NORTHERN FURY

Adam of Crick

THE SKY IRIDESCED with pearl and lavender, the colors slowly yielding to the fiery advance of dawn. The only sound was the solitary cry of a crow, its sharp, metallic caw echoing through the still morning. A biting chill seeped into my bones, a stark contrast to the warmth of the day yet to come. The castle awoke to a hushed symphony of whispers, the light stealing across the stone like a thief. A spectral mist shrouded the ramparts, enveloping the ancient stones in an ethereal glow.

"Are the preparations complete for today’s gathering, Ruth?" I demanded of the young servant, my voice sharp. As the Grand Duke’s head steward, the weight of the day's events pressed heavily upon me. His mood had been increasingly volatile in recent days, a tension heightened by the mysterious arrival of a knight. The conclave of counts and barons in Icia City loomed over our proceedings like a storm cloud.

"Aye, Master Adam," the boy replied, a trace of pride in his voice. "All is in readiness. The Frozen Hall shimmers like freshly fallen snow, and the banquet will be served in the grand hall following the meeting." I nodded and dismissed him.

The Frozen Hall, our largest chamber, was reserved for such solemn occasions. The silence within was a heavy shroud, suffocating any hope of levity. Retainers, their faces etched with a mix of sleep and apprehension, gathered in the main hall. As the head steward, I'd witnessed similar gatherings before, most notably two years ago when the dark horde had attacked from the mountains. Yet, a knot of unease tightened in my stomach. This gathering felt different. I stood beside the main seat, clutching the essential documents the Duke would require. Four counts and their respective barons, their faces etched with a mix of curiosity and wariness, filled the cavernous hall, their presence a stark contrast to the usual clamor of armor and activity.

After a while, the Duke emerged. He commanded immediate attention, his platinum hair gleaming. In his mid-thirties, the immense responsibility as a Duke had forged him into a man of ice and iron, his face betrayed no emotion. His piercing blue eyes held a calculating depth that chilled those in his presence. The reason for this gathering remained shrouded in mystery. But I had my suspicions.

The hall erupted in a chorus of greetings as everyone rose to their feet. The Duke acknowledged their salutations with a curt nod before taking his seat. His gaze met mine briefly before settling on the gathering. With a voice as steady as iron, he began, "Welcome to Icil, my home. I shall dispense with formalities and address the matter at hand. Two years ago, we convened under similar circumstances to confront a crisis. Today, we face another. As you know, the Temple of the Sunset Goddess, located in the western Glaecias duchy, has been a revered pilgrimage site for centuries."

I unfurled a large map of Elaecia's northern territory, highlighting the holy region, a pilgrimage hotspot within Mitford County. Count Harold Mitford's expression soured as his eyes fell on the map. It was clear that something grave had occurred at the temple.

The Duke continued, "The Rhoadnian nobles have long coveted this region, not merely for its religious significance but also for its strategic value. Count Harold, please inform us of the current situation."

All eyes, including mine, were drawn to the man in his fifties sitting in the left row. A commanding presence despite his age, Count Harold had the physique of a seasoned warrior. Lines of fatigue etched his face, framed by dark, lustrous hair. Gazing at the map, he traced the border of his fiefdom with his finger and, without looking up, pointed to a specific location.

"House Mehran," he began, his words heavy with unspoken dread. "My belligerent neighbor. For generations, we've skirmished along this border, but a full-scale war has always been avoided. Until now."

He paused, his eyes scanning the faces of those gathered. A flicker of fear passed across his features as he continued. "The knights of House Mitford and the royal family have stood as guardians of the temple, deterring any aggression. But two weeks ago, a new source of conflict ignited. A rich salt mine, discovered in the disputed territory, has plunged us into a bloody battle. Both sides have suffered heavy losses."

His voice dropped to a chilling low. "Then, a horrifying message arrived at the High Priest's doorstep. A letter arrived bearing a chilling threat: repent or perish. It was adorned with a gruesome tally—one hundred severed heads."

A heavy silence descended upon the hall as the gravity of the situation sank in. The Rhoadnians, known for their religious intolerance, had long maintained a facade of diplomatic relations. However, the recent attacks on the temple signaled a blatant disregard for these pretenses.

"I personally intervened, visiting the temple to reassure the High Priest and bolster defenses. Knights were stationed along the pilgrim routes bordering Rhoadnia. Yet, a day later, the High Priest was brutally murdered in his sleep. The Cardinal Knights apprehended a suspect, but he denied any involvement with House Mehran. Matters escalated when our intelligence uncovered a substantial military buildup in the Rhoadnian city of Mauf."

A large military buildup signaled an ominous intent: war. Once united under a single empire, Rhoadnia, Elaecia, and Paercia had forged a fragile peace after a decade of civil war, earning the title The Three Sisters Of The West; however, a recent coup d'état in Rhoadnia, with a new house seizing the throne, had strained relations with Elaecia.

In their attempt to galvanize public support, their flagrant disregard for the peace treaty and their zealous religious persecution of Elaecians were a calculated ploy. While the prospect of war was a financial disaster for all involved, Rhoadnia's aggression had intensified, fueled by the infirmity of our aging king and the perceived weakness of the Elaecian crown.

"A military buildup, eh? A bunch of fanatical zealots think they can best the might of Elaecia? They're bleedin' daft!" Baron Beaumont slammed his fist on the table, the thick, scarred knuckles cracking like walnuts. Leader of the Mountain people, a seasoned warrior of unmatched stature, even eclipsing the Grand Duke. His beard, more akin to a tangled thicket than a groomed mane, bristled with indignation. His rough exterior and unfiltered speech were as legendary as his combat prowess.

"Your Grace, with all due respect, I believe we must demonstrate to these fools the folly of their actions. Let us confront their aggression with overwhelming force. Deploy our forces to the Western border and deliver a lesson they won't soon forget. Time is of the essence, Your Grace. We cannot afford inaction," suggested a young-looking man with an air of genuine confidence. Tall and with flowing hair, he exuded a youthful exuberance. This was the Count of Slacia, a city renowned for its skilled medicos.

"Don't be such a cocky young pup," the Count of Felstead retorted, his gaze sharp. "The royal family won't be pleased with a massive troop deployment on the border. As cowardly as they may seem, we must consider their standpoint. A full-scale war with Glaecia at the forefront requires the support of the entire nation."

The Count's voice carried a weight of experience as he turned his attention to the Duke. "Your Grace," he began, "I suggest we dispatch a messenger to the capital to inform the royal house before proceeding with any military action. The West wants us to make the first move, but we must not play into their hands."

"Curse the cowardly royal house!" the Count of Frostburg thundered, his face flushed with rage. "Our ancestors, drenched in the blood of civil war, emerged victorious from countless battles. The legendary Algeron De Glaecias, the first master of the blue drakoness, won the decisive Battle of Sea Smoke and remained steadfast in his loyalty to the crown and his lifelong friend, the king. Yet, despite his unparalleled service, no member of the Glaecias family has been granted a seat in the esteemed Crimson-court since Algeron's passing. Why should we care about them now, when our enemies are at our gates?"

A surge of pride coursed through the hall as the name Algeron was spoken, with one notable exception. Duke Alvarez De Glaecias, the Protector of the North, wore a contemplative expression, as if pondering something beyond the heated exchange. A cacophony of hushed whispers filled the hall as the retainers debated their course of action.

"Enough!" the Duke's voice, a glacial command, silenced the murmuring crowd. A heavy stillness descended upon the room as all eyes converged upon him. His gaze, cold and penetrating, fell upon Count Reynard. "Lord Reynard, I was curious about what you just said, about 'the west' that threatens our peace," he demanded, his tone laced with icy authority.

Startled, Reynard Felstead hesitated before composing himself. "Your Grace, Rhoadnia is merely the tip of the iceberg. A shadow looms larger, a power that manipulates from afar." His voice was low, carrying a note of conspiratorial intrigue.

"Britaenia? You dare suggest the Empire is involved in this madness?" Count Frostburg exploded.

Ignoring the outburst, Reynard continued, "The new Rhoadnian royal family, in power for only a decade, has deep ties to the Britaenia Empire. Rumor has it they are mere puppets. The salt mine dispute, the temple attacks, the military buildup—it all seems too orchestrated. And the Britaenia Empire, with its insatiable hunger for expansion, has long coveted the lands north of the Glaecia. A weakened Elaecia would be a tempting target." Reynard shifted uncomfortably, his gaze flickering between the Duke and the other counts. "Your Grace, it's mere speculation, but the timing of these events is too coincidental. I believe the threat is far more insidious than it appears. Hence my suggestion for a cautious approach to our neighbor's aggression."

The Duke absorbed the information, his face still devoid of emotion, lost in thought. A murmur of disbelief rippled through the hall. The Britaenia Empire, a colossal power, was a mythical entity to most in Elaecia. The idea of them aligning with Rhoadnia was a nightmarish prospect.

"Ridiculous!" Count Felstead thundered, his face a canvas of fury. "The Britaenia Empire could not possibly stoop to meddling in our petty squabbles."

Silencing the outburst with a raised hand, the Duke addressed Count Reynard. "While your theory is unsettling, we cannot dismiss it," he declared. "Gather your intelligence network and verify these claims. If there's even a glimmer of truth to this, we must prepare." Renowned for his meticulous information network, Count Felstead, known as 'The Crow,' would not have made such a claim without solid evidence.

Reynard bowed. "It shall be done, Your Grace."

As the meeting progressed, discussions turned to defensive strategies, troop deployments, and the fortification of key locations. The once tranquil morning had transformed into a war council, the weight of responsibility heavy on every shoulder. The specter of war loomed large, casting a long shadow over the future of Elaecia.

The Duke's final words echoed in the hall: "We stand at a crossroads, my lords. The path ahead is fraught with peril, but we must tread it with courage and unity. Let us remember the sacrifices of our ancestors, who fought valiantly to protect this land. Their legacy is our strength."

The meeting concluded, and the retainers began to file out of the Frozen Hall. Only the Count of Slacia, the Duke, and I remained. As I made to follow the others, the Duke called out, "Adam, stay. This is important. Order two cups of tea."

Upon returning, I found the Duke's brow furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. His usual coldness had melted away, revealing the Alvarez I once knew, not the icy Duke. Neither he nor the Count spoke as they waited for the tea.

Once the boy arrived with the two cups, the Duke took his, his large hands enveloping the porcelain. A heavy silence settled over the room, punctuated only by the soft clinking of spoons. The Count studied the Duke intently, his face a mask of curiosity. Feeling the growing tension, I found my gaze wandering to the intricate wall carvings.

"This tea from the Southern Hills is truly exquisite, Your Grace. It has an intoxicating aroma that invigorates the spirit, and a taste unlike any other," the Count of Slacia said, finishing his cup. His tone shifted to a more serious register as he continued, "What should be done about the lady and the child, Your Grace? While he can never be the rightful heir, old laws grant him certain claims."

Alvarez's face darkened at the Count's words. A vision of a pale beauty, as resilient as a Lenten rose in the snow, flashed through my mind. Lady Adriana Rayeesi, the duke's mistress, had journeyed to Slacia during her pregnancy. The Duke had hoped for a daughter, but fate seems to have had other plans. According to ancient laws, an eldest son held certain rights to the headship, even if born out of wedlock.

"I've made the decision to place them in charge of Fort Blue," the Duke stated, his face etched with sadness. "Adam, I need you to go with them and guide my son to become a true representative of our northern region," he said, his voice almost pleading.

Even though he had a lawful wife, he loved Adriana deeply. Now, he was forced to send her away to the barren North, where life was a precarious existence. Fort Blue was the only human settlement on the Dragsula. Exiling his beloved to such a place must have been a devastating decision. I offered a nod of understanding.

"Are you sure this is the right course of action, Your Grace? While I understand the need to protect the duchy from potential succession problems, sending Rayeesi to Helheim seems like a harsh penalty," the Count said with concern. "There might be a more appropriate solution."

"No, Merwin. My mind is made up. Select the most skilled knights to escort her north," the Duke declared resolutely. With that, he rose and left the room, followed by the Count. I stood there for a moment before leaving the Frozen Hall.

Leaving with a heavy burden weighing on my shoulders, I felt a pang of sympathy for the innocent boy, unaware of the political turmoil surrounding him. To keep them safe from Lady Gytha, Alvarez knew he must send them away. Fort Blue, a remote outpost on the northern Dragsula, would be far beyond her reach.