Mapleghast Fortress was larger than Kyle had imagined.
No, not larger—heavier. It crouched upon a ridge on the southern slopes of the Dragonbone Mountains, gray stone walls sprawling from the base to the timberline like an ancient, slumbering beast. The stone was matted with dark green moss and encrusted with ice that shimmered coldly in the leaden light. Atop the battlements, the silhouettes of magitech cannons jutted toward the sky like rows of blackened ribs.
Kyle stood at the foot of the slope, craning his neck until it ached.
Behind him were more than a thousand residents of Riverbend. They waited in loose, ragged lines, clutching their bundles and children, silent save for the north wind howling through the valley like a funeral dirge.
"Highness," Renard's voice came from behind. The old knight's face was grim. "The gates are shut. The sentries say we must wait for clearance from above."
"How long?"
Renard didn't answer. His expression was the answer.
Kyle looked up. High on the walls, soldiers in boiled leather armor looked down at the crowd as if inspecting a herd of sheep. One soldier was chewing on something, his jaw working rhythmically as he scanned the people below, his gaze cold and indifferent.
Kyle looked back at the front of the line. Olde stood by the massive gate, hands tucked into his sleeves, his back slightly hunched. His face held that same practiced apathy—the look of a man who expected nothing. The crowd behind him shared it. No one complained. No one cried out against the cold. They simply waited, like cattle accustomed to the slaughterhouse queue.
Kyle felt a sudden, sharp constriction in his chest.
"Renard."
"Yes, Highness?"
"Come with me."
"Highness, what are you—"
"I'm going to see Washburn," Kyle said, each word hard and clear. "Now."
Renard nodded without a word. Kyle turned and marched toward the gate.
The drawbridge was raised. A wide trench, thirty feet deep and bristling with rusted iron spikes and bleached bones, separated the path from the wall. Kyle stood at the edge of the chasm and looked up at the soldiers.
"I am Kyle Vince, Fourth Prince of the Kingdom of Aleon and Lord of Windchill Ridge," he called out. His voice wasn't loud, but in the stillness of the mountain air, it carried to the battlements. "I demand an audience with Earl Washburn."
The soldiers stopped chewing. They exchanged glances, and one disappeared behind a merlon. Moments later, an officer in a crisp uniform appeared. He had a jagged scar running from his nose to his ear, even more grotesque than the one on Renard's face.
He looked down at Kyle with a gaze the Prince recognized—the same look Sir Edward had given him. It wasn't an inspection; it was a downward glance to confirm his insignificance.
"Highness," the officer said tonelessly. "The Earl is not at Mapleghast. He is at Bull's Horn."
"Then send word," Kyle replied. "Tell him the Lord of Windchill Ridge requests a meeting."
The officer stared at him for several heartbeats. "I can send word, Highness. But whether the Earl sees you is not my decision."
"Then let him make it."
Kyle's voice was as flat as the officer's, stating a fact rather than making a plea. The officer's brow twitched. Without another word, he vanished.
Silence returned. Kyle stood by the bridge, his coat snapping in the wind, but he didn't flinch. He just watched the closed gate.
They waited. They waited until Kyle's toes lost all sensation, until his nose was raw from the wind, and until the crowd behind him began to murmur in hushed, dying tones.
Then, the gate opened. Not the drawbridge—the trench remained—but a small postern door within the main gate.
A man stepped out. It wasn't the officer. It was a middle-aged man in a dark gray coat, his hair silvered at the temples, wearing a silver falcon brooch.
Edward.
Kyle recognized him from their meeting in Riverbend. The envoy's face held that same measured poise, but his eyes were different. Last time, he was confirming a suspicion; this time, he was performing a re-evaluation.
"Highness," Edward said with a slight bow. "The Earl has heard of the events at Riverbend and your request. He is waiting for you at Bull's Horn."
"When?"
"Now," Edward replied. "If it is convenient, I have men to escort you."
*Escort.* A polite word for a forced march.
"Fine," Kyle said. "But my people enter the fortress first. The residents of Riverbend come here every winter. Let them in."
Edward glanced at the ragged crowd, his gaze passing over them like a stray breeze. He nodded. "Of course. The customs of the North remain, Highness."
*The customs of the North.* Those words again.
The ride from Mapleghast to Bull's Horn took nearly a day along the jagged southern slopes. The path was treacherous, the horses frequently slipping on loose scree. Alice rode beside Kyle, her knuckles white as she gripped the reins, her face pale with exhaustion.
As dusk fell, Bull's Horn Fortress rose from the horizon. If Mapleghast was a slumbering beast, Bull's Horn was a monster mid-roar. It was twice the size, its walls bristling with turreted cannon emplacements.
They bypassed the long lines of refugees and merchants. The falcon crest on the guards' uniforms acted as a master key. Inside, the fortress was a claustrophobic maze of narrow streets, crowded with soldiers, smiths, and desperate refugees. The air was a thick soup of horse manure, iron, and damp rot.
They reached the highest point of the fortress—a three-story stone tower that overlooked the entire valley. Two guards in black uniforms stood at the door, their magitech pistols glowing with a potent blue energy Kyle had never seen before.
"We are here, Highness," one of the riders said. "The Earl is inside."
Kyle dismounted, his legs aching from the ride, but he stood straight. He turned to Alice. "Wait here. I'm going in alone."
Alice started to protest, but seeing the steel in his eyes, she simply nodded.
Inside, the Great Hall was warm—a jarring contrast to the freezing mountain air. Huge maps covered the walls: the North, the three fortresses, and the Ashwood. At the far end, behind a heavy oak table, sat a man.
Raymond Washburn.
He was in his fifties but looked younger, his jawline sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were gray—not the soft gray of Alice's or the dull gray of Olde's, but a deep, churning gray like an undercurrent beneath a frozen lake.
He didn't stand. He watched Kyle approach, his gaze traveling from the Prince's boots to his eyes. Then, he smiled. It wasn't the practiced smile of a courtier; it was the smile of a predator interested in a new type of prey.
"Kyle Vince," he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble. "Sit."
Kyle sat. The chair was solid oak, heavy and unyielding. They stared at each other across the table, two blades balanced on a scale.
"You don't look like your father," Washburn said finally. "Your father is a cautious man. He gave his eldest the throne, his second the army, and his third the treasury. Everyone got a bone to gnaw on."
He leaned forward slightly. "But you—he didn't even give you a bone. He threw you to Windchill Ridge, outside the line. He knew what that place was, and he didn't care. Your life or death doesn't affect his crown."
Kyle remained silent.
"So you came to Riverbend with a few hundred failures, a crippled knight, and a mage apprentice," Washburn continued. "You found a town with no walls, and when the winter came and the things in the woods began to run, you realized you couldn't stop them. So you came to me."
"I did."
"To ask for help?"
"To make a deal," Kyle corrected.
Washburn's eyebrow twitched. "A deal? What do you have to trade?"
"Nothing today," Kyle said. "But perhaps everything tomorrow."
Washburn laughed. It was a genuine sound this time. "Tomorrow. Do you know how many men have promised me 'tomorrow'? Very few of them live to see it."
Washburn stood and walked to the fireplace, his back to Kyle. "Do you know why I'm seeing you, Kyle Vince?"
"I don't."
"Because you are a Prince." Washburn turned around. "It doesn't matter what the capital thinks of you. It doesn't matter if your brothers want you dead. What matters is your name. You are a Vince. That name is worthless in the North, but in the capital, it is currency."
"You want me as a bargaining chip," Kyle said flatly.
Washburn leaned over the table. "You're smarter than your father. His only talent was fathering sons sharper than himself." He didn't deny the word *chip.* "I will guarantee your safety. But it isn't free."
"The price?"
"Half of everything Riverbend produces. Furs, timber, magi-crystal dust. It's mine."
Kyle didn't blink. Half. Between Edward's inflated grain prices and this, they were being bled white. "Agreed."
Washburn seemed surprised. "No haggling?"
"Would it work?"
Washburn's mouth quirked. "No."
"Then I won't waste my breath."
Washburn looked at him with a new light in his eyes. It wasn't quite respect—men like Washburn didn't respect easily—but it was interest.
"One more thing," Washburn said. "Your mage. She offended the Mages' Association in the capital. They sent word to 'handle' her. As long as she stays in the North, no one will touch her. Consider that a favor."
"I understand. Thank you."
Washburn waved it off. "As for the winter, I'll halve the entry and lodging fees for your people. The other half is your problem."
"How am I supposed to pay that?"
"That," Washburn said, "is your problem. I've given you enough."
Safety. Reduced fees. Protection for Alice. Washburn wasn't giving gifts; he was making an investment. He was placing a bet on a long shot. If Kyle died, the loss was negligible. If Kyle survived—or even thrived—Washburn would be the man who held the Prince's life in his hands.
Kyle stepped out of the tower into the biting wind. Alice was waiting, her hair a mess, her nose red from the cold. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.
"Highness? How was it?"
Kyle looked at her, remembering Washburn's parting words: *'She looks at you differently. The North is no place for a woman.'*
"It's fine," Kyle said. "Let's go."
He walked down the stone steps toward the lower fortress. He felt like a refugee. Because he was. A prince in exile, huddling in a warlord's fortress, waiting for the spring so he could return to a shack in the frozen wastes.
He walked with his head up, his jaw set against the wind. Behind him, the walls of Bull's Horn grew taller and darker, swallowing the last of the light.
In the third-story window of the stone tower, Raymond Washburn watched the young prince's retreating back. He took a sip of dark red wine.
"Interesting," he murmured.
Edward stood behind him. "Do you think the Prince is useful, my Lord?"
Washburn watched the small figure vanish into the gloom. "We'll see," he said finally. "We'll see if he can survive the winter."
"And if he does?"
Washburn set his glass down with a soft *clink.* "Then things will get very interesting indeed."