as fickle as a duel between two young masters.”
Leanor flicked the hilt of a guard's sword before he skipped a few steps in excitement. “Isn’t that what makes it so fun! Such a noble lady's fate being decided by a grand event with tens of thousands of people watching. So romantic!” He giggled.
“Your brother is a fool. A high noble of The North should not use his skills to perform in front of a crowd like some petty jester,” Vlad said, as the two finally reached the top floor. A set of doors was all that stopped Vlad from this suffocating half-breed.
Leanor stopped his prancing. “Do you ever just have fun?”
Vlad scoffed. And luckily for him the conversation was over the second he pushed open the doors and let the roar of the crowd scream into the room. There were over 50,000 overlapping voices booming into the sky like thunder. The stone cold coliseum vibrated. People were crawling over each other to find a seat in the stands. Chants were being sung. The air inside the coliseum was thick with the mingling scents of sweat, roasted meat, and damp fur cloaks.
The first twelve levels of the coliseum were reserved for the commoners. The next three were for the minor nobles, high merchants and various high class northerners. One more level was placed above the fifteenth, exclusive to the great Houses and foreign diplomats. On that sixteenth level, in front of a group of servants and guards, was five six feet tall, side-by-side seats placed under a canopy with sigils of each northern great house carved into the their back.
Sitting in the middle seat with the buffalo head carved on its back, was High Lord Edgard of House York. The last time Vlad had seen him sitting in that seat, his head was above the horns of the buffalo. Time had shrunken him. Now his head matched perfectly with the buffalo's horns. As domineering as he was, the old man was far past his glory days.
Slouching in his chair with the bear carved into its back was Lord Tron, the brooding giant of House Morehead, his eyes like flint. His cheek rested on the palm of his hand as his elbow dug into the arm of his chair. Vlad knew little about him. Lord Tron rarely was seen outside of his castle and there are rumors that he harbors a witch in his dungeon.
Spread with his heavy arms folded over his broad chest on the seat with the hammer carved into the back of it was the bald headed Lord Bjorn of House Steelheart. He was a great warrior and one of the few true northern lords left. Only a year younger than High Lord Edgard but his aura still sprang with vigor.
“Late as always,” Lord Bjorn said. “Will there ever be an ironstone who knows how to tell time, I wonder?” He ran his fat fingers through his twelve inch beard.
“We are too busy defending your wives and children to learn how to tell time.” Vlad replied.
There was a second of tenseness in the air, before Bjorn shattered it with a burst of laughter.
Vlad gave a short laugh.
“Who's the half-wit?” Bjorn asked, looking at Leanor.
Leanor gave a slight bow. “Sir Leanor Cayne, m’lord. Me and Vlad are old friends.”
Vlad frowned. 'Old friends' was a stretch. They met once at a gala when they were kids. Ever since then, Leanor would occasionally go to the wall to fight the raksha. Eventually he stopped when it was no longer fun.
“Ah, Raigo’s kid.” Bjorn instantly lost interest.
Vlad sat in the seat to the left of Bjorn with the shield carved into its back. It was cold and hard, like The North. Leanor sat next to Lord Tron in the furthest right seat with the deer carved into its back.
“How’s your father?” High Lord Cayne asked, his voice lethargic and low.
“He’s still unwell. The physician says he’ll live but a week or more of rest is required.”
“I see.”
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“But he has given me his authority to make decisions for this meeting.”
“A fool.” Vlad uttered to himself. What type of person would trust that reckless brat with the affairs of an entire great house?
Bjorn, hearing the murmur, raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you want to know how your sister’s doing?”
Vlad gave him a sharp glance. “I’m sure she’s giving your poor son one hell of a time.”
Bjorn chuckled deeply, his broad chest shaking. “Sometimes I wonder who the man is in that relationship.”
The clouds parted, and sunlight spilled like a spotlight onto the contestants below. As if on cue, High Lord Edgard gripped the arms of his chair, pushed himself to his feet and then walked slowly to the edge of the floor. The crowd gradually turned silent as Edgard looked over the railing.
After bathing in the silence for a few seconds, High Lord Edgard raised an arm, paused, letting the suspense build, and then lowered it. Not a second later the roar continued and the horns sounded, signaling the beginning of the first event of the day.
For a moment, Vlad saw The North from the paintings in his room. A proud place of strength and prestige.
“Wanna bet, young lord?” Bjorn asked.
“I’ll bet! I’ll bet!” Leanor said eagerly.
Bjorn looked at Vlad.
Vlad rested his cheek on his fist, his face passive as always. “The one on the left seems to be closer to gaining aura. I'll take that one.”
Bjorn laughed. “Very well! I’ll take the scrawny lad on the right.”
“I’ll take the one on the left as well!” Leanor added, eagerly.
“We aren’t here to place bets.” Lord Tron said, in the same position he was in when Vlad arrived.
“Lord Tron is right,” High Lord Edgard said as he settled into his seat.
“The crown has given its decree. 3,000 bannermen from each of the great houses. Excluding house Ironstone.”
“This is Blasphemous!” Bjorn slammed his fist into the arm of his chair. “The king has already stolen 10,000 northmen last year. And now he wants even more for his selfish conquest on the other side of the boundlands.”
“Careful, Lord Bjorn,” Edgard said. “To prying ears, your words might be mistaken for treason.”
“Treason,” Bjorn spat. “Is it treason to want your men to live? The king has been trying to conquer Sangala for seven years now and he hasn’t made a dent.”
Silence lingered after Lord Bjorn’s outburst, broken only by the distant roar of the coliseum crowd. High Lord Edgard’s grip tightened on the arms of his chair, his knuckles pale against the cold stone. He leaned forward, his weathered voice cutting through the tension.
“We may not like it, but the Crown’s will is law,” he said, each word heavy with resignation. “Defiance would not only cost us our banners but our heads. Sangala may be a fool’s conquest, but the North cannot afford to be seen as rebellious.”
Vlad's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. It was typical of the High Lord to yield, his words tempered by decades of caution. Vlad pretended not to but he felt the weight of every word, the clash of pride and pragmatism pulling at him. Bjorn, however, was not so easily subdued.
“And how long will we bow, Edgard?” Bjorn growled. “How many more men will we bury before we say enough? The South drains us dry—our gold, our steel, our blood—while they sit fat and comfortable behind their walls.”
“Careful, Bjorn,” Edgard warned again, this time with more force. His sharp gaze swept across the group, daring anyone to agree with the hulking lord. “There is no North without the Crown. Remember that.”
“False,” Vlad cut in. His mouth moved before his brain could stop it.
High Lord Edgards slowly looked at him. “False?”
He didn’t want to get involved in this matter, but it was too late now. “The North was here long before the Crown. We had gone through ten kings before any kingdom in the south could even create one. I would believe it would be accurate to say that there is no Crown without The North…your grace.”
High Lord Edgard didn’t reply, but Vlad could have sworn he saw a slight smirk appear on the man’s wrinkled face. He had an idea that even though the High Lord pretends not to, he has the same concerns as the rest. How could the North survive when it was caught between the Crown's endless demands and its own dwindling strength?
High Lord Edgard exhaled slowly and pushed himself to his feet again, leaning heavily on the railing for support. The sunlight caught the edge of his silver hair, giving him an almost spectral quality.
“The king’s decree will be carried out,” he said with finality. “Each house must send their bannermen, as demanded. But rest assured, I will send word to the Crown expressing our... concerns. For now, this discussion is over.”
The other lords exchanged glances, some reluctant, others grim. Even Bjorn nodded, though his lips pressed into a tight line of disapproval.
Vlad leaned back in his seat, the cold stone pressing against his spine. He knew better than to trust Edgard’s promises to petition the Crown. The High Lord’s words might be diplomatic, but they would do little to stem the bleeding of the North. This was merely the calm before the storm—a storm that would test the North’s mettle as it never had before.
In the coliseum below, the clash of steel erupted, the roar of the crowd surging like a tidal wave. Vlad allowed himself a fleeting glance at the combatants just in time to see that he had won the bet, but his mind was already elsewhere, grappling with the harsh truth: war was coming, whether the North was ready or not.
“Now on to the pressing matter,” Edgard said.
“That wasn’t the pressing matter?” Leanor asked with wide eyes, sweating from the previous bout of discussion.
“Lord Rennard has made an alliance with the scavengers in Wolf Bay,” Lord Tron said.
Shocked glances were exchanged by the lords. But Vlad was shocked for a different reason: Vior. He was weak, but clever. Maybe this was one of his sneaky plans.
“He is one of your vassals, is he not?” Lord Bjorn asked.
“Yes.” Lord Tron sighed.
“So why are you telling us this instead of getting rid of him?”
“Combined with the scavengers, they have roughly 6,000 men.”
“And?” Bjorn tapped the arm of his chair.
Vlad’s brow furrowed. The scavengers of Wolf Bay were known for their guerilla tactics, their ability to vanish into the harsh terrain before retaliation could strike. If their ranks were truly bolstered by a noble’s forces, it posed a genuine threat.
“Their numbers are swelling,” Tron countered, his deep voice measured. “With Rennard’s banner, they’ve reached 6,000 strong. That’s no mere nuisance. It is equivalent to the size of three minor houses.”
“What if I helped?” Leanor suggested.
“Scavengers.” Bjorn sneered. “Petty bandits and mongrels. Hardly worth a lord’s attention.”
“Not all of us are as strong as you, Lord Bjorn. Some of us actually have to use our brains in a fight.”
“I am more than willing to help,” Leanor said, almost as if pleading. “The Split Vale and Rolling Hills gets boring. There are never any fights.”
“Weak.” Bjorn crossed his arms.
“Enough!” Edgard’s voice cut through the argument. He looked at each of the lords like a scolding parent before his gaze lingered on Vlad. “Lord Vlad, your region is closest to Wolf Bay. And the hoard will not come for another year.”
Vlad lifted an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“I give you the task of dealing with them.”
“No.” The reply was a reflex that even Vlad hadn't expected.
“No?” Edgard flinched at the unexpected response.
“With respect, m’lord. I will not deal with Lord Tron’s problems. What happens in his region is of no concern to me.”
“You’re refusing an order?”
Vlad paused. He had no idea why High Lord Edgard was trying to push this on him all of sudden. His best guess was fear. The North’s strength was dwindling and with it, House York’s. The only house that did not have to send men to the south was House Ironstone. He feared losing his position as High House.
“M’lord,” Vlad’s gaze wavered and his heart beat a bit faster as he looked at those old, sharp, experienced eyes but he pressed on. “None of the great houses here right now have ever assisted House Ironstone at the wall. I have never complained about that because I know it is my responsibility as great lord of the Red Curtain to make sure my vassals are in order and prepared enough to take care of the raksha. Lord Tron’s incompetence has led to this dreadful situation. Following The North's code, he should be the one to fix it.”
The cries of battle echoed in the following silence. And he almost regretted his bluntness until. High Lord Edgard dropped his head.
“It appears I have gotten complacent in my old age. To think that our youngest would remind me of The North’s code. Lord Tron, you will be given a chance to fix your mistakes.”
“Understood.”
Vlad released a long and relieving inward sigh.
“Now that’s how a Northern boy should act. I see Vidir raised you right!” Bjorn clasped his gorilla hand on Vlad’s shoulder.
A small crease of pride appeared on Vlad’s face.
The seventh and final event was finally starting in the coliseum. In front of the north gate was young master Hildran from a family Vlad did not know. The man was tall and broad, his muscles defined. Instinctually, Vlad sized the man up, searching for any strengths and weaknesses. He signed. All weaknesses, no strengths. The young master didn’t even have a strong enough blood line to gain aura. His opponent, young master Uriel, was the oldest son of House Canyne. He has received swordsmanship training by knights and house Caynes master-at-arms. Vlad could see a flicker of aura sitting in his blood. Not enough to project but enough to use.
“This is the big event?” Bjorn said, his voice full of disappointment. “How is this supposed to be called a duel?”
“Don’t worry,” Leanor said. “Uriel won’t be using any aura.”
Vlad stood from his seat and prepared to leave until he caught sight of a familiar white cloaked figure in the stands.
What was Von doing there?