The wind bit like a rabid dog, howling through the jagged passes of the Britz mountains. Cassian tightened his black wool cloak, too thin for this wild region but elegant enough to remind anyone he met that he wasn't some common vagrant. Not yet. He paused, gazing at the plain below, where twisted pines fought to survive in barren soil. A mocking smile curled his lips. 'Perfect,' he thought. 'A playground suited to me.'
The north of the Valthorn Duchy had none of the polished splendor of the capital. No gleaming marble, no courtiers with poisoned smiles, no banquets where every word was a dagger. Here, everything was raw, honest in its cruelty. The men of the North, those barely civilized barbarians, didn't play at intrigue. They struck, bled, died. Cassian adjusted a stray lock of black hair falling over his brow, aware that even in this desolation, his appearance was a weapon. Tall, lean, with features almost insultingly perfect, Cassian knew the effect he had. His piercing gray eyes seemed to read souls like an open book. And read them he did, oh yes. Every twitch, every hesitation, every averted glance—it was a score he played with unmatched mastery. But today, he had no audience. Not yet.
His banishment had been pronounced three days ago in the great hall of the Valthorn palace. His father, Duke Arcturus, had fixed his eldest son with a mix of disgust and resignation. "You are a disgrace, Cassian," he had growled, his voice echoing under the stone vaults. "Your games, your manipulations… You've pushed the council too far. Even I can no longer protect you." Cassian had smiled, as always, a smile that said: *I'm already three moves ahead of you.* "Protect me?" he'd replied, his voice soft but cutting. "My dear father, I never needed your shield. Only your title." A scandalized murmur had rippled through the assembly. The councilors, those vultures in silk robes, exchanged smug glances. They thought they'd broken him. They thought exiling him to the North would end his influence. Poor fools. They'd handed him a blank chessboard, a place to weave his webs free from their stifling rules.
A branch snapped, pulling him from his thoughts. Cassian turned slowly, his expression neutral but his senses sharp. Ten paces away, a man emerged from a cluster of pines. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in crudely stitched furs, he carried a double-headed axe that had likely seen more blood than trees. His blond hair, woven into a thick braid, framed a face marked by a scar running from temple to jaw. A true Northerner.
"Lost, pretty boy?" the man called, his rough voice tinged with mocking amusement.
Cassian tilted his head, his smile widening slightly. "Lost? Not quite," he replied, his voice warm and composed, as if chatting in a salon rather than on a frozen path. "Let's say I'm… exploring."
The man chuckled, stepping forward. The axe rested on his shoulder, but his fingers tightened on the handle. "Exploring, huh? You don't look like a hunter. Too clean. Too… fragile."
Cassian let out a soft laugh. "Fragile? Oh, you wound me." He took a step toward the man. "But tell me, friend, you who seem so at home here… What kind of man does it take to survive in the North?"
The man narrowed his eyes, thrown off by Cassian's confidence. He'd expected fear, perhaps begging. Not this… nonchalance. "Gotta be strong," he growled. "Gotta know how to fight. The weak die here."
Cassian nodded, as if seriously considering the question. "Interesting. And tell me, my good man… what's your name?"
The man hesitated, then puffed out his chest. "Bjorn. Bjorn Ironfist."
"Bjorn Ironfist," Cassian repeated. "A name that commands respect. Tell me, Bjorn, have you ever thought about what true strength means? Not just the strength of arms… but of the mind?"
Bjorn frowned, his axe lowering slightly. "What're you on about, stranger?"
Cassian took another step, closing the distance. His gray eyes locked onto Bjorn's, and he spoke in a low, almost intimate tone. "Strength, Bjorn, isn't just about cracking skulls. It's knowing when to strike… and when to smile. It's bending a man without lifting a hand. It's making him give you everything—his weapon, his loyalty, his life—because he wants to."
Bjorn blinked, unsettled. He opened his mouth to respond, but Cassian pressed on. "Look at you, Bjorn. You're strong, no question. That axe, that scar… you're a survivor. But tell me, how many times have you had to fight to prove your worth? How many times have you bled for men who don't truly respect you?"
A flicker of doubt crossed Bjorn's eyes. Cassian saw it, and his smile sharpened. "I see a man who deserves better," he continued. "A man who could be more than just a warrior. A leader, perhaps. A man others follow not out of fear, but admiration."
Bjorn stood silent, his axe now still, almost forgotten. Cassian stepped closer, near enough foruteen that Bjorn could smell the faint courtly scent of his cloak—an absurd luxury in this harsh land. "What if I told you, Bjorn, that I could help you become that man? Not with a blade, but with words. Not with blood, but with ideas."
The Northerner stared at him. "Why would I trust you? You reek of a banished noble, some court fop."
Cassian laughed, a clear, disarming sound. "Banished, yes. A fop? Oh, Bjorn, you'll soon learn I'm anything but." He reached out, not to shake Bjorn's hand but to boldly pat his shoulder, like an old friend. "Walk with me, Bjorn Ironfist. Let me show you what the North could become when a man like you listens to a man like me."
Bjorn hesitated, his gaze shifting from Cassian's hand to his eyes. "What's your name, exile?"
"Call me Cassian."
Bjorn gave him a final look and turned. "Follow me, smooth-talker. Guess you got no home in this snowy dump."
Cassian bowed, his smile now hidden but wider than ever. "I follow with pleasure."