The grassy path became truly grassy when they entered the last stretch of it.
The plants rose as tall as a man, their long blades brushing against rider and horse alike. Each strand was lined with thin, bristle-like hairs that made contact uncomfortable at first, though not entirely unpleasant. There was a softness beneath the irritation, something resilient in the way the fibers bent without breaking.
Cendre reached out as they passed and ran his gloved fingers along one of the blades.
It was thicker than it looked.
Sturdy. The kind of material that, if treated properly, could be shaped into something useful.
"They are used for crafts," Tarja said.
She pranced her horse lightly to the side, guiding it with practiced ease as she reached down and deftly pulled a length of the grass free from its root. The motion was smooth, controlled, as though she had done it many times before.
Holding the strand up between her fingers, she examined it briefly before continuing.
"I am not entirely familiar with the full process," she admitted, "but from what I do know, the fibers are first boiled to remove impurities."
She began stripping the outer layer with her nails as she spoke.
"They are then softened and dried beneath the sun."
Cendre watched as she worked.
"It is not traditionally spun," she added. "Instead, each strand is split and spliced by hand, one by one, until it forms a kind of yarn."
She glanced at him.
"That yarn is then woven."
Cendre nodded slowly, considering her words.
"And there are hundreds of them," he said, glancing across the field that stretched in all directions.
The grasses swayed in slow waves, stirred by the wind, giving the illusion of a frozen sea caught mid-motion.
"Do they grow fast?"
Tarja smiled faintly.
"Oh, they do."
She released the strand and let it fall.
"So fast that we call them Nuisance's Grasses."
Her horse pushed forward again, parting the tall blades as it moved.
"But they make for good summer clothing," she continued. "Soft, almost like silk."
Cendre huffed quietly.
"Dangerous to say that."
Tarja tilted her head slightly.
"Dangerous?"
"Comparing anything to silk invites argument," he said. "Especially in the south."
She let out a soft laugh at that.
"Your people know this terrain well," he added after a moment. "You must have passed through here before the freezing weather set in."
Tarja nodded.
"Ka-Cendre, most of these lands belong to my city."
Her tone carried quiet certainty.
"We were tasked to guard them. To watch over the Far-North in the name of the one who sits upon Icy End's throne."
Cendre glanced at her. That part still unsettled him. The ease with which she said it. The absence of bitterness. It did not sit right.
"Does it not bother you?" he asked.
Tarja looked at him again.
"All these years," he continued, "Icy's End stood behind its walls, free to send its people across the world."
He gestured vaguely toward the distant horizon.
"While your people remained here. Bound to a single corner of it."
Tarja listened without interruption.
When he finished, she shook her head slowly.
"I think you are mistaken, Ka-Cendre."
Her voice remained patient.
"It was our duty."
She adjusted the strap of her spectacles as her horse moved steadily forward.
"Every man and woman who came to the Farther North did so by choice," she continued. "On the day it was ordered that we hold the mouth of the Pass, they accepted it willingly."
Her gaze drifted across the field of grass.
"Five hundred families of the Common Lot."
She raised a finger slightly.
"And two hundred noble houses."
"They swore it."
Cendre said nothing.
"Yes," Tarja went on, "there are resentments. Yes, there are doubts."
Her expression did not change.
"And there were times when survival itself was uncertain."
The wind stirred the grass around them, the bristling blades whispering as they brushed against one another.
"But we endured," she said.
Her voice softened, though it did not lose its firmness.
"We lived on."
She looked ahead.
"And we remained proud that we would one day witness the thaw."
Cendre studied her quietly.
Impossible people. That was how he saw them.
From afar, it would have been easy to dismiss them as simple-minded. Fools bound by outdated oaths, guarding a forgotten corner of the world for rulers who no longer remembered them.
That would have been the easier explanation.
But standing here, riding beside one of them, hearing the conviction in her voice, it complicated things.
Dangerously so.
Honor, duty, and oaths.
These were words he had heard countless times before.
Words that were often twisted, reshaped, or discarded entirely when it became convenient.
Yet here, in this isolated corner of the world, those same words seemed to have taken root in a way he had rarely seen.
He had seen evidence of it.
Their city.
Their systems.
Their discipline.
Everything pointed toward sincerity.
And yet—
Words were easy to speak.
Belief was harder.
Cendre's time in the Mid-Central regions had taught him that well.
At St. Alfons, he had studied alongside scholars, nobles, and aspiring officials. He had dealt with men and women who smiled while plotting, who spoke of virtue while pursuing only their own interests.
He had seen generosity used as a tool.
Kindness wielded as leverage.
Even honor, at times, reduced to little more than performance.
It had made him cautious.
Suspicious.
He glanced at Tarja again.
She rode with steady posture, guiding her horse through the dense grasses as though the path belonged to her.
Perhaps it did.
He could not tell.
He did not know her well enough.
He did not know her people well enough.
Not yet.
For now, all he had were their words.
And the choice to believe them.
Or not.
Like he had said before—
This was a gamble.
And he was gambling still.
Hoping, quietly, cautiously, that the people he now rode with truly possessed the sincerity they claimed.
—
They continued onward until they finally quit the grassy path.
The dense sea of towering blades gave way to firmer ground, the terrain gradually shifting back into something more familiar. Judging by the direction they had come from, and the landmarks Cendre began to recognize, the passage connected directly to the hunting grounds of House Blanc.
"We should be getting close," Cendre said, glancing ahead.
The trees were beginning to look familiar now.
"It's not far."
He adjusted his reins slightly before continuing.
"I will have to ride ahead. Make sure they see me first."
Voja and Maroja exchanged a brief look before nodding in agreement.
Without protest, they adjusted their pace, positioning themselves slightly around Tarja. It was subtle, but deliberate—placing her between them as they rode, their posture shifting into something more guarded.
Cendre noticed it.
He said nothing.
They moved forward through the towering trees, passing familiar landmarks—the great lamp fixed to the trunk, the boulder near the bend, the subtle carvings left by rangers marking safe passage.
Step by step, the wilderness gave way to something more controlled.
Eventually, they found themselves standing before the statue.
The First Warden.
Gunther, the First.
The stone figure stood as it always had—wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, both hands resting upon the pommel of a grounded sword. Time had not worn it down. If anything, it seemed more imposing now, as though watching their return with silent judgment.
Cendre did not stop.
He guided his horse past it, leading the group further south.
It did not take long before they encountered a ranger guarding the grounds.
The man stiffened immediately at the sight of them, his posture tightening as his hand moved toward his weapon.
Before he could speak—before he could escalate the encounter—Cendre raised his head fully, revealing his face, and lifted the Duchess's signet ring for the man to see.
Recognition came quickly.
"Freeknight," the ranger said.
His gaze shifted past Cendre, narrowing slightly as he looked at the three riders behind him.
"Who are these?"
A pause.
"Are they the ones?"
Cendre shook his head.
"No."
He kept his tone steady.
"They are envoys of the Duchess."
The ranger frowned slightly.
"For now," Cendre continued, "this matter must rely on the Duchess alone."
The ranger studied them for a moment longer.
Then he stepped aside.
"Then go."
No further questions.
No resistance.
Cendre nodded once before nudging his horse forward.
They rode past the ranger and exited the hunting grounds, the tension easing only slightly as they left the forest behind.
Soon, the path opened into the stone bridge that led toward the main road.
They crossed it without slowing.
From there, they pushed their horses into a faster pace along the paved stone road, the familiar structure beneath them a welcome change from the uneven terrain they had endured for days.
Before long, the walls of Icy's End came into view.
Tall.
Imposing.
Built from bedstone that had weathered countless winters without yielding.
"This is the place," Cendre said.
He slowed his horse slightly as they approached.
"This is where the Duchess resides."
He glanced back at them briefly.
"I will escort you from here."
"Please do," Tarja said.
Her eyes were already moving, taking in everything—the walls, the guards, the movement of people along the road.
There was curiosity there.
And something else.
Awareness.
They passed through the gates.
The guards at the entrance moved to stop them at first, their attention immediately drawn to Tarja and the others. Their attire alone was enough to mark them as unfamiliar.
But when Cendre rode beside them and spoke, identifying her as his traveling companion, the tension eased just enough to allow passage with no further delay.
Inside, the city unfolded around them.
They passed through the craftsmen's district first.
Workshops lined the streets, their doors open as smiths, leatherworkers, and artisans carried on with their trade. The air smelled of metal, smoke, and treated hides.
Beyond that, rows of townhouses stretched along both sides of the street.
Cendre could feel the shift in the riders behind him.
They were observing.
Taking in everything with careful attention.
It was clear they wanted to slow down, to explore, to understand what Icy's End had become over the centuries.
But they did not.
They followed his lead.
They rode on.
Eventually, the palace came into view.
Even before they reached it, the weight of attention became noticeable. Eyes followed them.
Not openly, not boldly, but enough and too many.
The unfamiliar attire of Tarja and the others made them stand out.
Cendre spoke quietly.
"This is normal," he said.
"They are not used to seeing people dressed like you."
Tarja nodded faintly, though her posture remained alert.
Cendre brought them to a stop.
"Wait here."
He dismounted and handed his reins to a stablehand, who quickly took the horse without question.
Without wasting time, Cendre made his way inside.
He found Kyra where she usually was.
She looked up as he approached.
"So," she said, her tone measured, "you are alive."
Cendre stopped in front of her.
"Then I assume you found something," she added.
"Yes."
He did not hesitate.
"A lot."
Kyra adjusted her spectacles slightly.
"You will need to listen," he said. "For a while."
He told her everything.
The Quiet Pass.
The journey beyond it.
The basin, the tundra, the hidden paths.
And finally Carcove.
A city.
Loyal to the ruler of Icy's End.
Waiting.
Isolated for centuries.
He explained their purpose.
Their intent to parlay.
To present their side of what had happened.
Kyra listened without interruption.
When he finished, she exhaled slowly.
"This is…" she paused, searching for the right word, "…more than I thought possible." Her gaze sharpened. "Are you certain?"
"More than certain," Cendre said.
He reached into his satchel and produced the document.
"It bears the old Emperor's seal."
He held it out slightly.
"You remember it."
Kyra's eyes flickered as she examined it.
"The same seal," Cendre continued. "Exactly the same."
He lowered his hand.
"If anything," he added, "these people are old blood."
Kyra nodded slowly.
Then she turned without another word and moved to report to the Duchess.
Cendre remained where he stood.
After a moment, he signaled for a servant.
"Fetch them," he said.
The servant bowed and left.
Cendre waited.
When Tarja, Voja, and Maroja were brought inside, he stepped forward.
Moments later, the Duchess of Icy's End entered.
Cendre straightened.
Then, with measured calm, he began the introductions.
"Your Grace," he said.
He gestured toward Tarja first.
"These are the envoys."