“Open the gate!” a voice bellowed from atop the wall, sharp and weathered by years of command. Instantly, a chorus of loud clicks erupted—massive gears grinding into motion. The ground beneath Bjorn and Erik shuddered with each turn, snow crunching under their boots as the vibrations rippled through the frozen earth. Chains rattled like the ghosts of old battles, and the towering gates of Pohjohnen groaned open, their iron hinges shrieking against the cold.

  The gates parted fully, unveiling a courtyard that stole Bjorn’s breath. Verdant hues spilled across the castle grounds—a patchwork of shimmering greens and muted silvers stretching wide and wild, unlike anything he’d seen in Aldrigvinter’s barren wastes. Common folk bustled through the expanse, their arms den with scrolls tied in leather cords. They darted between stone arches and wooden carts, their fur-lined cloaks fpping in the wind, as if the arrival of strangers was as mundane as the snow dusting their shoulders.

  Voices overpped—shouts of barter, the ctter of tools, the soft thud of boots on packed ice—yet no one spared the newcomers a gnce. Soldiers in leather armor trimmed with iron resumed their patrols along the battlements, their spears glinting faintly in the pale light, ignoring Bjorn and Erik as if they were shadows. This was no mere stronghold; it was a living bastion, forged to cradle Iskallio’s heart.

  Bjorn’s gaze lingered on the green expanse, his mind racing. Beside him, Erik squinted, equally transfixed. Their guide—a wiry man with a wind-burned face—caught their stares and grinned, understanding their awe. “Grass don’t grow here,” he said, his voice rough but warm. “We’ve no soil for it—our ground’s ice and snow, see? That’s moss, clinging to the stone.”

  “Grass?” Erik asked, brow furrowing as he tried to picture it.

  “Moss?” Bjorn echoed, tilting his head. The word felt foreign, like a riddle.

  “Roar,” Hund growled low, his confusion mirroring theirs as he pawed at the icy ground.

  The man chuckled, a dry sound lost in the wind. “Oh, right—you’ve never seen ‘em. Grass is soft, grows in warm nds. Moss is tougher, sticks to rock and ice like a second skin. Keeps this pce alive.”

  Before he could say more, a figure approached—tall, cd in iron armor that clinked with each step. The metal gleamed dully against the snow, a stark contrast to the leather and wood worn by the courtyard guards. His helm shadowed a stern face, and his presence silenced the guide mid-sentence. “I’ll take it from here,” he said, voice clipped and authoritative. The guide nodded, stepping back with a deferential dip of his head.

  “Go with him,” the guide told Bjorn softly. “He’ll lead you to the halls.” He turned to leave, boots crunching toward the town beyond the gates. Bjorn called after him, unwilling to let the moment slip.

  “May we know your name? I’d like you to tell us stories again someday!”

  The man hesitated, shoulders stiffening. “Umm… Baldr,” he said at st, awkward as if unaccustomed to being asked. “Family’s from Lahti—Kiwi, they used to call us.” With that, he hurried off, vanishing into the throng outside.

  The armored man turned his gaze to Hund, who sat panting beside Erik. “That thing stays here,” he said, pointing a gloved hand at the wolf. “I doubt it’d harm anyone, but I won’t risk it in the halls.”

  Bjorn studied Hund’s puzzled tilt of the head, the wolf’s golden eyes blinking up at him. He understood—Hund was a beast of Aldrigvinter’s wilds, not this orderly city. “Erik, can you stay with him?” he asked. Erik’s hand was already buried in Hund’s fur, stroking the wolf’s fnk as its tail thumped the ground in delight.

  “Alright,” Erik said, his golden eyes flickering with concern despite his calm tone. “Be careful, Bjorn.”

  Erik passed Bjorn the sack of gifts—leather, fish, bck pearls painstakingly gathered over a week. As Bjorn slung it over his shoulder, ughter broke out behind him. Guards near the gate whispered loudly, their voices dripping with mockery.

  “Hmfft… what’d he bring? Ash?” one snorted, elbowing his companion.

  “Probably fish…” another sneered, wiping a hand across his nose.

  “Two years back, the Aldrig delegation got ughed outta here for bringing flowers and bark,” a third said, grinning.

  “Haha! Even the Lahtians said it reeked of ash!” a fourth chimed in.

  “Councilors called the flowers repugnant—worst stench they’d ever smelled,” the first added, doubling over.

  The words hit like a gust of icy wind. Bjorn’s shoulders hunched, his face flushing beneath his furs. Erik stared at the ground, teeth gritted, his fingers tightening in Hund’s fur. The pearls in the sack suddenly felt heavy, useless—a child’s trinket mistaken for treasure.

  “Erik… maybe…” Bjorn started, voice small.

  “It’s fine,” Erik cut in, forcing a shrug despite the red creeping up his neck. “We can sell ‘em at the port.” His tone was ft, masking the sting they both felt.

  The armored man shifted impatiently. “If you’re done, let’s go. The Council’s waiting.”

  Bjorn followed him through the gate, leaving Erik and Hund behind. Inside, the castle was a different world—warmth seeped into his bones, chasing away the chill. The ceilings arched impossibly high, carved stone and timber beams rising so tall that eight Hunds stacked atop each other wouldn’t graze the top. Torchlight danced along the walls, casting golden flickers across intricate carvings—scenes of battles, ships, and mountains etched deep into the stone. The courtyard’s cmor faded to nothing, repced by a serene silence that pressed against his ears. Each step echoed faintly, the only sound in a space that seemed to swallow the world outside.

  They wound through corridors, the air growing thicker with the scent of woodsmoke and polished metal. At st, they reached a massive door—ancient, its surface pitted and scarred. Bde marks crisscrossed the wood, some shallow, others gouged deep as if struck in fury. Fire had licked its edges, leaving bckened streaks, yet it stood unbroken. Bjorn’s breath hitched as he ran a hand over it, the grain familiar under his fingertips.

  “White Oak…?” he murmured. In Aldrigvinter, he’d grown up with it—in on its pnks, carved toys from its scraps, chewed its bark as a toddler. But here, in a city of ice and stone, no white oaks grew. This door was old—older than the truce, older than the castle itself, perhaps.

  The man gnced at him, his expression flickering with something—curiosity, maybe—before turning cold again. He said nothing, raising a fist and banging on the door. The sound reverberated, a hollow boom that rattled Bjorn’s chest.

  The door creaked open, revealing a chamber alive with voices. Men sat around a vast stone table, their shouts bouncing off the walls. “Wait here ‘til they call you,” the guide said, stepping to the side.

  .

  .

  .

  “The Lady should marry a Lahtian!” a gruff voice barked, smming a fist on the table.

  “Lord Icey’s offered his son for the match,” another said, calmer but firm.

  “That princeling?” a third scoffed, voice dripping with disdain. “He can’t swing an axe without tripping!”

  “You insult my son again, and I’ll carve out yer eye!” Lord Icey roared, half-standing.

  “Enough,” a measured voice cut through. “The Lahtians say nations across the ocean want in too.”

  “Across the ocean?” someone asked, skeptical.

  “For copper in the north,” the calm one replied. “It’s rare—ended the brass age three hundred years ago. Interest spiked after our truce with the Aldrigs. Their raids on the channel scared off trade ‘til now.”

  “Why Iskallio?” a gravelly voice challenged. “Our isnd’s ice.”

  “No, Councillor, there’s a mountain—Feyreyjar’s peaks,” the calm one said. “Copper veins run deep there.”

  “Hmm… copper, huh…” Murmurs spread, heads bowing in thought.

  The guide stepped forward. “My Lords, the Heir to the Aldrigs has arrived.”

  Whispers rippled like wind through snowdrifts.

  “Let him in,” a hoarse voice commanded, raw but powerful, silencing the room.

  Bjorn entered, his boots scuffing the stone floor. The table before him overflowed with strange foods—thin strands coiled in a glistening sauce, their steam carrying a rich, unfamiliar tang; fish fried to a golden crisp, flecked with herbs he couldn’t name; and bright orbs, some red, some yellow, their skins glossy and bursting with juice when pierced. Nothing like Aldrigvinter’s smoked por bear or bark-brewed rum. His stomach growled despite himself.

  He raised his eyes to the council. White-bearded men lined the table, their broad shoulders and scarred hands speaking of battles survived. Some wore iron torcs, others leather patched with wear. In the center sat a man with a mane of grey hair, his face creased but smiling—a smile that didn’t reach his piercing eyes. The air thickened, a weight pressing on Bjorn’s chest as the room’s attention pinned him.

  “So, little snow,” the man said, voice rumbling like distant thunder, “why’ve you come here?”

  Bjorn swallowed, his throat dry as ash. “I am Bjorn, heir to the tribes of Aldrig and Gra’jo,” he said, voice trembling but steadying as he spoke. “I came… to see your city.” He stood straighter, meeting the man’s gaze.

  The man’s eyes widened, then crinkled as his smile split into a grin. “HAHAHAHA!” His ughter erupted, a booming wave that shook the chamber’s stillness.

  The councilors flinched, heads snapping up. Some exchanged baffled gnces, others gripped their chairs, fear flickering in their eyes. Bjorn froze, heart hammering—had he misspoken?

  “TO THINK THE VINTERS STILL CARRY THE BLOOD OF THE WINTER KINGS!” the man bellowed, voice thick with ecstasy. “HAHAHAHA! Bjorn, was it? I welcome you to Iskallio!” He seized his cup, raising it high, wine sloshing over the rim. “To the boy with a king’s fire in his veins!”