Tarja's home proved comfortable enough.
She moved quietly about the kitchen, preparing a meal while Cendre remained seated near the central pit. The scent of cooked meat and spices soon filled the room, carried upward by the warmth rising from the stone floor. She worked with practiced movements, neither hurried nor slow, as though the routine of preparing food was something she had repeated countless times.
When the food was finished, she brought over a small wooden tray and placed it between them.
She took the first bite.
Only after chewing and swallowing did she hand the rest to him. Cendre accepted it, though he could not help but wonder at the gesture. The steamed bun was warm to the touch, its surface soft and slightly glossy from the moisture of the steam. When he tore it open, he found it stuffed with minced mutton mixed with herbs and spices.
He assumed the gesture meant something.
Perhaps it was a custom meant to assure a guest that the food contained no poison.
Or perhaps he was overthinking it.
Tarja had removed some of the heavier layers she had worn while riding outside. Without the thick furs, her clothing revealed a different style altogether. Her shoulders were bare save for long, silky sleeves that draped lightly over her arms, while the rest of her attire consisted of a long skirt that flowed around her legs.
Her figure was slim and athletic, though clearly strong from the way she moved.
Across her garments ran narrow stripes of gold thread rather than the red, yellow, or green he had seen on others in the city.
It was curious.
A city that had been isolated, if her account was to be believed, for four hundred years should have struggled with such matters as hygiene and sanitation. Yet Carcove appeared remarkably clean. The people were healthy, the streets orderly, and the water channels well maintained.
Then again, Tarja had explained some of this earlier. How disease almost took them all, and according to her, the people of Carcove had once believed they were the last of humanity.
That belief had lasted until roughly one hundred and fifty years ago, when a ship crashed upon their shores. It had been a merchant vessel from Basalt, laden with luxurious goods and, more importantly, books.
Many books.
Those books had apparently changed much for them.
Tarja herself had learned the Commonal language from those texts.
Among her people she was considered a scholar.
She studied the customs recorded in those books and observed the movements of the stars. According to her, she often advised the elders regarding the reading of celestial signs and seasonal changes.
More surprisingly, she also assisted in designing some of the wooden contraptions Cendre had encountered during his journey.
He had mentioned them while they spoke earlier.
She explained that those devices were used to filter water. The cuts and markings carved along the pipes directed the flow in such a way that impurities settled before the water reached the final basin.
In short, they turned wild water into drinkable water.
The people of Carcove, it seemed, took water and cleanliness extremely seriously.
Living among ice, snow, and frozen seas had made them respect water rather than take it for granted. Tarja had even mentioned that offenses involving contamination of the water supply were punished severely.
A beating at the very least.
Imprisonment if the offense proved grave.
Later she showed him more of her home.
The upper floor served as her workplace. Tables there were covered in scattered scrolls, star charts, and various instruments whose purposes he could only guess. Some looked like measuring rods, others like devices meant to observe distant points in the sky.
Her basement was where she kept her books.
It also served as the place where she slept.
Surprisingly, the lower floor felt even warmer than the upper level. Tarja explained that the heat rose from the lava channels beneath the city's foundations.
How that worked exactly was beyond him.
All he understood was that whoever had designed this place had done so with remarkable foresight. The entire city seemed carefully constructed to trap heat and resist the merciless cold of the surrounding tundra.
Tarja later explained that with the coming of the current spring, the ice along the outer regions had begun to thaw.
Because of that, the elders of Carcove had finally decided the time had come to meet the people of Icy's End.
Unfortunately, that meeting had ended in bloodshed.
Yet what puzzled Cendre the most was something else entirely.
"How," he asked at one point, "were your people able to repel the Duke's hunting party and Captain Vandal's men?"
He leaned slightly forward as he spoke.
The question had been lingering in his mind since he first heard the accounts.
A simple misunderstanding rarely ended with only two survivors left traumatized while fifty trained soldiers retreated in defeat.
Tarja listened carefully as he described what he knew of the encounter.
When he finished, she looked genuinely shocked.
In fact, the more she considered the details, the more dismissive she seemed of the idea that her people could have achieved such a victory.
"That is impossible," she said firmly.
She folded her arms lightly as she spoke.
"I do not doubt the skill of my kin," she continued. "But if your warriors are as heavily armored as you are, our weapons would struggle to pierce such protection."
Her gaze briefly flicked toward the armor he had set aside earlier.
"Mail, treated fur, plate," she said thoughtfully. "Those defenses cannot be ignored so easily. We are strong, yes, but not strong enough to simply strike through such armor."
Cendre studied her expression.
She did not appear to be lying.
"If that is true," he said slowly, "then what do you believe happened?"
Tarja considered the question for a moment before answering.
"That waste you crossed," she said, "is filled with natural dangers."
Her voice grew quieter as she explained.
"Crevices hidden beneath snow. Sudden drops. Ice that breaks beneath weight. Wind strong enough to blind travelers."
She met his eyes again.
"It may sound absurd," she admitted, "but I suspect your people suffered accidents."
She paused briefly.
"And when our hunters appeared, perhaps they were already frightened. Already wounded."
Cendre leaned back slightly.
It was possible.
The terrain beyond the Quiet Pass was treacherous enough to swallow entire groups if they were careless.
But one thought still lingered in his mind.
The Duke and the late heir had fought fiercely according to the surviving accounts.
Men did not fight like that unless they were cornered.
* * * *
Still, Cendre did not meet the elders that day.
Instead, sometime after the evening meal, a rider arrived at Tarja's home. The man dismounted quickly and spoke to her in their own language, his voice low but tense. Cendre could not understand the words, but the tone alone carried enough meaning.
Tarja stepped outside with him.
They argued.
It was not loud shouting, but the kind of controlled disagreement where both sides were careful with their words. The rider gestured toward the direction of the fortress several times, while Tarja responded with sharp, measured replies. Once or twice she folded her arms, clearly displeased.
Eventually the rider shook his head, mounted his horse, and rode away.
When Tarja returned inside, she exhaled slowly before sitting across from Cendre.
"The elders will not meet you today," she said.
Cendre waited for her to elaborate.
"They are questioning the riders who went to Icy's End," she continued. "Those who fought your people."
She rested her hands on the table as she explained further.
"In Carcove, those who hold responsibility must answer for their actions before the elders. The riders who rode beyond our lands were not common hunters. They were sent as envoys."
Her expression grew more serious.
"And because of that, their position requires scrutiny."
Cendre tilted his head slightly.
"What kind of scrutiny?"
Tarja paused for a moment, choosing her words carefully.
"They will be questioned individually first," she said. "Each rider must recount the events as they remember them. The elders will compare their accounts to see where they match and where they differ."
She traced a small circle on the wooden surface with her finger.
"If their testimonies contradict one another, the elders will question them again, sometimes in the presence of the others. In serious matters, witnesses from the tribe are also brought in—hunters, watchers, or anyone who may have seen the riders leave or return."
"And if they are found guilty of wrongdoing?"
Tarja did not answer immediately.
"Our justice is not quick," she said at last. "It was once harsher, according to the old records. But after the sickness… things changed."
Cendre raised an eyebrow.
"Sickness?"
Tarja nodded slowly.
"The great disease that spread among our people generations ago that made us respect cleanliness," she said. "It came suddenly and without mercy. Families died within days. Entire houses were emptied."
Her voice lowered slightly.
"We lost many. Some say nearly half of our kin."
She glanced toward the small fire pit burning in the center of the room.
"That tragedy humbled us. The elders who survived believed that survival itself was a form of second life granted to our people. Since then, we have tried to rule ourselves with restraint."
She looked back at him.
"We are not eager to end lives. Nor to risk them."
Cendre listened quietly.
He could hear the sincerity in her voice.
After days of travel through the frozen wilderness, and after the tense encounter outside the city, the calm of Tarja's home felt almost surreal. For the first time since leaving Icy's End, he felt reasonably certain that he was not in immediate danger.
Eventually he rose slightly from his seat and unfastened the armored cloak from his shoulders.
The heavy garment settled onto the floor beside him with a soft weight.
Tarja noticed immediately.
"You remove your armor?" she asked.
"As a sign of respect," he replied. "You welcomed me into your home."
Tarja studied the cloak with visible curiosity.
"May I see it?"
He slid it across the floor toward her.
She lifted it carefully, examining the layered construction with the interest of a scholar studying an unfamiliar artifact.
"The metal plates," she said, running her fingers across the interior lining, "they are hidden."
"Sandwiched between cotton and leather," Cendre explained. "The layers absorb the force of a blow while the plates stop the blade."
"A clever design," she murmured.
After a moment she pointed toward the red sash tied at his waist.
"And that?"
Cendre followed her gaze.
"My family's mark," he said.
Tarja leaned forward slightly, waiting for him to continue.
"The Dalens have worn the red sash for generations," he said. "It honors our ancestor, Edward Redsash."
"Edward Redsash," she repeated thoughtfully.
"He earned the name during a battle," Cendre explained. "His sash was soaked with blood before the fight was finished. He survived. The name remained."
Tarja nodded slowly, clearly intrigued.
Their conversation gradually drifted toward broader topics.
She asked about the southern lands, about the Empire, and about the structure of power in Icy's End.
Cendre explained as best he could.
"The Duchess now rules the city," he said. "After the death of the Duke and the heir."
Tarja listened intently.
But the more he spoke about the Empire, the scale of its cities, the reach of its authority, the number of its soldiers, the more serious her expression became.
"So Carcove," she said slowly, "would fall under the authority of your Duchess."
"Technically," Cendre admitted.
Tarja leaned back slightly, absorbing the implication.
Then she spoke again.
"Our founder, Guja of Hardsong," she said, "was described in the old records as having red eyes and pale white hair."
Cendre looked at her with interest.
"He was a follower of your First Warden, Gunther."
Cendre blinked.
"The First Warden?"
Tarja nodded toward the direction of the outer lands.
"The statue you passed before entering Pala's Crossing," she said. "We know of him. Our ancestors served under his command before the separation."
That caught Cendre's attention.
"You mean your people were once part of Icy's End?"
"Yes."
She folded her hands.
"We always knew of the city. But the passes froze. The seas became impossible to cross. Generations passed."
Her voice softened.
"And eventually, we became stories to each other."
Cendre considered that quietly.
It was entirely possible.
The brutal weather, the impassable passes, and centuries of separation could easily erase entire peoples from memory. House Blanc might simply have forgotten that another settlement once existed beyond the frozen barriers.
But Tarja seemed troubled by something else.
"What worries me," she said, "is what this incident may cause."
Her gaze lifted to meet his.
"If your people believe we murdered their rulers…"
She did not finish the sentence.
Cendre sighed lightly.
"I came here to investigate the matter," he said. "Not to start a war."
He gestured loosely around the room.
"To be honest, I expected to find raiders or rebels."
He gave a faint shrug.
"Not an entire city hidden beyond the world."
Tarja smiled faintly at that.
"And I did not expect," Cendre added with a slight grin, "to meet someone who speaks the Commonal tongue so well."
Her expression brightened slightly.
"And who happens to be rather pretty."
Tarja blinked in surprise before laughing softly.
"Your honesty is refreshing, Ka-Cendre."
She bowed her head slightly.
"Thank you."
After a moment she grew serious again.
"I will speak to the elders," she said. "I will tell them what you have told me tonight."
Her voice carried quiet determination.
"If responsibility must be taken, it will be taken. If crimes are committed, they will be measured."
Cendre inclined his head.
"I appreciate that."
For the next few hours they remained by the fire.
They shared more food, spoke of customs from distant lands, and exchanged pieces of knowledge gathered from very different worlds.
Outside, the strange hidden city of Carcove remained calm beneath the cold sky.
Inside Tarja's home, two strangers spoke as though they had known each other far longer, both quietly hoping that understanding might succeed where violence had already failed.