Sunlight poured in golden sheets through the tall arched windows of the southern palace. It warmed the marble floor, danced across the polished table, and cast long shadows over velvet-draped chairs where no courtiers dared speak without permission.
King Henry Sareth leaned forward slightly, the weight of a newly arrived missive pressing against his fingers.
The seal had already been broken.
A silver phoenix, rising from ash.
House Wylt.
"Three lines," the King muttered, voice low. "He sends me three godsdamned lines."
Beside him stood his steward—an austere, broad-shouldered man named Aulan Merevyn, whose silence had earned him a place closer to the crown than most blood relatives.
"Was it delivered directly?" the King asked.
"By his personal courier," Aulan replied. "Mounted, armed. Did not speak a word. Would not take food or coin."
King Sareth grunted. "How long since Elias Wylt last sent word to the court?"
"Seven years," Aulan answered without hesitation. "A brief acknowledgment of the last tax census. Before that, a rejection of two noble marriage offers. One from House Rayth. One from your cousin's line."
"And now, this."
The King's thumb pressed harder against the parchment, reading again:
Your Majesty,
I will not tolerate further insult or injury.
The North remains loyal—but I am not without teeth. Should this happen again, I would be forced to bare them.
—E. Wylt
There was no embellishment. No apology. No request.
Just a line in the ice, drawn deep.
"Hmm," the King said aloud, "must be something with tbe girl. The Valenpor daughter."
"Yes, Your Majesty. Ilya Valenpor."
The King looked toward the distant ridgeline visible through the window—though the true North lay far beyond it, buried beyond the mountains.
"Hmm…he's quite protective, isn't he? Why of her, I wonder?"
Aulan paused. "I do not know, your majesty. I can't recall him threatening war over his previous wife...though none had dared attack her in his home."
The King raised a brow.
"You know, I've met Elias, even fought with him once." Aulen continued. "During the monster crusades at Dunmar Cross. He was young then. Silent. A man like that doesn't reach for comfort. He reaches for silence that understands him."
The King considered this in his own silence.
For fifteen years, Elias Wylt had ruled Velwynd—the broken northern province handed to him in the aftermath of rebellion. There, among ruins and monsters, he had forged something that no southern noble could claim.
He had slain the raiders and beasts with his own hands, funded the mines from the corpses of fallen marauders, and rebuilt the fortress that now towered over the icy rivers like a warning to gods and men alike.
It was no longer a wasteland. Still wild, still untamed but that was how Elias liked it. Even in his injury, he reveled in the wonders of that place. The rest of the Kingdom's nobles now looked hungrily to the Northern lands, a breadbasket of the crown and owned by a man once feared but now wounded.
They were fools.
He and the King were not necessarily close but they were neither enemies or strangers.
And yet, never once had he sought favor. Never once had he asked for court titles or southern coin.
Until now.
No—not even now. Elias had not asked. He had declared.
"I would be forced to bare them…"
The words were possessive, yes—but protective as well. As though something had been taken from him and now returned. He felt a little chill at the thought of the northern sword pointing his direction.
"Aulan."
"Sire?"
"Draft a response. Short. Handwritten."
The steward bowed. "Your words?"
The King stood and looked north.
Elias,
Do as you will.
—H. Sareth
"And send a raven to House Valenpor," the King added, turning back to the light. "Let them know I received Wylt's message and that I will be watching without interference as this is a game of lords, not of the crown."
Aulan hesitated. "That may… unsettle the western nobility."
"Then let them be unsettled," the King said coldly. "They have stirred the ire of the phoenix and I would prefer not to be in the path of its fire."
He smirked a little.
"Besides, that fool of a count wanted this. Let him suffer the consequences of his own actions."