"I asked you to investigate the north, and instead you bring me these people?" she said.
"This will take a long time, Your Grace," Cendre replied. "Allow me to explain the situation."
He told her how he had crossed the pass, then the wastes, and finally how he had discovered that the city of Carcove existed. He explained that they were old retainers, bearing the seal of the Old Emperor himself, claiming their rights. He spoke of their city, how they lived, and what their customs were. Finally, he spoke of what had happened beyond the Quiet Pass.
"So… you are telling me that my father and my brother… died because of a misunderstanding?"
Her voice was cold.
The cold in it was not loud, nor sharp, but it carried a stillness that made the air feel heavier. Cendre felt it immediately, the subtle pressure of her spirit pressing outward. It was controlled, but not entirely restrained.
At his side, he noticed Tarja's hand tighten slightly.
Cendre lifted the veil of his spirit in response, not as a challenge, but as a shield. It rose around them in a steady, tempered heat. If hers was the biting cold of the northern wind, then his was the quiet intensity of a high noon sun, firm, present, and unyielding.
Her gaze sharpened.
For a brief moment, it felt as though the space between them had narrowed into something tangible, something that could cut.
Cendre did not lower his veil.
Not until she did.
A breath passed.
Then she snorted lightly and drew her presence back, the invisible pressure receding.
"That was unbecoming of me," she said coolly. "Winter is cold, but its fury chills the bones."
"These people are envoys, Duchess," Cendre said, his tone steady. "Noble ones whose rights date back to the Founding. They have kept their oaths. That must be respected."
"We will see," she said, turning her attention to Tarja. "You speak Commonal?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Tarja answered. "I was sent by the elders to speak. A tragedy has happened, one we wished had not, when the ice had finally thawed. This letter is the voice of our people, and what came to be."
She stepped forward and handed over the letter.
The Duchess took it without ceremony.
Her eyes moved across each line with practiced speed. At first, her expression remained unchanged, but gradually her brows drew together. By the time she reached the end, a slow, weary breath left her.
"My father was a warrior," she said. "He rode four campaigns. Defeated many champions… and they all fell because they had let their guard down."
Her fingers tightened slightly around the parchment.
"If this goes out," she continued, "the reputation of my family will become a joke."
Her gaze shifted toward Cendre.
"You have not spoken of this outside of us?"
"Only Kyra knows," he answered.
She nodded once, then leaned back against her high seat. For a moment, her eyes drifted upward toward the ceiling, as though weighing something unseen. Then they returned to Tarja.
"I see this as a ridiculous tragedy," she said. "A shameful one. But if you are loyal to this House, then you know the judging words."
Tarja did not hesitate.
"Blood for blood."
"Blood for blood," the Duchess repeated. "The men responsible for the deaths of my father and my brother… I want their lives."
The words settled heavily in the chamber.
"Is this necessary?" Cendre asked.
"It is necessary, Cendre Dalens," she said sharply. "You are a neutral party. Do not speak while I speak."
He inclined his head slightly.
"As Your Grace commands."
"As I was saying," the Duchess continued, her voice steady once more, "I want the heads of those responsible for the deaths."
"That will not be possible," Tarja said.
The calm in her voice was immediate.
Too immediate.
Cendre felt it at once, the shift in the air, the tightening of attention, the way the Duchess's presence threatened to rise again. He subtly lifted his veil once more, not fully, just enough to dull the edge of what might come.
"Calm," he said quietly. "Let her continue."
"Go on," the Duchess said, her tone cooling, though irritation lingered beneath it.
Tarja turned her head slightly toward Voja.
The older rider stepped forward without a word. From his back, he removed a wrapped bundle, bound tightly in cloth. His movements were deliberate, almost ceremonial.
He knelt.
Then, slowly, he unwrapped it.
The cloth fell away.
Inside were hands.
Right hands cleanly severed at the wrist.
The cuts were precise.
A faint metallic scent lingered in the air.
"What is the meaning of this?" the Duchess demanded.
Her voice did not rise, but the force behind it sharpened.
Tarja stepped forward.
"I present to you the sword-hands of those responsible for the deaths," she said. "They chose to keep the peace. They offered their right hands… before they cast themselves into the pit of flames."
Silence followed.
Cendre's gaze lingered on the severed hands for only a moment before shifting back to the Duchess. He watched her carefully, measuring the minute changes in her expression, the tightening jaw, the stillness of her posture, the slow narrowing of her eyes.
"Your people," the Duchess began, her voice controlled, "chose this?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Tarja replied. "It is our highest admission of fault without condemning the whole. Those who believed themselves responsible offered their sword-hands and their lives. They chose to end the matter before it could grow into war."
Cendre watched closely.
There was no tremor in Tarja's voice. No hesitation. She stood as she always had – calm, composed, bearing the weight of her people without bending beneath it.
The Duchess exhaled slowly, her fingers tapping once against the arm of her chair.
"In my lands," she said, "we do not measure justice in fragments."
Her eyes moved again to the severed hands.
"A life for a life. Blood for blood."
"And yet," Tarja said carefully, "if more blood follows, then the line never ends."
"The question," Cendre said at last, his tone even, "is whether Your Grace seeks justice… or resolution."
The Duchess's eyes snapped to him.
"You speak boldly for a freeknight."
"You asked for the truth," he replied. "This is where it leads."
For a moment, it seemed she might snap back, cut him down with words or worse.
Instead, she leaned back once more. Her gaze drifted, not aimless, but distant, as if replaying something only she could see.
"My father," she said quietly, "would have laughed at this."
No one spoke.
"He would have called it weakness. Said that men who cut their own hands lack the courage to face the blade."
Her lips pressed thin.
"My brother would have agreed."
Cendre said nothing. There was nothing to add to that.
The Duchess leaned forward again, resting her chin lightly against her knuckles.
"And I am the one who must decide what that means." Her eyes returned to Tarja. "To you."
Tarja inclined her head.
"We accept your judgment, Your Grace."
"No," the Duchess said.
That single word cut through the chamber.
"You hope I accept this."
Tarja did not respond.
The Duchess rose from her seat.
The movement was slow, deliberate, drawing every eye in the room. She approached the bundle. Stopped just short of it.
For a long moment, she simply looked at it.
Cendre studied her carefully.
The anger remained. That had not faded.
"You say they threw themselves into flame," the Duchess said.
"Yes," Tarja answered. "Into the heart of our city. Before witnesses. It is our way of ending guilt that cannot be carried."
The Duchess crouched slightly, examining the cuts.
"Clean," she murmured. "Not butchered. Not crude."
Voja spoke this time.
"They were warriors," he said. "They did not dishonor the act."
The Duchess glanced up at him briefly, then back to the hands.
"Convenient," she said. "Dead men cannot be questioned."
"They chose that," Tarja replied. "So the living would not have to die for them. We only ask that you respect this."
Then the Duchess stood fully.
"And what of the narcotic?" she asked suddenly, turning to Cendre.
Cendre blinked once, then reached into his satchel. He stepped forward and handed it to her.
She examined it briefly, then gave a short, humorless exhale.
"I know this," she said. "Filth from the Capital."
Her grip tightened slightly around the glass.
"My father drank," she added. "But not like a fool."
Cendre did not interrupt.
"He would never have led men into unknown lands while clouded."
Her tone sharpened.
"Unless he believed himself untouchable."
The words hung in the air.
Because they rang too true.
The Duchess handed the bottle back.
"So," she said, turning slightly, "we have arrogance… intoxication… unknown terrain… and people attempting to make contact."
Her gaze returned to Tarja.
"And from that, a slaughter."
"A tragedy," Tarja corrected softly.
The Duchess's eyes narrowed. "Do not soften it."
Tarja lowered her head slightly. "As you say, Your Grace."
Cendre could feel it then.
The shift.
The moment where the decision began to take form.
The Duchess walked back toward her seat, but did not sit.
Instead, she stood before it.
"You have given me something difficult," she said. "To accept this… is to admit that my father and brother died not as heroes, but as fools who made grave errors."
No one moved.
"And yet," she continued, "to reject it… is to start a war over pride."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Cendre.
"You see my position."
"I do," he said.
"And what would you advise?" she asked.
There it was.
Cendre exhaled quietly.
"Truth," he said. "Handled carefully."
She waited.
"You do not need to announce every detail," he continued. "Only the outcome. A tragic encounter. Losses on both sides. Responsibility acknowledged."
He gestured slightly toward the bundle.
"Justice… rendered."
The Duchess considered that.
"And Carcove?" she asked.
"Recognize them," he said. "Quietly at first. Rebuild contact. Control the narrative before rumor does."
Tarja remained still, but he could feel her attention sharpen.
"And if I refuse?" the Duchess pressed.
"Then you will still face the same truth," Cendre said. "Only with more bodies added to it."
Silence stretched.
Then—
"Very well," she said.
The tension in the chamber shifted instantly.
"I will not pursue further blood for this matter," she declared. "The offering… will be accepted as justice rendered."
Tarja bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Your Grace."
"Do not thank me yet," the Duchess added. "This does not erase what happened."
"It does not," Tarja agreed.
The Duchess leaned back slightly.
"But it ends it," she said.
Her eyes moved once more to Cendre.
"You have done your task, freeknight."
He inclined his head.
"Then I will prepare a formal response," she continued. "One that preserves dignity… without inviting war."
Cendre allowed himself a slow exhale.
"You will remain as guests," she said. "Until arrangements are made."
Tarja nodded. "We accept."