The room was heavy with the scent of aged parchment and ink. Tomes, their spines cracked and gilded with dust, lined the shelves in uneven rows. Scrolls, some tied with faded ribbons, lay scattered across tables, and maps were layered one atop another, edges curling with age. Cendre recognized some at once; charts of old campaigns, surveys of the Argent Peaks, and sketches of passes long rumored impassable.
"How many states does the Empire have?" she asked abruptly, breaking the silence.
"Thirteen," he replied without hesitation. "Thirteen stars, with the center a deep red. The pale star of the north, the yellow star of the south, the green star of the east, and the yellow star of the west."
She nodded, her eyes tracing the lines of an old map sprawled before her. "The thirteenth star, the highest number, is at the center of it all. There may be expansion if the Western Frontiers prove useful. But for now, only thirteen estates hold sway. Valor runs through the Empire, they say. And yet, it has run dry in recent years."
"And?"
She studied him, the slightest crease forming between her brows. It was a delicate expression, almost impossible to read. How much did she conceal behind that carefully composed face?
"It means there are troubles, Ser," she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. "Then again, it does not concern a free knight who swears no allegiance."
"Indeed," he replied. No lie there.
Her gloved hand hovered over the map before pressing lightly on a network of lines depicting walls, gates, and towers. The Argent Peaks loomed like jagged teeth drawn in ink, their spines traced with careful precision. Beyond them, the northern wilds were sparsely marked. South of the Peaks, past the city, stretched the tundras of the Cleaved River, a place locals claimed had been carved by a giant, half-mountain in height.
"This pass," she began, "is known only to my family. We call it the Quiet Pass. My father and my brother, hearing that a two-colored sabercat had been found by the huntsmen, chose to follow it." Her eyes flicked to his, calculating. "Do you know what is most prized in a two-colored sabercat?"
"Pelt?" he ventured.
Her tone was dry, almost imperious. "It's scrotum."
Cendre blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Mixed with certain herbs, then dried. It is said to revitalize the body." She lifted her chin slightly, as though daring him to comment. "The physician, Master Kerfel, informed me that my father intended it for my mother, while my brother sought the remainder for his wife."
Cendre felt an odd mix of amusement and surprise. She spoke plainly, with a clarity that revealed far more than simple biology. And yet, there was a tragic undertone, an implicit understanding of the frailties even great men could not avoid. He refrained from commenting, only nodding.
"And?" he asked, eager to move past the subject yet curious how she would frame it.
"They rode, eight in total. Four for my father, four for my brother. They tracked the sabercat alongside the huntsmen. But the weather turned. The Icy's End winds struck them without mercy. They were lost, pushed deeper into the mountains. I remember the letter that came, it said they had been missing for six days. The messenger bird arrived two days after it was sent, and I could only assume something had gone wrong. I could not leave immediately, duties bound me elsewhere as I waited, hoping for news."
Her voice wavered slightly, a shadow crossing her features.
"When my father's men finally found them," she continued, "both had been mutilated by wild beasts. My Lord Father… he was many things. A big spender, a man who knew little of prudence, but he aspired for his children to be better. He was never a coward. Few could best him. And yet…" Her words faltered for a heartbeat.
Cendre listened, noting the grief in her tone but refusing to let it cloud his judgment. Sympathy for loss did not erase suspicion. Every word, every pause, could be calculated or merely habit in someone accustomed to command.
He traced his eyes over the documents and maps she had pushed aside as she spoke. Each line on the parchment seemed to carry weight, as if confirming the strategic nature of her grief. Even here, in her sorrow, there was an unmistakable precision, a careful curation of what she revealed and what she concealed.
The Duchess's hands rested lightly on the desk, fingers brushing parchment, but her gaze remained fixed on him, measuring, weighing. She was beautiful in a sharp, commanding way, her posture uncompromising even as her voice softened with remembrance. Her silver hair fell around her shoulders, catching the candlelight, framing eyes that were both intense and distant.
Cendre had no illusions about her. Her sincerity was real, yes, but so too was the calculated control she wielded over the narrative of her family's tragedy. And it was that control that made him wary. Every tale she shared was a fragment, truth interlaced with opportunity for manipulation.
He sipped his wine slowly, chewing over the story. It aligned with rumors he had heard, rumors about the Duke and the heir, about how easily tragedy could unbalance the North-folk. But he knew enough of the politics, the debts, and the Northern lords to recognize the stakes.
Beneath the grief, there was strategy.
Beneath the sorrow, there was the calculation of advantage.
And perhaps, he realized, beneath the recounting of sabercats and mutilated men, beneath the casual mention of herbs and silly rituals, there lay the key to why she had sought him.
He did not speak. He only listened.
Because in the North, every word carried weight. Every gesture could be a signal. And the Duchess, was mourning yet commanding, revealing yet guarding, a figure that demanded both attention and caution.
Cendre's hand brushed the rim of his cup. He understood perfectly why suspicion lingered, even in the presence of apparent sincerity. She benefited most from the tragedy. And though she mourned, she also wielded that mourning as a shield, as a tool, as a test.
He set the cup down. Quietly. Carefully. Watching. Listening. Calculating.
Even amid grief, Eira Blanc remained every bit the Northern Warden she had become, unyielding, intelligent, and infinitely cautious.
Cendre knew then, without doubt, that this task was far from simple. And the Duchess, for all her words and stories, remained as enigmatic as the frozen peaks surrounding her city.
"No one could best the Duke, you said, Your Grace," Cendre said at last, after gathering his thoughts with deliberate care. "Yet you suspect foul play? Were they not armed? Even if they were caught in a storm, they should have been well prepared against the cold."
"They were fully armored and padded," she replied without hesitation. "How do you think they survived long enough in that hostile ground? When we found them, they were mutilated. My father had lost an arm. His body was covered in bruises."
Her tone did not waver, though something tightened behind it.
"Has any master examined the bruises?" he asked. "To determine whether they were from blunt force? From weaponry?"
Her gaze hardened slightly.
"How could they identify such things when days had already passed?" she said. "Their bodies were preserved by the cold, yes, but as I said, Ser, they were mutilated. Disfigured. Ravaged." A faint pause. "Whether it was beast or steel that did it… I do not know. We do not."
"Where were they found, Your Grace?" he continued. "Distance from the Quiet Pass? And the huntsman, does he live?"
"Thirty kilometers northeast of here," she answered. "Beyond the marked patrol routes. The huntsman, Karlos, survived. As did Ser Sullybane. They were the only two."
He set his cup down upon the desk, the faint clink echoing in the room.
"How did they survive?"
The Duchess lowered herself into the high-backed chair behind the desk. Even seated, she retained a posture of command.
"Luck," she said. "Karlos was the first injured. Ser Sullybane insisted on remaining, but my father ordered him to withdraw once they encountered the resistance."
"Resistance?" Cendre pressed. "So they did meet someone."
"Ser Sullybane claims they faced enemies," she said carefully. "Tall as beasts. Wearing helms adorned with horns and antlers."
Cendre's brow lifted faintly.
"He suspects they were minions of the icy hell," she continued evenly, as though repeating words she neither fully accepted nor dismissed. "He rode to warn the men here of this and had Captain Vandal gather men."
"And then?"
"He rode with fifty men to retrieve them. He found my father first. A day later, my brother was discovered further along the ridge." Her jaw tightened. "Captain Vandal believes my father had been fighting to reach him. To save him."
Cendre listened without interruption.
As she spoke, he noticed something peculiar. She never uttered their names. Not once.
Duke Baxter. Lord Sven.
She referred to them only as my father, my brother.
Was it grief? Or custom? Did the North refrain from naming their dead until rites were complete? He did not know. But he marked it nonetheless.
"Then Captain Vandal, Ser Sullybane, and Karlos the huntsman are the first I should question," he said.
"All records are with the scribe," she replied. "You may review them at will. Kyra will know the rest."
"Your maid-in-waiting?" he asked.
"Secretary," she corrected smoothly. "Do you not remember her, Ser Dalens? She was at St. Alfons with us."
He searched his memory.
A red-haired girl with spectacles. Quiet, observant. Once, years ago, he had received a message that someone wished to see him, though he had declined, occupied with some errand of his own.
Recognition dawned slowly.
"I remember," he said.
"Kyra will act as my hand in this matter," the Duchess continued. "I have affairs to manage. Letters to those lords who failed to attend my ascension. And for those who believe my greatsword would hesitate to separate their heads from their shoulders."
A flash of heat passed through her composure then, anger not feigned. The temperature of the room seemed to dip despite the hearth.
Cendre inclined his head slightly. "Then it would be best I begin with information."
He turned to leave, but her voice halted him.
"I seek closure from this, Ser," she said, then met his gaze fully.
"I hope your skills are not exaggerated, Ser Dalens."
There was no smile this time. Only expectation.
"I will do what I can," he replied evenly.
He left the chamber.
Outside, Kyra sat at a smaller desk in the adjoining corridor, spectacles perched neatly upon her nose, a ledger open before her. She looked up as he approached, her expression composed to the point of severity.
Her red hair was tied back cleanly, revealing sharp features that seemed perpetually assessing.
"The Duchess has informed you," she said, closing the ledger with deliberate care.
"She has," he replied. "I am to begin by reviewing the records and questioning Captain Vandal, Ser Sullybane, and Huntsman Karlos."
Kyra regarded him for a long moment, as though measuring not his words but his worth.
"You should be thanking her," she said finally. "It is not a small matter to be entrusted with service to the Duchess of the North."
Her tone carried neither warmth nor overt hostility, only conviction. A loyalty sharpened by intellect.
"I see," he replied.
"She could have compelled you," Kyra continued, rising from her seat. "There are… many methods available to her. Instead, she offers you this position of access and trust."
The faintest tightening at the corner of her lips suggested she was not entirely convinced he deserved it.
"If I had been more reckless," Cendre thought, he might have tested her composure, provoked her simply to see how deeply that loyalty ran.
But recklessness had never been his preference.
"I will remember your advice," he said calmly.
Kyra studied him once more, then gestured toward a side corridor.
"The records are this way. Captain Vandal remains within the barracks. Ser Sullybane is under observation. Karlos rests in the lower infirmary."
He nodded.
As he followed her down the corridor, he could not help but note the difference between the two women at the heart of this fortress.
One ruled with cold fire and veiled steel.
The other guarded her interests with quiet, sharpened devotion.
And somewhere between grief, ambition, and whispered monsters in horned helms, lay the truth of what had happened thirty kilometers northeast of Icy's End.
Cendre adjusted the cuffs of his gloves.
The investigation had begun.