The horn sounded before dawn, low and humorless.
Thalen woke up, already irritated.
The fire in his hearth had died sometime in the night. The air in his chamber bit at his lungs when he drew breath. Frost feathered the inside of the shutters like pale veins creeping inward.
He swung his legs over the bed and hissed as his bare feet touched the stone.
"Seven hells," he muttered.
"Does the Watch keep no embers for its Warden?"
There were no servants assigned to him here. Mountain Watch did not waste men on comfort.
He dressed quickly, dragging mail over his head, fastening leather straps tighter than necessary. The cold did not bother him as much as the indifference did. Greyharth Hold had known how to treat rank. Even when it bored him, it acknowledged him.
Here, Stone acknowledged nothing.
When he stepped into the corridor, guards were already changing shifts. Boots thudded. Spears passed from one hand to another. Quiet words exchanged.
A pair of men nodded as they passed.
"My Lord."
That was all. No bow. No pause in motion. Thalen gave a short nod in return, jaw tight. The keep moved like he did not exist.
The yard was rimed in white. Frost clung to the packed earth and glazed the wooden posts. Men drilled in silence, blades clashing in tight arcs, shields close to their bodies. No wild swings. No flourish.
Thalen watched for a moment, arms folded.
They fought differently here.
Closer. Tighter.
Like they expected the ground to betray them.
Captain Rorik stood near the well, broad as the gatehouse, beard stiff with cold. His eyes flicked to Thalen briefly, then away again.
No announcement was made. The drills continued.
Thalen exhaled sharply through his nose and crossed to the weapon rack. He selected a blunted longsword and stepped into the ring without asking leave.
A broad-shouldered guard stepped forward to meet him. The man's beard was thick with frost, his nose red from wind.
"My lord," the guard said flatly.
"Warden," he corrected, already raising his blade.
The first strike came faster than he expected. Steel rang. The shock ran up his arm. The guard pressed immediately, boots steady, stance low.
Thalen parried, countered — and nearly lost his footing as his heel slid across a patch of ice. The guard's pommel struck his shoulder hard enough to sting.
Not brutal. Not gentle either.
Thalen's temper flared.
"Is that how you greet your Warden?" he snapped.
The yard quieted a fraction. The guard did not lower his sword.
"It's how we greet winter." A ripple of muted sound passed through the watching men.
Heat rushed into Thalen's face despite the cold. For a heartbeat he considered pressing the matter. Reminding them who stood before them.
Instead he reset his stance.
"Again." They fought harder this time.
Thalen adjusted, shortened his swing, and drove forward. He forced the guard back two steps, then twisted his blade and knocked the man off balance.
A clean strike to the chest. The guard stumbled, then grinned.
"Better."
Another stepped in. Older. Scar slashed across his jaw.
This one did not waste movement. His blade never rose higher than Thalen's shoulder. His boots never slipped.
Thalen pressed too hard. Too fast. He saw the opening and lunged—
—and the veteran pivoted just enough.
A hook of steel. Thalen's sword flew from his hand and skidded across frozen ground.
Silence.
The veteran lowered his blade.
"You fight like there's room behind you," he said.
Thalen's jaw tightened. "There was."
"Not here." For a moment, pride warred with sense. He wanted to retort. To assert something sharp and cutting.
Instead he bent, retrieved his sword, and gave a curt nod.
"I'll adjust." The veteran's eyes lingered on him a heartbeat longer than necessary.
"Best you do." Captain Rorik approached once the drills resumed.
"You're quick," the captain said. "And loud."
Thalen wiped frost from his gloves. "I'll take that as praise."
Rorik's brow lifted slightly. "It wasn't." A faint twitch of irritation moved through Thalen's jaw.
"You expect me to stand aside and observe?"
"I expect you to survive winter," Rorik replied evenly. "Up here, footing kills faster than steel. Anger too."
Thalen's eyes flicked toward him.
"I'm not angry." Thalen protested.
Rorik said nothing, which was worse.
Thalen tapped his gauntlet against the stone, muttering curses under his breath. The men were efficient, disciplined… and unimpressed by him.
"Bloody hell," he spat, voice bouncing off the walls.
"I'm Warden, and yet these bastards act like I've no idea what a sword is."
Captain Rorik leaned on the battlement, his greying hair whipping in the wind. "You'll learn," he said simply.
"They test all new commanders."
Thalen's grin was tight. "Test me, eh? Fine. Let's see who learns first."
He moved to the training yard once more, grabbing a sword and sparring alongside the men. He fought not with the finesse of a master but with fire and audacity, the kind that forced respect—or at least caution. Every strike, every block, every grunt and growl was a statement: I am not here to freeze quietly.
Even as he trained, Thalen's eyes wandered to the mountains, where snow dusted the distant ridges. Somewhere out there, beyond Frosthorn's shadow, Wulfric rode or stood watch.
Lucky bastard, he muttered, shaking his head.
He would rather face snow and frost than the cold stone of this keep alone.
A horn echoed from the outer gate, sharper this time, insistent. Thalen's head snapped up. The men froze mid-strike, eyes flicking toward the tower where the signal came from. He stalked toward the battlement, boots crunching against frost.
"Report!" he barked, voice carrying over the yard.
A rider, cloak whipped by the wind, spurred his horse into the courtyard, breath steaming.
"Sir… scouts sighted movement near the northern ridge. Could be bandits—or worse, wolves."
Thalen's fingers tightened around his sword hilt. Not another drill. Not another practice swing. Real blood and cold awaited beyond the walls.
"Take me to them," he said, and the guards blinked. One dared to hesitate.
"Do you doubt your Warden?" Thalen's glare could have carved stone.
The rider shook his head. "No, sir. Just…" He swallowed. "It's the wind, sir. Hard to tell."
Thalen exhaled sharply. "Then we'll see for ourselves."
As he moved toward the gate, Rorik's hand fell on his shoulder. "Patience, boy. Observe first. Strength alone won't save you here."
Thalen's lips pressed into a thin line. Strength might not be all, but right now, it was all he had.
He swung open the gate. Outside, the mountains waited—silent, vast, indifferent. And somewhere in that white expanse, the first real test of his Warden's eyes and hands was already taking shape.