The gates of Durnhal stood half-open, flanked by two towers of dark stone. Iron portcullises loomed above, teeth bared but idle — as if even the fortress itself had grown tired of raising alarms. The drawbridge held steady over a shallow trench, its planks damp from the morning frost. No banners flew. No horns sounded. Only the creak of harnesses and the clop of tired hooves on gravel.

  Fran leaned forward, gloved hands resting on the windowsill of the carriage. The city rose before them in layers — inner walls, outer ring, bastions and terraces — a patchwork of fortifications that had been rebuilt too many times. Grey stone, black slate, shuttered windows, and too many chimneys for the houses they crowned.

  Little Vartis, they called it.

  A city forged in the image of its western cousin, but colder, more angular, more practical. Less opulent, but just as proud.

  They had left Redreach at dawn two days prior. Along the way, she had insisted on stopping at the garrison of Terness, the scorched hamlet of Virebrook, and a roadside chapel converted into a hospice. Everywhere the signs were the same: low supplies, patched roofs, more mouths than food. Even the road itself bore scars — fresh ruts, abandoned carts, burned stumps where trees had been felled for firewood or defense.

  At each stop, she had taken note. Spoken with officers, scribes, elders, priests. Given orders. Promised aid. Promised more than she could easily deliver.

  But this — this was the end of the road. The heart of the Eastern Baronies.

  Durnhal.

  Verren rode ahead, flanked by four guards in plain cloaks. As they crossed the threshold, he raised a hand, signaling a pause. A figure approached from the gatehouse — tall, armored, with a fur-lined mantle and a narrow silver chain across his chest. The man bowed as Fran stepped down from the carriage.

  “Your Grace,” he said. “Welcome to Durnhal.”

  “Lord Daskar,” she replied.

  He looked well-rested. Too well, perhaps. Not soft, but composed — almost rehearsed. His dark hair was brushed back, a faint streak of silver at one temple. He wore no weapon, but the leather at his wrists was worn and cracked: a soldier’s habit, not a courtier’s.

  “I regret not riding out to greet you sooner,” Alven said with a half-smile. “But word of your pace reached us only yesterday.”

  “I rode slower than usual,” Fran said. “I had places to see.”

  Alven gestured to the archway behind him. “You’ll find Durnhal ready to receive you. The citadel is in order. Supplies were tripled this month, as requested. And the guest quarters have been aired out — no doubt still colder than Vartis, but I trust you’ll manage.”

  Fran said nothing at first. Her eyes moved over the courtyard — soldiers drilling with dulled spears, scribes moving between halls, a few townsfolk watching from a safe distance. Durnhal did not look broken. But it looked tired. And too neat.

  She stepped forward, walking beside Alven. “I saw tents outside Virebrook,” she said. “More refugees. A dozen families, at least.”

  “We’ve taken in as many as we could,” he answered. “But we’re near the limit. They come from across the river, most of them. Some from Vernador, some from villages on our side that don’t exist anymore.”

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  “And why don’t they exist?”

  “Raiders.” His jaw tightened. “Golden Banner colors, according to the survivors.”

  Fran’s voice went flat. “I banned that company.”

  “Word reached us.” Alven’s tone was careful. “Though they seem to think you didn’t mean it.

  Her mouth set. “I did.”

  “Then they’ll pack up soon enough,” Alven said, with a faint smile. “Or give us cause to hasten the process.”

  They crossed the courtyard in silence, boots tapping against the damp stone. Somewhere above, a shutter creaked in the wind.

  Fran glanced at the worn tower rising near the barracks. “And the scouts?”

  “Outnumbered. Thin-stretched.” His tone darkened. “And not all loyal.”

  She turned her head slightly. “Meaning?”

  He shrugged. “Some haven’t returned. Some sent word — but only word. A few of our eastern watchmen have families in Vernador. Others owe debts. Loyalties blur in borderlands.”

  She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

  Ahead, the inner courtyard opened — cleaner, quieter. Snow had been swept into neat piles. A brazier burned near the stone stairs leading to the main hall.

  Alven turned to her. “You’ve had a long journey, Fran. If you wish to rest first—”

  “I’ll rest later,” she said. “Have your captains meet me in the meeting chamber. I want reports on every outpost south of Durnhal. And a list of all refugees processed this month.”

  He bowed his head. “As you command.”

  Inside, the keep was warmer, but the air felt close. The meeting chamber of Durnhal had no gilded trim, no velvet curtains, no high-backed seats carved in the shapes of falcons or lions. Just stone walls, a long table scratched by years of use, and a hearth that spat low heat into the chill. A map of the Eastern Baronies dominated the far wall, its surface pricked with pins and scraps of parchment.

  Fran stood at the table’s head, flanked by two guards. Alven took the seat to her right without waiting for invitation. Verren and the local captain sat across from them; two more seats were empty, their occupants reportedly on patrol.

  Alven spoke first. “Shall we begin?”

  Reports came first — supplies, patrol rotations, winter storage. Then the grain tallies, which were… worse than she had hoped.

  “Losses in Brenwaith,” the captain said, tracing a line on the map. “Two caravans never reached us. The third returned half-empty.”

  Fran’s gaze sharpened. “Do we know what happened?”

  “Not for certain, Your Grace. The Brenwaith route is difficult to patrol — any storehouse along it could be taken before we receive word.”

  Alven leaned back, voice almost casual. “Brenwaith’s close to the border. If the stories are true, mercenaries have been moving through the outlying hamlets — lifting stores before they reach the gates.”

  A murmur passed through the table.

  “Golden Banner?” Fran asked.

  “No colors, no insignia,” he said. “But some here still recognize the men. And they still carry Vos Holdings’ old crates — rebranded, but not enough to fool anyone who’s seen them before.”

  Her gaze cooled. “Vos Holdings is under ducal seizure.”

  “Which doesn’t keep others from taking the name — or the stock.” His tone was even, but something in his eyes suggested he’d weighed his words before speaking them.

  She sat back. “Make no mistake. Dalen Vos and his associates are in prison for a reason. If anyone here is using their routes, I want names.”

  The silence that followed was heavy enough to make one of the scribes fumble with his inkpot.

  Alven was the one to break it. “Of course, Frances.”

  The name landed like a dropped coin in a silent room. The chamber chilled a fraction. Even the scribes looked up. Her head turned, sharply.

  “You will address me as Your Grace when we are in council, lord Daskar.”

  A flicker of something passed through his eyes — not guilt, not quite amusement — before he inclined his head. “As you wish.”

  She didn’t look at him again. She shifted her attention away from him with surgical precision, the kind that could not be mistaken for absent-mindedness. The rest of the meeting, her questions went to the captain or Verren; her notes were written without lifting her head; when Alven spoke, she let others answer unless protocol demanded otherwise.

  It wasn’t anger that kept her distant, but the quiet calculation of a woman who knew the difference between being undermined and being indulged, and had no intention of allowing either.

  When the council finally adjourned, the scrape of chairs and rustle of papers filled the air. She stood, already halfway to the door before he caught up with her in the corridor.

  “Have I earned your silence so quickly?” he asked.

  “You’ve earned my expectation that you remember where we are, and who we are, when others are present,” she said without looking at him. “Seventeen years is a long time, Alven. Long enough to learn the difference between the courtyard and the council table.”

  For once, he had no ready answer.