VISKLE

Two months since the last raksha hoard, Sixteenth day of the Eleventh month, year 1021.

Blight Castle loomed ahead, a dark and miserable shadow against the pale winter sky. Viskle hated being summoned here, hated everything about this place. Too cold. Too bleak. The stone steps were as unyielding as the men who marched them, and the women? Tall, beautiful, but stricter than a miser’s purse. No drinking. No gambling, they’d scold, lips pressed into thin lines. Nothing like the warm, easy laughter of the women back home.

As he approached the Keep, muttering under his breath about the sheer misery of it all, he froze at the sight near the front doors.

A boy sat slumped against the cold stone, no older than eleven by his size, though his eyes told a story of at least a dozen lifetimes. A fresh scar carved its way across the bridge of his nose, his skin pale beneath the dirt and bruises. His threadbare clothes were torn, useless against the chill, and in his trembling hands, he gripped a dagger smeared with dried blood.

But it wasn’t the boy alone that made Viskle’s breath hitch—it was the massive wolf beneath him, its throat torn open. The trail of blood leading back toward the castle gate said the boy had dragged the beast here himself.

“By the goddess,” Viskle muttered under his breath, unease prickling along his spine.

The boy was him—ten years ago. Huddled on those same cold steps, caught in the same desperate struggle. Though, judging by the wolf's size, Viskle doubted the boy had relied on traps as he once had.

“First catch?” Viskle asked softly.

The boy startled awake, his body jerking as his eyes snapped open. Without hesitation, he lashed out with the dagger in his trembling hand, aiming for Viskle’s knees.

Viskle moved quickly, batting the weapon aside and kicking it out of reach. It skittered across the stone and disappeared into the shadows.

“How about we start with words this time?” Viskle said, forcing a smile to ease the tension.

“Go away!” the boy spat, his voice hoarse, raw with pain and fear.

Viskle’s smile faltered as he took a step back, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. “Easy, kid. I’m not here to hurt you.”

The boy’s glare was defiant, but his small frame trembled against the biting cold. He was on the brink of collapse, stubbornly holding himself upright. Viskle knelt a few feet away, lowering himself to the boy’s level.

“Let me guess,” he said gently. “That wolf gave you trouble, didn’t it?”

The boy’s lips pressed into a tight line, but his gaze flickered to the wolf’s bloodstained fur.

“It’s a fine kill,” Viskle continued, his tone kind but firm. “But you won’t last long sitting out here in this cold. Let me help.”

“I don’t need your help!” the boy snapped, his voice breaking.

Viskle sighed. He recognized the fire in the boy’s eyes—the same fire that had once burned in his own. But fire wouldn’t keep him alive out here.

“Listen,” Viskle said, his voice lowering. “You’ve got guts, kid. More than most. But guts alone won’t keep you warm tonight. And I know you're hungry.”

The boy hesitated, his defiance wavering as a shiver wracked his body. For a moment, he seemed ready to lash out again, but instead, he glanced at the wolf lying beside him.

“You got food?”

“I’m sure we can find something.”

“Fine,” the boy muttered, his voice barely audible.

Viskle stood and offered a hand. “Good choice.”

The boy didn’t take it, instead staggering to his feet on his own. Viskle nodded, respecting the silent refusal. “Bring the wolf, you're going to need to show it to the old man.”

“You know him?!” A glimmer of hope flickered in the boy's eyes.

Viskle scoffed, smiling as he thought back to the past ten years. “I know him alright. And if my guess is right, you have a rough future ahead of you, kid.”

Together, they entered the castle, the massive doors creaking shut behind them. The warmth of the hall was immediate, but Viskle couldn’t shake the feeling that the cold lingered in the boy’s eyes.

The sight of a little boy dragging a wolf through the castle filled the cold halls with an unusual sense of triumph. White Cloaks passing by paused, their hardened faces softening with smiles and approving nods. Residents stopped in their tracks, murmuring in hushed tones—a mix of praise for the boy’s bravery and worry for what such boldness might mean.

When they reached the far east wing of the castle, Viskle stopped before the entrance to the tea room. Galant, the Mother Regent’s imposing bodyguard, stood vigil, his hulking frame blocking the doorway. With a glance at Viskle and the boy, Galant silently stepped aside, his gloved hand pushing the heavy door open.

The tea room was cavernous and cold, its austerity softened only by the soft white light spilling through a glass wall on the right. The light illuminated twelve round tables scattered throughout, all empty save for the one nearest the entrance.

Lady Helena, otherwise known as the Lady in Ice, sat at the table. While her eldest son, Vlad, was out of Blight Castle she was the highest authority in the Red Curtain.

Her beauty was stark and sharp, like a frost-edged blade. Long, gazelle-like legs crossed beneath the table, a slender waist framed by a flowing gown of pale blue silk. Her icy blue eyes, colder than the northern winds, fixed on them with an intensity that made Viskle’s chest tighten as if pierced by an unseen blade.

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Her raven-black hair cascaded over her shoulders, framing a face so pale it seemed carved from moonlight. Even seated, her commanding presence filled the room, the chill in the air seemingly emanating from her.

On the opposite side of the table stood Sir Bronx, his broad shoulders squared and his scarred face set in a stoic expression. His imposing frame was wrapped in a thick fur cloak, the hilt of his sword visible at his side. Despite his rugged appearance, his eyes held a surprising softness as they flicked between Lady Helena and the boy.

“You brought a wolf into my tea room? A bloody one at that.” Lady Helena’s voice was smooth yet razor-sharp, each word carving through the stillness like ice against stone.

Viskle stiffened, bowing his head in deference. “Forgive me, m’lady. The boy—he killed it himself. Dragged it through the gates, no less. I thought it prudent to bring him to you.”

Lady Helena’s gaze shifted to the boy, her icy eyes narrowing as they appraised him. The boy stood defiant despite the exhaustion etched into his small frame, his chin lifted in challenge. The blood on his hands had dried to a dark crust, but his grip on the wolf's fur was tight, as if he feared letting go might undo his triumph.

“Defiance,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. Her lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “And yet, he stands.”

Sir Bronx cleared his throat, stepping forward. “M’lady, the boy shows promise.”

“Instinct without discipline is dangerous,” Helena replied, her tone carrying an edge of warning. She leaned forward, her piercing gaze pinning the boy where he stood. “What is your name, child?”

The boy hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “Fenn,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “Fenn of nowhere.”

“Nowhere?” Helena repeated, her head tilting slightly as if tasting the bitterness of the word. “How poetic. Tell me, Fenn of nowhere, do you understand what you’ve done bringing this wolf here?”

“I killed it,” the boy replied, his tone blunt. “It’s mine.”

Helena’s gaze flickered to Viskle, who stood awkwardly, unsure whether to intervene. She gestured for him to step back, her focus unwavering. “And what would you do with your prize, Fenn? Keep it as a pet? Feast upon it?”

The boy blinked, as if the thought hadn’t yet crossed his mind. “I’d use it. The fur for warmth, the meat for food, the teeth for trade.”

A moment of silence followed, broken only by the faint rustle of the silk gown as Helena leaned back in her chair. “Practical. Resourceful. Yet, a lone wolf cub cannot survive in the North.”

Fenn’s brow furrowed. “I’m not a cub,” he snapped.

Helena’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes seemed to glint with something close to amusement. “No,” she said softly. “You’re not. But that doesn’t make you a wolf.”

Sir Bronx crossed his arms, his deep voice rumbling in agreement. “The boy needs guidance, m’lady.”

Helena tilted her head, her eyes narrowing. “And you would vouch for him, Sir Bronx?”

“I would,” he said without hesitation. “He’ll start as my cup bearer. I’ll Train him. If he fails, he’s no worse off than before.”

Helena considered this, her pale fingers drumming softly against the table. Then she nodded, a single, deliberate motion. “Very well. He is yours, Sir Bronx. But make no mistake—if he proves a threat to this castle or its people, his blood will stain the snow outside my walls. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, m’lady,” Bronx replied, bowing slightly.

Helena’s gaze flicked back to Fenn. “And you, boy? Are you willing to obey, to learn what it means to survive not just as a hunter, but as something more?”

Fenn hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod. “I’ll do what I have to.”

“Good,” Helena said, her tone final. She gestured to the door. “Take him to the barracks, Sir Bronx. See to it that he is fed, cleaned, and ready to prove himself by dawn.”

Bronx placed a firm hand on Fenn’s shoulder, steering him toward the exit. As they left, Helena’s voice called out one last time, chilling and commanding.

“Do not waste this chance, Fenn of nowhere. There are many who covet it.”

Lady Helena’s words lingered in the air like frost, the sharpness of her tone cutting deeper than any blade. As Sir Bronx and the boy exited, the heavy door creaked shut behind them, leaving Viskle standing alone in the cavernous tea room.

His head lowered, eyes fixed on the icy floor as if hoping to sink through it and escape the weight of Lady Helena’s gaze. He could feel it, unyielding and cold, pressing down on him like the North’s harshest winter storm.

“Sir Viskle,” she said, her voice softer now but no less commanding.

“Yes, m’lady.”

“Does my face look strange to you?”

Her question caught him off guard, and his head snapped up in surprise. “No, m’lady! Of course not.”

“Then why aren’t you looking at it?”

Viskle froze, his pulse quickening. Slowly, deliberately, he straightened his shoulders and raised his chin, forcing himself to meet her icy blue eyes.

“There,” she said, a faint smile curving her lips. “Now you look like a Knight of the White Order.”

Viskle’s heart hammered in his chest, but he refused to look away. Her words, though few, carried a weight that settled heavily on him. Praise from Lady Helena was as rare as warmth in the North, and he would not squander it.

“Thank you, m’lady,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze softening ever so slightly. “A knight should never bow his head without cause, Viskle. Not to fear, not to uncertainty. You’ve worn the white cloak now—let it remind you of who you are.”

“Yes, m’lady,” he replied, his resolve hardening like steel tempered in frost.

Her lips twitched, a faint smile flickering and vanishing as quickly as winter sunlight. She placed her cup on the table, the quiet clink echoing in the cavernous room.

“A month ago, my son killed the eldest heir of House Cayne,” she said abruptly.

Viskle’s heart stopped. He fought to keep his expression neutral, but his mind raced. Surely, she wasn’t speaking of Lord Commander Vlad. That left Von, the reckless younger son. Of course it was him. It had to be.

“Because of this, I have a task for you,” she continued.

“Anything, m’lady,” Viskle said without hesitation, though unease coiled tightly in his gut.

Her icy gaze lingered on him, appraising. “You were a thief once, weren’t you?”

The question hung in the air, sharp and unforgiving.

“Yes, m’lady,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Good.” Her approval was colder than her scorn. “House Cayne is hosting a banquet for their third son’s coming-of-age ceremony. You will attend as an envoy of House Ironstone. But your true purpose is to gather information. Learn who stands with us and who stands against us. Do this quietly. Discreetly.”

The weight of her words pressed down on him. A knight of the White Order, tasked with espionage—it felt like a betrayal of his oaths. Yet, how could he refuse the Mother Regent?

“Am I clear?” she asked, her tone leaving no room for argument.

“Yes, m’lady,” he said, though his hands fidgeted behind his back.

“Good.” She waved a dismissive hand toward the door. “Go.”

But Viskle hesitated, his gaze flickering toward her, the question burning in his mind too urgent to suppress.

“If I may ask, m’lady…”

Her eyes narrowed, her grip tightening around the empty teacup. “You may.”

“It would help in my mission to know if we are… preparing for war, or simply gathering information?”

The room seemed to grow colder, if such a thing was possible. Lady Helena lifted the teacup to her lips and drank the last of its contents in one long, deliberate sip. The warmth had long since left it, the steam dissipated.

She set the cup down, her gaze locking onto his with an intensity that froze him in place.

“War,” she said, the single word falling like an avalanche.