Just as the shadow wolves were subdued, ominous silhouettes rose in the horizon speeding up in the direction of the territory, "A caravan, Master," Silas panted.
"But... it's not the merchants. The sigil is the Black Bear."
Fyrion felt a cold, familiar prickle down his spine. He put the sword in it's sheath.
Whisshh--
Lord Valdemar, Fyrion's father, was already in the courtyard however he was nowhere to be seen when the wolves showed up, 'Pathetic.'
He was dressed in his old, dented armor, his hand gripping the hilt of his great sword. He looked terrified.
Fyrion ignored him, his gaze fixed on the procession. It was not a merchant's caravan; it was a small, disciplined army.
'So, the shadow wolves...it was their creation, huh.'
Fifty soldiers in thick, black-iron plate, their helmets fur-lined, escorted twenty heavy wagons. They moved with a silent, menacing efficiency that made Gregor's new recruits look like clumsy children.
The sigil on their black banners was a massive, rampant bear. Baron von Hess. The true power of the North, the man who controlled every iron mine, every trade route, and every minor lord for five hundred miles.
He was the reason Fyrion's family was poor. He was the Three-Year Winter, weaponized.
A single rider dismounted and walked into the courtyard. He was not a brute like Grom or a sneering fop like Corvus.
He was tall, thin, and his face was impassive, his eyes as dead as the frozen sky. He wore immaculate black-iron armor, polished to a mirror shine, with the Black Bear sigil on one pauldron.
"I am Gunther, Herald of Baron von Hess, Lord of the Ironfang Mountains," he said. His voice was polite, smooth, and carried no warmth at all.
His gaze swept over the courtyard, noting the armed, well-fed guards, the busy servants, and the faint, unmistakable warmth radiating from the castle's chimneys.
His eyes settled on Fyrion. He didn't address Lord Valdemar. He addressed the boy.
"Lord Fyrion. That was impressive display of your battle prowess I have witnessed. We have also received the proclamation notice form you for this territory, it wasn't a sweet ceremony, was it?"
The tension seemed to be rising suddenly the lean man suddenly spread his arms and laughed.
"Haha, The Baron is... intrigued."
Gregor, standing beside Fyrion, instinctively put his hand on his sword.
Gunther's dead eyes flicked to the old soldier, then back to Fyrion. "He has heard... rumors. Rumors of a 'rubbish' son who suddenly performs miracles. Rumors of a house on the verge of collapse, now suddenly... bustling."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping. "The Baron wishes to know why a minor house is solving the North's heat problem... without his permission."
The threat was not in the words; it was in the air. The Baron owned the cold. The cold was his whip.
It kept his vassals weak, desperate, and dependent on him for food and steel. Fyrion's 'Sun-Brick' wasn't just an invention; it was an act of political defiance.
Fyrion met his gaze, his face a mask of polite neutrality. "My house was cold, Herald. Now it is not. This is a household matter."
"Of course," Gunther said smoothly. "The Baron is, above all, a generous man. He is so impressed by your initiative in handling your own affairs, he has sent you a gift."
He nodded. Two of his soldiers stepped forward, carrying a large, heavy box between them.
It was wrapped in expensive, deep-blue Southern silk, tied with a golden ribbon. The sheer, casual display of wealth—of Southern luxury in the heart of the frozen North—was a statement of power in itself.
The box was placed in the snow at Fyrion's feet.
"A 'gift of congratulations,'" Gunther said, his lips twitching in what might have been a smile. "For... tidying up... the recent mess with the Southern envoys."
Valdemar flinched, his face going ashen.
Fyrion's heart went cold. He knew, with absolute certainty, what was in that box. This wasn't a gift. It was a message.
He knelt. He didn't let Silas or his father touch it.
This was for him. His hands were steady as he untied the golden ribbon and lifted the heavy silk-wrapped lid.
The box was packed with salt to preserve the contents.
Resting in the center, its eyes wide with the final, agonizing shock of decapitation, was the head of the Southern knight.
The one whose wrist Fyrion had shattered.
Silas let out a choked, gagging sound and stumbled back.
Valdemar gripped his son's shoulder. "Gods... Gods preserve us..."
Gunther the Herald smiled. It was a thin, terrible smile.
"The Baron dislikes messes, Lord Fyrion. The Queen's men were making a mess on his roads, harassing his vassals. He simply... cleaned it up. As a favor. To you."
Fyrion stared into the knight's dead, bulging eyes. The message was crystal clear, delivered with the brutal efficiency of the North.
I know what you did.
I finished the job for you, which proves you are weak.
I can kill a Southern man with total impunity.
I am watching you.
And BE CAREFUL.
Fyrion slowly, calmly, placed the lid back on the box. He stood up, brushing the salt from his hands. He looked Gunther in the eye, his face as impassive as the Herald's.
"Please," Fyrion said, his voice as polite and dead as the envoy's. "Send my deepest thanks to the Baron for his... generous gift."
He smiled. A small, cold, smile.
"And tell him... I'll have one for him, soon."