A man sat at the head of the long council table, his dark hair slicked back, mid-length strands falling neatly at his nape, and eyes a deep crimson that seemed to pierce the very air.
It was Duke Veynar. Around him, the other vessel lords murmured among themselves, discussing trade, taxation, and the ever-complicated politics of the empire. Veynar listened patiently, his fingers steepled, absorbing every word.
Until one lord shifted the conversation, he cleared his throat.
"Your Grace, the northern town beyond the east side of the wall…" he began cautiously.
"They've been… difficult. A few groups attempted to slip past the gates, trying to venture beyond the wall."
Veynar raised a brow. "Difficult, you say? Explain."
Another lord chuckled, waving a hand dismissively.
"It's in their blood, I suppose. They prefer the harsh north to these walls. Better to freeze in their homeland than live within our… comforts."
A portly lord snorted.
"Ungrateful northerners! We give them homes, roofs, protection—yet they scuttle about like rats."
A bearded lord leaned forward, swirling his wine.
"Indeed… stubborn as their blue eyes. But, at least the women are… pleasing to the eye."
Veynar's crimson gaze snapped to him.
"Enough," he said sharply, voice cutting across the chamber.
"My lords, these are my people now. By imperial decree and I will not tolerate derision or mockery."
He paused, letting the silence settle.
"Whatever attempts were made at the gates must be investigated immediately. Full reports. No excuses."
Then he turned slightly toward the lord overseeing the northern walls.
"Dispatch your men. See what is happening in that town and report directly to me. I expect nothing less than your utmost diligence."
The northern lord inclined his head, voice steady.
"As you command, Your Grace."
Veynar's gaze swept across the chamber.
"Good. Let none of you forget….compassion is still required of us."
Snow drifted lazily over the eastern town within the great northern walls — a place where most of the northerners had made their homes. Smoke rose from chimneys, the scent of baked bread and pine filling the crisp air.
A woman walked down the cobblestone street, her basket full of warm loaves fresh from the bakery. Her hair was curly and black, her eyes a deep northern blue, a small mole resting just beneath her left eye — a mark that only added to her beauty.
"Morning, Mara!" called an old man from his shopfront.
She smiled warmly. "Morning to you, old Beran! Don't stay out too long, it's freezing today."
A stable hand leading a horse greeted her next.
"Good day, Miss Mara! The usual feed for your colt?"
She laughed softly. "You know me too well, Harn. I'll pick it up tomorrow — he's probably still sulking after I made him stay in the shed."
The townsfolk adored her. She carried herself with the quiet grace of someone who'd earned respect, not demanded it — kindness made flesh amid the cold winds.
When she reached the small wooden home at the end of the path, she opened the door and called gently,
"Rhydian? Sweetheart? I'm home."
She set the basket of bread on the table, brushing snowflakes from her hair. A soft giggle echoed from the other room.
Her brows furrowed playfully. "Rhydian?"
She stepped closer, peeking inside — and stopped short.
A man was crouched beside her little boy, a faint smile on his lips as he let the child climb over his shoulders. The sight made her heart jolt.
"You almost frightened me," she said, exhaling a laugh.
"If you keep visiting like this, it will be the death of me."
The man straightened, turning toward her. His clothes were of fine leather, travel-worn but still bearing the cut of nobility. His eyes — deep crimson — softened as he looked at her.
She walked closer, unable to hide her smile, and pressed her lips to his. "Did anyone see you come in, my dear?" she teased gently.
"If the guards notice your absence again, the castle will think you've gone missing."
He chuckled, brushing a strand of her hair aside.
"Then let them think so. For once, I wanted to breathe without the weight of titles."
Her gaze softened as she leaned into him.
"You speak as though you aren't the Duke of half this cold land."
And there — in that quiet, stolen moment between warmth and winter. The man before her, the one who laughed with her son and stole moments away from duty.
Was Duke Veynar himself.
Then Veynar spoke, his voice low — softer than the man who commanded soldiers and silenced council halls.
"I've missed you," he murmured.
"Each time I leave, it feels longer than the last. I try to find the hours… gods, I do. But the duties pile one over the other until I can't breathe."
She smiled faintly, brushing her fingers along his jaw.
"You don't have to apologize. You're the Duke — the warden of these walls. I knew what that meant when I fell in love with you."
He exhaled, still holding her hand as if afraid she'd vanish with the next gust of wind.
"And yet I can't help but feel I've failed you both. You and our boy."
She shook her head gently, stepping closer until her forehead rested against his chest.
"Don't say that. You've given us more than I ever dreamed of — a warm home, safety, and peace. For me, for our little one… that's more than enough."
Her attempt at humor broke through, softening his expression. "Besides," she added with a teasing smile, "you built this lovely home yourself. That alone should earn you forgiveness, my dear Duke."
But he didn't laugh. His eyes darkened instead — not in anger, but in the quiet ache of guilt.
A Duke consorting with a northern woman — it was unthinkable.
To take her as a wife? Impossible.
Their child, though pure of heart, would never be accepted within the stone walls of nobility. His northern blood would mark him as lesser, a living stain upon his father's name.
Veynar's gaze lingered on the small boy playing with a wooden horse near the hearth. He felt his throat tighten. Every laugh, every smile — it only deepened the ache in his chest.
What have I done to you both? he thought bitterly.
In a world that will never let you exist beside me.
She noticed his silence and reached up, touching his cheek again — her thumb brushing the scar beneath his eye.
"Don't think so far ahead," she whispered.
"Let's just… have this moment. Before the world finds us again."
And for a while, he did. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and the Duke of the North — the man burdened by duty, honor, and secrecy — allowed himself to simply be a husband.
Somewhere deeper within the town, past the narrow stone alleys and the scent of burning pine, stood a small chapel — a humble place the empire had granted to the northerners for "worship." Yet beneath its modest roof and faded glass windows, this gathering was not for prayer.
The pews were filled with men and women alike — all of northern blood. Their pale eyes glimmered beneath the dim candlelight, faces solemn, expectant. The preacher before them, an older man with streaks of gray in his hair, wore no priestly robes, only a thick northern cloak. His voice carried through the air, low at first, then rising with passion.
"They gave us a church," he began, "to forgive our sins. Yet tell me, my brothers and sisters — what sin have we committed?"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Our only fault," he continued, voice sharpening, "was being born beyond their walls — where the wind bites and the snow never fades. They call us stubborn, savage, ungrateful... but we have not forgotten who we are!"
He raised his hand, eyes burning beneath the candlelight.
"They built their towers of stone and call them holy! Yet who are the true sinners here? Those who kneel and pray for mercy… or those who sit in high halls, feasting while our kin are forced to obey behind their walls?"
The crowd stirred, emotion swelling — pain, pride, anger all mingling together.
"This church," the preacher said, his tone dropping to a fervent whisper, "is no place for their gods. It is a place for our hearts — for the north that still lives within us."
He spread his arms, as if to embrace them all.
"The empire may chain our bodies, but it cannot chain our blood. Remember that! The north still breathes — in every one of you!"
A murmur of agreement rose, soft at first, then steady — not of rebellion, but remembrance. Hidden among hymns and candles, they did not plot against the empire; they simply refused to forget.
For even within these walls, beneath another's flag and faith, the north still lived — in their voices, their stories, their blood.
And as the preacher bowed his head, the crowd whispered as one, a quiet vow shared between kindred souls:
"Freyja var'dran."
Snow had settled thick over the northern walls, muting every sound except the occasional whistle of wind. From the high tower of his castle, Duke Veynar leaned against the cold stone, eyes scanning the endless white beyond the battlements.
Beside him stood Renholt, his steward — a lean man with glasses, speaking in a measured tone about the state of the wall and the northern populace.
"…the eastern gate requires reinforcement, my lord. Supplies from the capital are late again, and the townsfolk grow restless,"
Renholt reported, his voice echoing faintly in the cold chamber.
Veynar nodded absently, half-listening. His eyes were drawn outward — to the forested horizon buried in snow.
For a moment, he thought he saw it — something shifting out there.
The snow moved.
At first, he thought it was a trick of the light — the shifting veil of a snowdrift caught by the wind. But no… it seemed alive, slithering, almost deliberate.
He leaned closer to the window, eyes narrowing. For an instant, he swore he saw dark shapes crawling low against the whitened field. Then — nothing. Only the snow again.
"…my lord?"
Renholt's voice broke the silence.
Veynar blinked, straightening. "Hm? Ah — yes. Continue."
Renholt bowed slightly and resumed his report, unaware of the chill settling deeper into the Duke's chest.
Veynar turned his gaze once more toward the horizon, but the land beyond was still, untouched — as though it had never stirred at all.
Unseen to the eyes from the tower, a handful of Northerners crept beneath the snow, wrapped in white furs and silence, moving like shadows between the trees. The scouts would never spot them. Not yet.
Days passed.
The sun hung low, pale and cold as the Duke rode out from his stables, a black cloak drawn tight around his shoulders. The gates of his keep groaned open, letting him through into the biting northern wind.
Just as he mounted his horse, a familiar voice called from behind.
"Off somewhere again?"
Veynar turned slightly, exhaling in relief when he saw who it was.
"Ah… it's only you, Leonard."
The knight approached with a grin, brushing frost from his beard.
"You know," Leonard began, tone half-playful, "if you ever tire of all this duke business, I could take your place. I'd make an excellent ruler."
Veynar chuckled under his breath.
"You? You'd turn this dukedom into ruin — as tangled as that beard of yours."
Leonard laughed heartily.
"I have a fine beard, thank you very much! Just promise me you'll be careful, old friend." He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
"And if you're to see little Rhydian… tell him his uncle Leonard sends his regards."
Veynar's lips curved faintly — a rare, quiet smile. Leonard, his most trusted man… the only soul who knew his secret.
"Of course," Veynar said softly.
"Keep the castle steady until I return."
With that, he tugged the reins, the horse's hooves crunching through the snow as he rode toward the east — toward the town by the wall, where his hidden life awaited him.
The small house, warm and familiar, finally came into view. Veynar's boots crunched softly against the snow-dusted path. Relief fluttered in his chest — until he stopped.
His eyes caught the door. It was cracked near the handle.
Someone had been inside—unannounced.
He pushed the door open slowly, stepping in with measured caution. Shadows shifted in the dim light, and murmured voices carried across the wooden floor. Two men, both northerners, moved nervously.
"Come on, hurry it up!" one hissed.
The other, crouched near the floor, poured crude oil over the boards, hands trembling.
"I… I don't want this all over me, alright?" he stammered, spinning around to protest—
But then he froze. His eyes went wide.
A man in robe behind his friend, a massive hand clamped over his mouth preventing his screams. A dagger flashed, clean and swift, and blood sprayed across the floor.
The man collapsing instantly to the floor. The other froze, eyes wide with terror.
Veynar stepped forward, his dark eyes burning with controlled fury. His voice was low, deadly, and full of wrath:
"Scream… and your neck will be next."
The man scrambled backward, speechless, falling to his knees. Veynar seized him by the collar, lifting him until their eyes met. Rage threatened to spill from him, but he held it, sharp as a blade.
"You… what were you doing here? Trying to burn this house?" His hand tightened, forcing the man to stand.
"And where is the woman and child who live here?" Each word was a strike, heavy with the weight of a father's and husband's fury.
The northerner's lips quivered. Sweat mixed with fear ran down his face. He knew every second could be his last.
Stone steps rang under heavy boots as they strode through the keep. Duke Veynar moved like a man with iron under his skin—each step measured, urgent. Men fell in behind him, armor clinking, breath misting in the cold corridor. At his shoulder Leonard fell into step, hand on his arm, voice low and trying for reason.
"Eldrin—" Leonard began, worry carving his face, "what's this? Why marshal half the garrison for the far north? You're sending men into the wastes."
Veynar stopped. For a heartbeat the corridor held its breath. Anger tilted his features into something harder than the castle stones.
"They have them," he said, each word a blade.
"They have my family."
Leonard's face went white. "What—who has them? Speak plainly."
Veynar's jaw worked. The old calm that cloaked the Duke so often was gone, stripped away by a panic that smelled like cold iron.
"They slipped past the watchers," he spat.
"Hid beneath the snow like rats. They—" He swallowed. "They grabbed my son. They took Vivienne." His voice dropped until it was only for Leonard.
"They think being born of the north makes them lesser. They thought they could use that."
Leonard's hand tightened on Veynar's sleeve.
"By the gods—how do you know?"
"I found the trespassers," Veynar said, voice flat as a blade.
"They were at the house. I… dealt with them." He pulled himself forward, the memory sharpening the rage into something colder.
"They should have been grateful for a quick death. Instead—"
"Eldrin." Leonard's tone snapped between friend and officer. He gripped Veynar's shoulder hard enough to make him flinch.
"You can't go riding out like this alone. You're burning with it."
Veynar shoved past him.
"As my right hand—" he barked without turning, "—you will hold the castle. I have men enough to find them."
Leonard ran to catch him, breath steaming in the corridor's chill. He grabbed Veynar's sleeve, voice low but fierce.
"I will ride with you. I can't just leave you out there — not like this. I worry… if anger finds you, you'll give them no mercy. Old friend, I won't let you hang yourself on a blade of rage."
There was a hard, knightly steadiness in Leonard's face, the kind of steadiness born of vows and a life spent answering danger with steel.
"Besides," he added, softer, "I trust Renholt to hold the castle temporarily. But we must be quick — find them and bring them back."
Veynar's jaw unclenched. Relief flickered across him like a brief thaw. He met Leonard's eyes and saw the honor there — the heart of a knight who would follow him into the white or die trying. It steadied him.
He nodded once, curt and absolute. Then, under his breath as they stepped forward, Veynar thought of the people in the town he had sworn to protect. They were his people still — stubborn, flawed, and human — and that thought kept the hot edge of his fury from swallowing him whole.
But those who stole into his home, who took what was his to guard… those men would answer. Pain might have made him sharp, but justice would make him cold.
They moved off together down the hall, boots ringing on stone, ready to ride for blood and for what remained of mercy.