The Vellani manor was placed very close to the town's outskirts, less than fifty minutes on horseback. Reaching it while evading the general public's notice was tricky, but manageable, all it took was a small diversion on the opposite part of town, orchestrated by the knights of the order.

  The manor stood tall, more fortress than palace. Unlike the ornate facades and delicate spires of southern estates, or the pillars and arches of the central theologians, its walls were thick granite, windows narrow and defensible. Inside, however, wealth manifested in different forms: exquisite tapestries woven with silver thread to catch and multiply the lamplight; floors of polished stone inlaid with intricate geometric patterns rather than the marble mosaics favored in warmer climes; furniture crafted from dark, dense wood that had weathered generations of harsh winters.

  Lynara stood before a heavy wardrobe in her appointed chambers, examining the selection of gowns that had been present on her arrival. Each was crafted in the northern style, high necked, long sleeved, with layers designed to trap heat rather than display flesh, yet made of fabrics fine enough to befit her station. The dominant colors were midnight blue, silver, and deep burgundy: Vellani Aurestian and Kentralean colors intertwined, a subtle political statement woven into silk and wool.

  She selected a gown of deep burgundy, its bodice embroidered with silver thread in patterns that mimicked frost on glass. Acknowledging her hosts while asserting her own identity.

  A knock at the door announced the arrival of her assigned attendant, a young woman with pale blonde hair and eyes the color of winter sky.

  "Lady Brahe," the girl curtsied, her voice carefully neutral. "I am Hilda. Lady Ingrid sent me to assist you in preparing for this evening."

  "Thank you, Hilda." Lynara smiled warmly, noting how the girl's posture remained rigid, her eyes never quite meeting Lynara's. Fear masked beneath formality. "Though I require little assistance."

  "Lady Ingrid was most insistent," Hilda replied, her hands fidgeting slightly with the folds of her dress. "She wishes to ensure you understand our customs before you face the assembly."

  Ah, not just an attendant, then. A spy and a tutor both.

  "How considerate," Lynara conceded. "Please, enlighten me."

  As Hilda helped her dress, the girl delivered what was clearly a rehearsed speech on Vellani etiquette, who would be present, their stations, which topics to avoid, which compliments would be most appreciated.

  "Elder Thorvald will be seated at Lady Ingrid's right," Hilda explained, fastening the intricate clasps at Lynara's back. "You shall be at her left, as honored guest. Captain Rowan will be present, representing the city guard, along with representatives from each of the five noble houses of Vellano."

  "And Lord Vellani?" Lynara inquired innocently.

  Hilda's hands stilled momentarily. "Lord Einar Vellani is... indisposed. He leads our forces at the northern outposts, where raids have intensified these past months."

  "Sverdish Pirates?" Lynara asked, watching the girl's reflection in the mirror.

  "Who else?" Hilda replied, a flash of genuine bitterness breaking through her professional demeanor. She caught herself quickly. "Forgive me, my lady. I spoke out of turn."

  Inept.

  "There's nothing to forgive in honesty," Lynara assured her, turning to face the girl directly. "I am not blind to the history between our peoples."

  Hilda's eyes flickered up, meeting Lynara's for the first time. "My brother was taken three summers ago. Our fishing vessel strayed too far north in pursuit of a school of silverfish. The Sverdish raiders..." Her voice faltered. "We received his finger by courier six months later. A demand for ransom we could never hope to pay."

  Lynara's expression softened with genuine sympathy. "War makes monsters of men on all sides, Hilda."

  "Is that why you're here? To end the raids?" The question burst from her with unexpected hope.

  Perhaps not a spy then, too incompetent.

  Before Lynara could respond, a bell chimed softly through the chamber, the dinner summons.

  "We mustn't be late," Hilda said, composure slipping back into place. "Lady Ingrid values punctuality above almost all else."

  They traversed long corridors decorated with ancestral portraits and battle scenes, descending finally into a great hall where a dozen guests already mingled. Conversations hushed as Lynara entered, heads turning, eyes narrowing in assessment or widening in barely concealed hostility.

  Lady Ingrid glided forward to greet her, resplendent in gown of midnight blue velvet adorned with a collar of silver filigree set with small sapphires, a display of wealth that bordered on ostentation by Vellani standards.

  "Lady Brahe," she said warmly, though her eyes remained fixed in their crescent position. "You look magnificent. The colors of the Federation suit you admirably."

  "A fortunate coincidence," Lynara replied with a smile. "Where I come from, burgundy represents the blood shared between allies."

  A ripple of murmurs spread through the assembled guests at her words, some offended, others intrigued by her boldness.

  Ingrid's lips curved upward. "How... appropriate. Allow me to introduce our company."

  The introductions proceeded with formality. Elder Thorvald, now attired in ceremonial robes rather than armor, nodded respectfully. Captain Rowan, uncomfortable in formal attire, offered a stiff bow. Then came the representatives of Vellano's noble houses, lesser nobles whose families had once ruled independently before being united under Vellani authority.

  Lord Aric Halverson of House Halverson, a broad, shouldered man with a face weathered by sea and wind, whose lands stretched along the eastern shore of the great lake. His bow was barely perceptible, his eyes hard as stone.

  Lady Freya Nordvik of House Nordvik, an elegant woman past her middle years whose shrewd eyes missed nothing. Her lands provided much of Vellano's timber and game.

  Lord Bjarke Ketilson of House Ketil, corpulent and jovial despite the tension, whose family controlled the richest iron mines in the province.

  Lord Sigurd Trondson of House Trond, thin and ascetic, who administered the expansive farmlands south of the city proper.

  And finally, a young man whose bright eyes contrasted sharply with the general hostility of the gathering. "Niklas Vellani," he introduced himself with a smile that reached his eyes, bowing over Lynara's hand. "Lady Ingrid's nephew and heir apparent in my uncle's absence."

  Lady Ingrid's mouth tightened almost imperceptibly at the young man's friendly demeanor. "My brother's son," she clarified. "Recently returned from his studies in the capital."

  "Where I learned that diplomacy requires open minds as well as open ears," Niklas added, earning a disapproving glance from his aunt.

  Dinner was announced, saving Ingrid from having to respond. They processed into the dining hall, a long room dominated by a massive table of polished heartwood. Above them, iron chandeliers held dozens of beeswax candles, their light reflecting off silver platters and crystal goblets.

  Once seated, servants appeared bearing the first course, a rich fish soup flavored with saffron and served with dark bread still warm from the ovens. Wine flowed freely, a southern red that must have cost a small fortune to transport intact this far north.

  Conversation began cautiously, with Elder Thorvald inquiring about conditions in the Sverdish Isles.

  "I understand your summers grow shorter each year," he remarked, breaking a piece of bread. "Much like our own."

  "Indeed," Lynara confirmed, keeping her tone neutral. "The last three harvests have been poor. Many of our northern islands now rely entirely on fishing to sustain themselves."

  "Perhaps if they'd rely less on raiding, then they'd learn how to grow a crop," Lord Halverson interjected acidly. "Or do Sverdish nobles consider piracy a legitimate trade?"

  A tense silence fell over the table. Lady Ingrid's eyes narrowed at the breach of etiquette, but before she could speak, Niklas leaned forward.

  "I recently read a fascinating account by Magister Alen suggesting that changes in ocean temperatures have driven the silverfish schools farther south, disrupting traditional fishing grounds on both sides of the Narrow Sea," he offered. "Perhaps competition for dwindling resources lies at the heart of our conflicts."

  "An enlightened perspective," Lynara acknowledged with a grateful nod. "Though I would not presume to justify actions taken in desperation."

  "Desperation?" Lord Halverson scoffed. "The Sverdish fleet is the envy of the northern seas. Your shipwrights produce vessels that outpace anything we can build."

  "Speed is necessary when one cannot match strength," Lynara replied evenly. "The Federation navy outnumbers our entire fleet five to one."

  "And yet your raiders still manage to slip past our patrols with alarming regularity," Captain Rowan observed, speaking for the first time.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Elder Thorvald raised a hand in a subtle gesture for peace. "We are not here to air grievances, but to begin healing ancient wounds. Lady Brahe's presence represents a significant shift in Sverdish policy."

  "Or a new strategy," Lady Nordvik suggested, her voice honey over steel. "Tell me, Lady Brahe, what does the noble House of Brahe hope to gain from this... nigh unprecedented bout of diplomacy? Most Sverdish diplomats come bearing news of further war, or terms for our surrender."

  Lynara met the woman's gaze steadily. "Survival, Lady Nordvik. The same as any house, noble or common."

  Before Lady Nordvik could press further, a commotion at the hall entrance drew all eyes. A man entered, snow dusting his shoulders and hair, his face ruddy from cold and exertion. He wore the insignia of a messenger from the northern outposts.

  He strode directly to Lady Ingrid, bowing hurriedly before proffering a sealed letter. "Urgent news from Lord Einar, my lady."

  The hall fell silent as Ingrid broke the seal and scanned the contents. Her face, always composed, betrayed nothing, but her fingers tightened perceptibly on the parchment.

  "It seems," she announced after a calculated pause, "that my brother reports unusual movements among the ice floes. The northern passage has frozen completely, three weeks earlier than in any recorded year." Her eyes lifted to meet Lynara's. "How curious that nature itself seems to isolate us just as Sverdish diplomacy reaches our shores."

  The accusation hung in the air, unspoken but unmistakable.

  "The same phenomenon affects our northern islands," Lynara replied calmly. "The ice forms patterns unlike any in our histories."

  "You know of this?" Elder Thorvald's voice sharpened with interest.

  "I know that the weather follows no human agenda, Elder," Lynara answered carefully. "Though some might seek to exploit its patterns."

  Lady Ingrid folded the letter precisely. "Lord Einar further reports that our scouts have observed ritual markings carved into ice floes near the outmost islands. Markings consistent with certain forbidden practices, last seen during the years of the previous pope."

  A chill that had nothing to do with the winter air settled over the gathering. Several guests made the sign of the Order reflexively.

  "Witchcraft?" Lady Nordvik whispered, her earlier composure cracking.

  "Impossible," Elder Thorvald declared firmly. "The Grey Coven was destroyed utterly during the Feast. No practitioner remains within a thousand leagues of Federation territory."

  "Yet here we are," Lady Ingrid replied, "with unseasonable storms, expanding marshlands, and now, mysterious markings in the ice." Her gaze settled once more on Lynara. "All coinciding with the arrival of our Sverdish guest."

  Before accusation she could mount a defence, another servant burst into the room, nearly knocking the first one to the ground.

  "Lady Ingrid!" he gasped. "The storm! It comes from all directions at once! The harbormaster says he's never seen anything like it!"

  As if summoned by his words, a violent gust of wind rattled the windows, sending an unearthly moan through the stone walls of the manor. Outside, snow swirled in unnatural patterns, no longer falling but seeming to dance horizontally across the darkened sky.

  "All trade roads will be impassable within hours," Captain Rowan said grimly, rising from her seat. "I must see to the city's defenses."

  "Against what?" Niklas asked. "It's only a storm."

  "Is it?" Lady Ingrid's voice had gone cold as the wind outside. Her eyes never left Lynara's face, who replied with a trouble smile. "Or is it something else entirely?"

  Elder Thorvald stood, his authority filling the room. "Enough. Speculation serves no purpose. Captain Rowan, see to the city's security. Lord Halverson, your knowledge of weather patterns is unmatched—what can you tell us of this storm's likely duration?"

  Lord Halverson's weathered face darkened. "If it follows natural patterns? Three days at most. But if it's as unnatural as it appears..." He shook his head. "We could be isolated for weeks."

  "Then we must prepare accordingly," Ingrid declared, rising to her feet. "This dinner is concluded. Lords and ladies, return to your estates and secure your people and provisions. We will reconvene when the immediate crisis has passed."

  As the assembly dispersed with urgent purpose, Lynara found herself momentarily alone with Elder Thorvald.

  "A strange welcome to Vellano," he remarked quietly. "Though perhaps not entirely unexpected."

  "You anticipated this?" Lynara asked, genuinely curious.

  "Not this specifically," the Elder replied. "But when old enemies extend hands in friendship, the universe rarely allows simple reconciliation." His eyes, sharp despite his years, studied her face. "Caldus believes you are honest. He is not a man easily convinced."

  "And you, Elder? What do you believe?"

  A ghost of a smile touched his weathered face. "I believe that truth, like this storm, reveals itself in time." He bowed formally. "Until then, Lady Brahe, I suggest you tread carefully. Not all in Vellano are as willing to suspend judgment as I."

  As he departed, Niklas approached, concern evident in his youthful features.

  "Don't let my aunt's suspicions trouble you," he said earnestly. "Ingrid sees conspiracies in every shadow."

  "Often because they lurk there," Lynara replied with a small smile. "Your aunt is wise to be cautious."

  "Perhaps," he conceded. "But I've studied enough history to know that moments like these, when ancient enemies might become allies, are rare and precious. It would be a tragedy to let fear destroy such opportunity."

  His idealism was touching, if naive. "History is written by those who survive to tell it," Lynara observed. "Your aunt seeks to ensure Vellano numbers among them."

  A quiet moment later, Hilda appeared at Lynara's elbow. "Lady Ingrid requests your presence in her private study," she announced, talking with formal distance.

  The storm's howl grew louder as they traversed the manor's corridors, wind finding every crack and crevice in the ancient stonework. Paintings swayed slightly on their hooks; tapestries rippled as if alive. Even the most stalwart servants moved with increased urgency, casting nervous glances toward windows that showed only swirling white darkness beyond.

  They ascended a spiral staircase to the manor's eastern tower, where Lady Ingrid's private study occupied the uppermost chamber. Hilda knocked once before opening the heavy door.

  Inside, Lynara found not only Lady Ingrid but Captain Rowan and a third figure she hadn't been introduced to—a woman of indeterminate age wrapped in robes of deep gray, her eyes sharp and knowing beneath silver streaked hair.

  "Lady Brahe," Ingrid said without preamble. "This is Mistress Helka, Vellano's senior Theurg."

  The robed woman inclined her head slightly. "We meet at last," she said, her voice carrying the particular resonance of one trained in the theurgical arts. "I have been most curious about you since word of your impending arrival reached us."

  "Please, be seated," Ingrid gestured to a chair positioned directly across from her own, with the other two women flanking her like sentinels. "The storm has accelerated our timeline, but perhaps that is for the best. Cards laid on the table leave less room for misunderstanding."

  Lynara took the offered seat, composure perfect despite the transparent interrogation forming around her. "I appreciate directness, Lady Ingrid."

  "Good." Ingrid leaned forward, fingers steepled before her. "Then let us be direct. This storm is no natural phenomenon. Mistress Helka confirms it bears the unmistakable signature of ritual working. Powerful ritual working."

  "The timing of your arrival and the onset of this weather cannot be coincidental," Ingrid added flatly. "Especially given the markings Lord Einar discovered."

  "I had no hand in this," Lynara stated simply. "Nor would Sverdish interests be served by isolating me here, among those who already view my presence with suspicion."

  "Unless isolation was precisely the goal," Ingrid countered. "Not of you specifically, but of Vellano itself. Cut off from the rest of the Federation, unable to send warnings or request aid."

  Mistress Helka, who had been watching Lynara intently, spoke in that same resonant voice. "There is a stain upon you, Lady Brahe. Not corruption, precisely, but a... dissonance. Your essence carries the mark of blood rites."

  The statement hung in the air, neither accusation nor acceptance.

  "I am Sverdish," Lynara replied simply. "Our traditions honor the Flayed King through rituals your Federation condemned centuries ago. This is hardly a revelation."

  "It is not the rituals themselves that concern me," Helka countered, weathered fingers tracing patterns in the air before Lynara's face. "It is their intensity. Most nobles practice the rites as tradition demands, but you..." Her eyes narrowed. "The blood offerings have soaked deep into your essence. You are unusually devoted to your ways."

  Lady Ingrid's eyes hardened. "Are you suggesting Lady Brahe represents a threat against us, in spite of her diplomatic role?"

  "I suggest nothing," Helka replied carefully. "I merely observe. The currents that flow through her are potent, saturated with devotion to practices we have long forbidden in Federation lands. They disturb the natural order, not necessarily with malice, but with... fervor."

  Lady Ingrid studied Lynara's face. "Elder Thorvald vouches for you at the moment, as does Ser Caldus. But they are men of the sword, not the sight. Mistress Helka's concerns cannot be dismissed."

  "What would you have of me, then?" Lynara asked, her voice level despite the mounting tension. "I cannot change the faith I was raised in."

  "Nor would we ask it," Mistress Helka said, surprising both other women. "Faith is beyond my jurisdiction. But I must determine if your devotions pose a threat to Vellano."

  From within her robes, she produced a small crystal vial containing what appeared to be water. "This is consecrated water from the Lake of Tears, where the Blessed Simon received his vision. It reveals not faith, but intent. Those who wish harm upon the Federation cannot touch it without revelation."

  A test more nuanced than Lynara had expected, not of her nature, but of her purpose.

  Lynara extended her hand without hesitation. "Proceed."

  Mistress Helka unstoppered the vial and poured a small amount of the liquid onto Lynara's palm. It pooled there, glimmering in the lamplight. For a moment, the liquid seemed to tremble, taking on a faint crimson hue before settling back to clarity.

  The three women watched intently, Helka with particular focus. She frowned, but not in disappointment, in puzzlement.

  "Curious," she murmured. "The water recognizes your devotion to the Flayed King, as expected. But it finds no immediate threat to our lands." She looked up, her eyes searching Lynara's. "You are... complicated, Lady Brahe. Your presence creates disturbances, yet they are not the disturbances of an enemy."

  "Are you satisfied?" Lynara asked, wiping her hand dry on a cloth Helka provided.

  "Satisfied? No," Lady Ingrid replied frankly. "Reassured? Perhaps marginally. But understand this, Lady Brahe, while you remain within these walls, you remain under observation. Your faith may be your own affair, but if we discover any connection between you and these unnatural events..."

  "You'll find none," Lynara assured her. "My purpose here is diplomacy, not destruction."

  "One often precedes the other," Captain Rowan observed grimly.

  A violent gust rattled the tower windows, momentarily drowning out all conversation. When it subsided, Mistress Helka was standing alert, her head cocked as if listening to something beyond mortal hearing.

  "Something approaches," she whispered. "Something that walks between the snowflakes."

  The words had barely left her lips when a thunderous crash echoed from somewhere below, followed by shouts and panic.

  Captain Rowan was in the room a clang later. "The manor is under attack."

  Lady Ingrid rose with remarkable composure for one faced with imminent danger. "By whom?"

  Captain Rowan looked uncertain, a second passed before she continued "Niklas went to confirm, I was gathering my detail to return at once when we spotted figures in the storm, he volounteered, he went with my fastest horse."

  "Secure the eastern corridor," she ordered Rowan. "I'll alert the household guard." To Lynara, she added with cold precision, "This conversation is not concluded."

  As Ingrid and Rowan hurried away from the chamber, Lynara caught Mistress Helka staring at her with renewed intensity now that they were left alone.

  At first, they stood in silence, skin crawling staredown.

  "You sense them too," the Theurg said softly after a while, not quite accusation but certainty. "Your blood recognizes what approaches, even if you do not serve it."

  "If you mean what I suspect," Lynara replied carefully, "then they are abominations to both our faiths. The Flayed King demands blood freely given, not the desecration of death's boundaries."

  "Curious," Helka murmured, "that you should make such a distinction. Most Federation folk see little difference."

  Before Lynara could respond, another stumbled in. Niklas stood there, breathless, a sword in his hand that he clearly had little experience wielding.

  "We have to get to the great hall! They've broken into the lowest floors already!"

  Niklas's face was pale with shock. "The dead," he whispered. "They walk through the storm like it isn't there. And they wear armor, some Federation, some Sverdish, all bearing strange markings I've never seen before."

  Without further thought, both women hurried over.