Two dozen figures stand in a rough circle around a fire that blazes higher than my head, their massive forms casting dancing shadows across the snow. All bear the same snowflake tattoos, the same bone piercings, the same weapons that gleam with deadly promise in the firelight.
Not orcs.
The realization hits with surprising force. Father's tutors taught me to recognize different peoples by their features, their dress, their customs. These are something else entirely. Human, yes, but changed by generations in this frozen hell. Taller, broader, with skin that bears a faint blue tinge and eyes that reflect light like a wolf's.
Ice-Blood.
The name fits them perfectly.
And they're all staring at me.
Silence falls like a fading whisper. Twenty-four pairs of predator's eyes fix on the noble girl who dared interrupt their sacred deliberations. I feel naked despite the furs, exposed in ways that have nothing to do with clothing.
Don't show fear. Never show fear.
"Honored elders." I incline my head in the formal greeting Father taught me for addressing foreign dignitaries. "I come before you to speak in my own defense."
Mutters ripple through the circle. Some sound surprised, others outraged. A few might even be impressed, though it'shard to tell with faces that could have been carved from glacier ice.
Vorrak stands directly across from me, and his eyes burn with something I can't identify. Warning, maybe. Or resignation.
He didn't expect me to interfere.
An ancient woman steps forward from the circle's far side. Her hair is white as fresh snow, braided with bones that click like wind chimes. The snowflake tattoo covering half her face is done in silver that seems to glow with its own light, and tusks thrust through both cheeks in a display that should look grotesque but somehow doesn't.
The chief elder.
"Child of the soft lands." She says with absolute authority despite its whispered delivery. "You walk among your betters without invitation."
"I walk among those who hold my life in their hands," I reply, grateful that courtly training keeps my voice steady. "Surely that earns me the right to speak before judgment is rendered."
Another ripple of mutters, these more thoughtful. The elder woman tilts her head, studying me with eyes like chips of winter sky.
"Speak then. But know that words change nothing. Law is law."
Law.
I've spent my entire life watching Father navigate the treacherous waters of noble politics, seen him turn enemies into allies with nothing but carefully chosen phrases and strategic gifts. Surely clan law, however ancient, must have some flexibility built into it.
Find the weakness. There's always a weakness.
"I understand your law protects clan secrets," I begin, choosing each word with surgical precision. "But I came here byaccident, not design. The storm drove me from my path, and I would have died without Vorrak's intervention."
The named man shifts slightly, though his expression remains unreadable.
"I know nothing of your numbers, your defenses, your sacred places. I've seen one tent and a handful of faces. Surely this poses no threat to your security."
"You see more than you know," the elder woman replies. "And memory is long in the soft lands."
She's right, of course.
Even this brief glimpse into clan life would be invaluable to certain parties at court. The military applications alone...
But they don't need to know that.
"My House values honor above all else," I continue, allowing a note of pride to creep into my voice. "House Cyrdan keeps its word, honors its debts, protects those who show us kindness. My father would send envoys to repay any debt incurred by your hospitality, but he would never demand details of how that debt was earned."
This earns me several considering looks. Even among barbarians, it seems, the concept of honor carries weight.
