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I trained two people to mix common remedies before leaving. Nessa keeps the supplies organized. Neither has the knowledge to treat a severe illness or recognize every dangerous plant.

“I will send additional instructions,” I say. “If anyone develops bluefrost or a fever that lasts more than two days, send word.”

“We will.”

“The lower road must remain open,” Rhysandir says. “Patrols will continue through winter.”

Bran studies him. Suspicion remains in his eyes, but it no longer stands alone.

“Thank you, my lord.”

Rhysandir accepts the gratitude with a slight inclination of his head.

“The stores require inspection after they are restacked,” he says. “Return in three days.”

Bran looks at me. “Another invitation?”

“Apparently.”

“Perhaps the guard will let me keep my cap.”

“Your name will be recorded,” Rhysandir says.

“That sounds more threatening than comforting.”

“It is meant to prevent inconvenience.”

“For whom?”

Rhysandir’s expression cools.

Bran bows before curiosity becomes recklessness. “Three days, my lord.”

Joran summons the storekeeper and six workers. Bran shows them how to build the timber braces while I carry my basket toward the solarium.

At the courtyard steps, I stop and look back.

Nothing about the stronghold appears different. Zagfer guards remain above humans. Dark elf authority still controls every store, gate, and passage. My title exists because a king ordered Rhysandir to take a human bride.

Yet change has entered the household through narrow spaces.

The kitchen workers eat before exhaustion destroys their judgment. Injured servants seek treatment in the solarium. Briar speaks where she once lowered her eyes. Bran’s name will stand in the gate record under my authority.

Rhysandir could have handled the confrontation privately. He could have released Bran without invoking me. Instead, he called Bran my guest and made my invitation sufficient before the entire courtyard.

My private importance has become public authority.

Across the snow, Rhysandir remains beside the wood shed. Platinum hair catches the winter sunlight above his dark face. He looks as much a part of the stronghold as its black walls.

Our gazes meet.

The connection carries a brief image from him.

The silver scales of the Arbiter settling into balance.

I answer with an image of my own.

A green shoot pushing through frozen soil.