A great horn sounded early in the morning in Carcove.
The deep note rolled across the city, echoing through the stone corridors and cliffside houses. It carried with it a strange resonance, as though the mountain itself had joined the call. Cendre woke slowly beneath the furs, the warmth of Tarja's home still clinging to his body.
For a moment he simply listened.
The horn sounded again.
He pushed himself upright, aware that despite the cold world outside, the chamber remained pleasantly warm. The faint glow from the hearth pit flickered across the stone walls.
He was about to reach for his clothes when Tarja appeared at the doorway.
"Before you dress, Ka-Cendre," she said, "you should bathe."
He raised a brow.
"A bath?"
Tarja nodded.
"The elders will receive you this morning. It is proper to appear before them clean."
Cendre considered it for a moment before shrugging lightly.
"I will not refuse warm water in a land of snow."
Tarja guided him to a bathing chamber connected to the rear of the house.
The bath itself was carved into the stone floor, a smooth basin large enough for a man to sit comfortably within. Steam curled lazily above the surface.
Cendre crouched and tested the water with his hand.
Warm. Not merely warm, pleasantly heated.
"The water comes from wooden pipes," Tarja explained as she leaned against the doorway on the other side of the bath. "They draw from the Spring River. When the water passes through the stone channels beneath the city, it is warmed by the lava below."
Cendre glanced at the pipes running along the wall.
Simple woodwork, yet cleverly arranged.
He lowered himself into the bath with a quiet sigh.
After days of cold winds, frozen mist, and sleeping in caves or alcoves carved from ice, the sensation of warmth spreading through his muscles felt almost unnatural.
"We also make our own soaps," Tarja added.
A small dish sat nearby, holding pale cakes of soap.
Cendre picked one up and sniffed it.
The scent was gentle, floral but rich.
"Flower oils," Tarja said, "mixed with animal fat."
Cendre washed slowly, allowing the warmth to seep into his bones.
It was luxurious.
Yet at the same time it made sense. From what he had seen, the Ja-kin were almost obsessive when it came to cleanliness. Their streets were clean, their homes orderly, and even their water systems carefully maintained.
For a people living surrounded by snow and ice, they had somehow mastered warmth and sanitation better than many southern towns.
Once finished, Cendre dried himself and returned to the main room.
He took his time dressing.
First his clothes.
Then the brigandine.
Finally the armored cloak.
He inspected each piece carefully, oiling the metal fittings and tightening loose straps before equipping them fully. Travel had a way of loosening things, and armor that failed at the wrong moment had killed better men than him.
By the time he finished, Tarja had already dressed.
She wore a yellow and red tunic beneath a long skirt, a green sash wrapped neatly around her waist. A fur coat hung over her shoulders, though it was lighter than the heavy furs worn by many of the riders he had seen.
"Ka-Cendre," she greeted. "The elders are waiting upon us."
He nodded.
"Then we should not keep them waiting."
They stepped outside together.
The morning view of Carcove was distracting in the best way.
Cendre found himself pausing more than once as they walked through the upper district. In the daylight, the clever engineering of the city became even more obvious.
Ropes stretched between towers and cliffside platforms. Workers operated pulleys and heavy winches, hauling cargo and supplies up and down the mountainside.
Some of the lines even carried small sleds that slid along taut cables.
Ziplines.
The sight reminded him immediately of St. Alfons Arslan's mountain facilities.
They strolled toward the fortress at the back of the oval field.
Cendre matched Tarja's pace as they crossed the wide training grounds.
Many of the youth were already practicing.
Some rode horses in tight circles, mastering balance and control. Others hurled javelins toward straw targets or raced one another across the packed snow.
The scene stirred an unexpected memory.
"Your training grounds remind me of a place in the Central," Cendre said.
Tarja glanced at him curiously.
"Where?"
"St. Alfons Academy."
"A place of learning?"
"Yes," he replied. "One of the most respected institutions in the Empire."
Tarja's eyes brightened immediately.
"Scholars gather there?"
"And soldiers," he added. "And engineers. And philosophers who argue about things no one else cares about."
She laughed softly.
"Could someone like me study there?"
Cendre considered her for a moment.
"You probably could," he said. "In fact, many scholars there would find Carcove fascinating."
He gestured loosely toward the city behind them.
"Your heating systems alone would make them jealous. And the plumbing."
Tarja blinked.
"They do not have such things?"
"Not like this," Cendre admitted. "At least not in most places I have seen."
Tarja seemed genuinely surprised.
"I thought such knowledge would be common in the southern cities."
"So did I," Cendre said dryly.
They walked in silence for a moment.
Then Tarja asked another question.
"Why do you travel so far from home, Ka-Cendre?"
Cendre shrugged slightly.
"The world is large."
He glanced toward the distant mountains.
"And wonderful."
He clasped his hands behind his back as they walked.
"Not everyone gets to see it. Many live and die in the same corner of the world they were born in."
Tarja nodded slowly.
"And you do not wish that fate."
"No."
Cendre allowed himself a faint smile.
"I would rather see the world before it buries me."
Privately, he added another thought he did not voice.
He would not waste a lifetime again in a corner of a room.
Tarja seemed to understand regardless.
They eventually reached the Great Hall and the Elder's Keep.
The structure was formidable.
Heavily armored guards stood outside, their steel armor as sturdy as anything forged in the Empire. Their presence alone told Cendre that the Ja-kin were truly not the primitive people many in Icy's End might assume them to be.
Two massive stone doors sealed the fortress entrance.
Instead of opening them fully, Tarja guided him through a smaller inset door carved within the larger gate.
Inside, the fortress revealed its true scale.
Stone corridors stretched outward in multiple directions, and warriors moved through the halls with quiet purpose. The place clearly housed not only the city's leaders, but also many of its defenders.
Tarja led him toward a grand staircase carved directly into the rock.
They climbed steadily.
The ascent took nearly five minutes.
At the top, the space opened into a vast chamber.
Five thrones stood upon a raised platform.
Two on the left.
Two on the right.
And one at the center.
Below the platform was a circular pit where molten lava glowed faintly beneath a metal grate, its heat rising into the chamber like the breath of the mountain itself.
Tarja bowed respectfully.
She spoke several names in her own language, introducing the elders.
The central ruler rose slightly from his throne.
His hair was pale and his eyes carried the same reddish hue Tarja had described the night before.
"Welcome to Carcove, Ka-Cendre," the elder said in careful Commonal.
Cendre inclined his head.
"Thank you for receiving me."
"I am called Doja," the ruler added. "It has been a long time since a visitor has come, and not many of us speak your tongue."
Cendre inclined his head politely.
He told them that it was already fortunate enough that they could speak at all. In many places he had visited, language alone had become the first wall between strangers. The fact that Tarja could speak the Commonal tongue, and that the ruler himself understood enough to converse, was already more fortune than he had expected when he first stepped into their lands.
Doja nodded slowly at his words.
Then Tarja stepped forward.
She began explaining what had happened.
Her voice was calm, deliberate, and respectful as she addressed the elders in their language. Though Cendre could not understand most of it, he could follow parts of the exchange through her occasional glances toward him and the gestures she made toward the direction of the mountains.
She spoke of Icy's End.
Of the Duke and his late heir.
Of the hunting party that had crossed the pass.
Then she explained the tragedy in the wastes beyond Pala's Crossing, describing how the Duke and his son had died and how only two survivors had returned. She told them that the Duchess of Icy's End, descendant of the First Warden, had ordered an investigation so that the truth of the matter could be found.
Tarja spoke for several minutes.
The elders listened quietly.
Some of them leaned forward slightly, exchanging low murmurs among themselves as she finished recounting the encounter between Cendre and their riders in the grasslands.
When Tarja finally finished, the chamber fell silent.
Doja folded his hands over the arms of his stone throne.
"We did not expect such tragedy," he said slowly, now speaking directly to Cendre. "When we decided to come and tell our kin that we still existed, we did not imagine that blood would greet us first."
His voice carried genuine weight.
"We of Carcove have not forgotten our oaths."
He gestured toward the chamber walls, toward the distant mountains beyond them.
"For hundreds of years we have remembered the First Warden."
Cendre remained silent.
Doja then motioned toward one of the elders beside him.
A servant stepped forward carrying a leather case.
The elder removed a scroll from within and carefully unrolled it before presenting it for Cendre to see.
The parchment was old but preserved with care.
Its script was unmistakably Empyrilar.
Cendre leaned closer.
The Emperor's sigil was pressed firmly into the wax seal at the bottom.
He recognized it immediately. Anyone who had lived within the Empire long enough would recognize that mark.
It was legitimate.
The document detailed an agreement between the Empire and the settlement that would become Carcove. It acknowledged their loyalty to the First Warden while granting them autonomy over their lands.
They were independent.
Not rebels.
Not savages.
A recognized city within the Empire's domain, though separated by distance and time.
Even the Duchess of Icy's End could not simply strip those rights away.
Cendre straightened.
"I see."
Doja studied his face carefully.
"Carcove remains loyal to the First Warden and his descendants," the ruler continued. "But we have always governed ourselves."
Cendre nodded slowly.
"I understand."
Then he spoke again.
"I came to learn what happened."
His voice was calm but firm.
"What caused this tragedy?"
At that, Doja gave a small signal.
Four men were ushered into the chamber.
They were tall and long-limbed unlike many of the Ja-kin, though their armor was more decorative than the others Cendre had seen. Plates of black stone and metal overlapped across their bodies, adorned with carvings and ornaments.
The design reminded Cendre strangely of the elaborate armor worn by knights during tournaments in the Capital that was functional, yet also meant to display status.
Tarja stepped closer and quietly explained that these men had been the leaders of the party sent to make contact with Icy's End.
When the ice had finally melted enough for passage, they had been chosen to travel across the wastes and greet their kin.
The tallest among them stepped forward.
He spoke slowly in his own tongue, allowing Tarja to translate.
They had come in peace.
Their group had traveled through the passes and into the wastes beyond Pala's Crossing. It was there that they encountered the Duke's hunting party.
But the men they found were already wounded.
Some were mutilated.
Others appeared disoriented.
The Ja-kin riders had approached cautiously, attempting to help.
Instead, the hunting party had mistaken them for hostile savages and attacked.
Tarja translated each sentence carefully.
"They say they did not wish to fight," she explained.
But the situation had spiraled quickly.
The Duke's men were aggressive and unpredictable. They had charged recklessly across dangerous terrain, forcing the Ja-kin riders to retreat and use their knowledge of the land to escape.
In the chaos, several of the Duke's men had fallen into natural traps such as crevices, unstable slopes, and narrow ridges that could collapse beneath the wrong step.
The fight had ended in disaster.
The same situation had repeated itself when Captain Vandal's fifty men arrived.
"They believed the riders were responsible for the deaths," Tarja said quietly.
Again the Ja-kin had attempted to avoid direct battle, using the terrain to outmaneuver them.
"If not for their knowledge of the land," she added, translating the rider's words, "they would have been killed."
Cendre listened carefully.
The explanation made sense.
Too much sense, perhaps.
Still, he could not simply accept it.
"I will need more than words," he said calmly.
His eyes moved from the riders to the elders.
"I have spoken with the two survivors from the Duke's party. Their descriptions of the attackers match your people."
Tarja translated.
The riders did not look surprised.
Instead, the leader reached into a pouch at his belt.
He removed a small bottle.
When he handed it to Cendre, he frowned immediately.
He recognized the shape.
The glass was narrow and tinted dark blue.
It was a mixture popular in the Capital.
Not just alcohol.
A stimulant.
A narcotic.
The kind of concoction that left its drinkers drunk, euphoric, and reckless.
Hedonists in the Capital adored it.
Cendre stared at the bottle.
The rider spoke again.
Tarja translated quietly.
"He believes the Duke's party was intoxicated."
Cendre closed his eyes for a moment.
A headache began forming behind his temples.
It was already humiliating enough that the Duke and his heir had ventured into the frozen wastes hunting a two-colored sabercat for its balls.
And now this.
Now it seemed entirely possible that they had started a deadly fight while drunk and high out of their minds.
Cendre exhaled slowly.
The absurdity of it all made his skull ache.