The morning air was sharp and brisk, though the heavy snows of winter had retreated, leaving Vetasta wrapped in the cold clarity of early spring. The roads leading to the Keep wound between ancient pines and low stone walls, the city's heart looming closer with every step of their horses.
Killan and his company approached the gates at first light, just as the letter had commanded. The banners of House Svedana snapped crisply in the breeze above them—a mountain shrouded by clouds, stitched in silver and blue against a pale standard.
The Keep itself was carved partly into the hillside, stone upon stone laid centuries ago by hands long gone, a fortress built not just for defense but endurance. It was ancient, and it looked it—an enduring monument to a house that had stood for thousands of years.
Two guards, dressed in fitted leathers dyed the signature silver-blue, awaited them at the gates. Neither spoke, but with a nod, they gestured for the Southerners to dismount and follow.
Santi, ever cautious, touched the hilt of his sword reflexively. Killan gave him a sharp glance, and he relaxed, his hand falling away.
They were led through a winding path of stone halls, flanked by massive tapestries bearing the emblem of the mountain crest. The halls smelled faintly of pine smoke and steel, a comforting yet sobering reminder that they had entered the stronghold of a warrior people.
The throne room was modest by Southern standards—no golden ceilings or jeweled pillars—but it radiated a power far deeper than wealth: a sense of heritage, of battles fought and won, of generations laid upon generations.
At the far end stood two figures awaiting them.
The first, tall and commanding—Lord Elex, the Captain of the North Armies. His dark hair was tied loosely at his nape, and his storm-gray eyes—similar to Killan's own—assessed them calmly, yet not without warmth.
Beside him stood another, slightly broader in build, with the casual confidence of a man well-accustomed to battle. Asta, the General of the North, his hair wind-tossed, his easy smile not quite disguising the sharpness behind his gaze.
"Welcome to Vetasta," Elex said, his voice smooth but resonant in the high stone chamber. "We have been expecting you."
Killan stepped forward, offering the Northern Captain a respectful nod. "Killan of House Valmird, as you know. I come to speak of alliances and matters of mutual concern."
"You'll find ears willing to listen," Elex said, exchanging a glance with Asta.
As pleasantries began, a small movement caught Killan's eye near the upper level of the hall—a gallery that overlooked the throne room. A slim figure, cloaked and hooded, lingered there briefly, watching.
A woman? Killan fixed his eyes on her.
There was something familiar in the way she leaned against the railing, the casual way she crossed her arms, and the faint glint of dark hair catching the morning light. But before he could get a better look, she turned and disappeared into the shadows beyond the stone archways.
Killan frowned slightly but said nothing.
"Shall we sit and talk?" Elex offered, gesturing toward a long table set with bread, meats, and warmed cider.
Killan nodded once. Business first. Mysteries could wait.
For now.
The council table was rough-hewn but polished smooth from use, the wood darkened with age. A large map was unrolled across its surface, weighed at the corners by iron markers shaped like mountains.
Killan took a seat opposite Elex and Asta, his men—Vignir, Harlan, and Santi—spreading out behind him, standing at ease but watchful.
Elex folded his arms and regarded Killan thoughtfully.
"Before we begin, King of the South," he said, his voice calm but carrying easily across the hall, "it would be right to ask: What brings you to the North?"
They all knew, of course. No king crossed the frozen Spine to the North without purpose. Still, traditions were traditions. Politeness was armor as much as courtesy here.
Killan inclined his head slightly, playing along.
"I come seeking alliance," he said clearly. "The South is strong, but the West grows bolder. Our enemies gather. Alone, we may endure. But I know we won't last long if they push their campaign further."
Elex exchanged a glance with Asta, then returned his steady gaze to Killan.
"The West has always been ambitious," Asta said, voice low. "But they forget their history."
Killan allowed a small, humorless smile. "All too easily."
"The North does not forget," Elex said simply.
Killan nodded once. "That is why I'm here."
A brief silence fell between them, heavy but not hostile. Only the fire crackling in the great hearth filled the space for a moment.
Elex spoke first. "The North has no love for the West. Their new High Lord is a fool, hungry for more than his borders can feed. We hear whispers of raids along the river towns. Nothing large yet—but enough to stir unrest."
"We know," Killan said grimly. "Our lands have seen the first cracks, too. Bandits at first. Then soldiers out of uniform."
Asta leaned forward, arms folded across his broad chest. "And you come seeking alliance?"
Killan nodded. "The South cannot afford to fight two wars—one with the West and another with famine. We need strong allies. The North's strength is legendary."
At that, a flicker of something passed between Elex and Asta. A shared thought unspoken.
Killan caught it and pressed, "Have I come at a bad time?"
Elex's lips quirked slightly—something between a smile and a warning. "No worse than usual."
The North had always been... careful. Even when they agreed with outsiders, they moved at their own pace, guided by rules only they truly understood.
Killan opened his mouth to speak again—but his attention flickered, drawn upward toward the high stone galleries lining the chamber. He thought—no, he knew—he caught a glimpse of movement: the sway of a cloak, the curve of a figure slipping behind a pillar.
But when he looked closer, there was nothing.
He forced his attention back to the table.
"I offer trade, knowledge, and steel," Killan continued. "Southern crops, horses, ironworks. And our army, if called for."
"And in return?" Asta asked.
Killan met his gaze without wavering. "Your strength. Your knowledge of the West's movements. Your people standing beside mine when enemies come."
Another shared glance between the Northern lords. Something unspoken passed between them—caution, perhaps, or a memory.
Elex leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. "You speak well, King Killan. But words are easy. Trust is earned in harder ways."
"And I will earn it," Killan said simply.
"With what exactly?" Elex questioned.
A thoughtful silence followed before the Southern King replied.
"I would offer myself if I must," the words left Killan's mouth, firm and unhurried.
His men glanced at each other in surprise.
The moment stretched between them, heavy with unspoken things.
"You mean, marriage?" Elex clarified.
"Yes, I'm willing to offer that as well," Killan said as his men exchanged furtive glances. "I understand you have a Lady in your house who is still unmarried."
Elex studied him carefully, his eyes narrowed. "There's only one Lady left in House Svedana."
"I meant her exactly," Killan said. "She's your sister, right?"
Elex glanced at Asta, who had made a fist so tight it looked like it hurt.
"This will be interesting," at last, Elex straightened. "You will have our decision soon. Before the week is out."
Asta rose too, visibly relxaing and nodding once in agreement. "We are not hasty with our promises."
Killan rose, bowing his head respectfully. "I would not expect anything less from the North."
As they were led back through the heavy doors into the waiting courtyard, Killan cast one last glance over his shoulder—up toward the shadowed galleries.
Empty.
Yet he could not shake the feeling of being watched. And whoever watched him moved through these halls like they belonged to them.