Blainor cut in, “It’s true. Wolfsbachs claim the pasturessouth of the River Ird. Why press your luck, Gend? After all, you have the low-lying lands west of Windheim.”
The leather of Gend’s gloves creaked, his damp hand clenched. “Not thawed yet. Annath knows.” He faced the Warlord, a defiant tilt of his head. “He disputes my right to the Jordrigt.”
Blainor went still. “Not thawed?”
“Nay,” Gend said, holding his gaze. “The frost’s still there.” Unspoken terror crossed his face, and the light in his brown eyes dimmed. “Not only that. Snow lingers on the southernmost peaks of Everfrost.”
Nervous whispers broke through as people leaned back, drawing a sign of protection—a circle before their chests.
Trisha couldn’t help herself. She leaned forward.Everfrost.
“I see,” Blainor said at last, silencing the others. “Annath, you know the law.”
“Everfrost?” Annath sneered. “Just ‘nother Blutmeer lie. Do ye think I’ve forgotten what happened at Shawdell? Ye refused my nephew’s claim to yer cousin.”
His second-in-command scowled.
“In Great Father’s name!” Gend grumbled. “Stammek’s a woman of her own mind. No chief can force another’s hand, not if they refuse. Ernaut had it coming.” The glare he shot toward Annath’s adjutant brimmed with contempt.
“This isn’t a place or time to talk about ill-gone courting,” Blainor said, voice cold. “If Gend’s information holds, you’re defying Ergoth’s Jordrigt, Annath. No clan refuses the right to pasture when nature forces their hand.”
“Nature?” Annath huffed. “Gend’s wrappin’ it in the law, but I see through him. Blutmeer’s just milkin’ ye, Warlord. Playin’ on the past.”
Blainor’s spine stiffened, but it was Gend who fired upnext.
“You dare?” The northern chief stood, intimidating. “I told you, come and witness it yourself. No sheep or cow can graze in frosted land. You know, like everyone else here, what it means.”
An uneasy quiet landed before Blainor shattered it. “Listen. We’ll discuss Everfrost during summer’s solstice; today, we’ll focus on the pastures and respecting the law laid down by our forefathers.”
“Holden, ye mean?” Annath taunted. “Much ye respected yer sire-stag.”
Blainor’s fingers flexed. “That’s quite enough.”
“Enough? Rich, comin’ from ye,” Annath said. “The Wolfbachs haven’t forgotten, nay. Ye left, Warlord.” He spat to the ground, a string of saliva dribbling off his chin. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten what ye stole.”
Blainor slowly leaned forward with a deadly sense of calculation. “You accepted the challenge. You lost.” The bite in his words made Trisha recoil, her motion drawing Annath’s attention.
The Wolfbach chief’s eyes narrowed, ugly disdain shining through. “And yer… bard,” Annath sneered. “Didn’t think ye this sentimental. Draggin’ southern playthin’ to keep you?—”
Thud.
Trisha didn’t even see the movement. One moment Blainor was seated; the next, he stood. A dagger quivered in the chair’s dark wood, a mere whisper from Annath’s hair.
“Fifteen years, and still it torments you. Your loss,” Blainor said. “Very well, then. You want a challenge? You’ll get it. Now. Today.” The lack of emotion made his words all the more chilling.
The proximity of the knife had rattled Annath just enough; his bluster cracked, tough facade faded, and a shadow of fear flickered in his eyes. A slow, vicious grinspread over his lips. “Aye,” he grunted. “But I get to choose the weapons.”
“Then choose,” Blainor drawled. “Let’s settle this for good.”
Annath rose and yanked out the dagger dug into his chair. The sharp edge caught the sunlight, mirroring the feral look in his eyes, and then he spoke: “Knives.” He flicked Blainor’s dagger again, as though taunting the Warlord.
“How fitting, Annath. Agreed.” Trisha could hear the grim smile in Blainor’s voice. He spun around, reaching out his hand. “Hurti.”
For a moment, Trisha’s eyes met his. She swallowed, the memory of the fight on the road coming back to life. The cold, focused force of a killer stood before her. Not Blainor with his teasing remarks, not the commander requiring unyielding loyalty. This was a man ready to deliver death or embrace it himself.
A few steps sounded, Hurti moving forward. He handed his weapon to Blainor’s outstretched palm. Blainor tested the knife’s weight before nodding, then spun around. He rolled his shoulders before walking to the room’s center and the dead hearth there. “Ready when you are.”
The words broke whatever had held Trisha in her spot. She scrambled backward, bumping her hips into someone. With a hasty apology, she hurried next to Fjorten and Byne. Her heart thumped in her chest, mind refusing to believe how quickly events escalated.
