Marvik's hall smelled of wine and old smoke, not steel.

The hearth blazed bright enough to chase the winter chill from the stone chamber, but no warmth lingered in the air.

Instead, the gathered lords of men sat in their high-backed chairs as if they perched on stakes, each one staring at the envoy's scrolls as though they were snakes about to strike.

"They call him lord of Dawnhaven now," Lord Caltrisse spat, a cousin of the House's Lady and head. his heavy jowls trembling with indignation. "Lord of the Ashlands. What next? Will he crown himself Emperor? And we're expected to kneel?"

"He said nothing of crowns," muttered Lord Serevant, long and lean as a weasel. "Only that we stand aside. That we give him silence."

"Silence," Caltrisse scoffed. "And how long before silence becomes tribute? Tribute becomes oaths? Oaths become chains? I know the taste of conquest when I smell it."

At the head of the council table, High Lord Marvik raised a hand.

The chatter fell, but only barely.

He was a broad man, his hair streaked silver at the temples, his armor polished but unadorned. The years had not dulled his voice.

"Speak plainly," Marvik said. "What did his envoys tell you?"

One of the younger spellswords who had returned from Dawnhaven shifted uneasily.

His cloak still smelled of salt from the sea passage, his eyes dark with unease.

"He told us we have six months," the knight said. "Six months to decide if we stand aside and let him build… or if he marches into our lands and breaks us one by one."

The words fell like stones into a pool. Ripples spread around the table… mutters, curses, uneasy glances.

Marvik's jaw tightened. "And how many men did he claim?"

"Fifty thousand under arms," the knight replied. "Not peasant levy. Trained. Equipped from his forges. They drill every day, my lord. And they are bound to him."

At that, silence held.

Fifty thousand.

It was more than any single house could field in a season, perhaps more than the great houses combined if they stripped their lands bare.

Caltrisse's fat hand slammed the table. "Lies! Dawnhaven was not but a single city until this past year! No city raises such an army so swiftly."

"And yet," Serevant said coldly, "our envoys saw them with their own eyes."

Elora of House Branth, leaned forward.

Her braids gleamed like iron chains in the firelight.

"And what of the Shivering Sea? Is it true the Naga rest beneath it's wake? That the so called Sea Queen favors him?"

The knight hesitated.

"We don't know for certain… But during the war between House Ferrondel and Ignarion, it was said that their spottings increased exponentially, and that towards the end not a single Ignarion ship survived a journey across the Shivering Sea. Antyhing else is hearsay… But there are rumors that the Sea Queen has taken Caedrion as…. Consort."

The word struck like thunder.

Several lords made the warding sign, muttering prayers. Others stared in disbelief.

"Consort?" Caltrisse choked, nearly purple with rage. "A human? How is that even possible?"

The fire cracked.

Shadows leapt across the stone walls, across the long tapestries showing hunts and battles that suddenly felt like children's games.

Marvik spoke slowly, his voice iron bound in leather.

'"So. A boy of Ferrondel blood raises Dawnhaven from near ruin, bends Ignarion's survivors to heel, numbers fifty thousand rifles, and wins the favor of the sea-queen herself. And he gives us six months to stand aside."

No one answered.

Marvik's eyes swept the hall. "What say you? Do we yield him this silence?"

"Yield?" Caltrisse snarled. "Never. If we bow once, we'll bow forever."

"And if we resist," Serevant said sharply, "we march to our own graves. Fifty thousand, Caltrisse. Fifty thousand drilled men, with forges to arm them and House Ignarion's remaining spellswords at their backs. You'd throw farmers at that?"

"I'd throw everything rather than let some upstart strip me of my house!"

Elora cut in, her tone like a blade. "You speak of pride, Caltrisse. Pride will not save your fields when Dawnhaven's regiments march through them. Nor will it shield your kin from fire and blade. We must think as one, or we will fall as many."

The lords muttered again, some nodding, others bristling.

Marvik lifted a hand once more. "Enough. He gives us six months. Then let us use them. We send spies, we weigh his numbers ourselves. If his strength is as real as our envoys claim, then we must consider unity."

"Unity under him?" Caltrisse spat.

"Unity against him, if need be," Marvik said.

His voice was calm, but it carried like the strike of a hammer.

"But we cannot decide blind. To strike at Dawnhaven without measure is folly. To bow without proof is cowardice. We will see what he builds, and what price he pays to build it."

Elora's eyes narrowed. "And if the sea-queen truly favors him? What then? Do you mean to fight her too?"

The question hung in the air, sharp as frost.

For a long moment, Marvik did not answer.

Then he spoke, voice low. "If she stands between us and survival, then yes."

The fire hissed. No one dared reply.

That night, when the council broke, Elora lingered.

She watched the others file out, their cloaks dragging sparks from the hearth as they passed.

When only she and Marvik remained, she spoke.

"You mean to fight him."

Marvik's face was a mask of stone.

"I mean to weigh him first. But if he is what they claim… then yes. Better to strike while he is still growing than wait for his roots to choke us."

Elora's lips curved in a faint, humorless smile.

"You always were the cautious one. Careful men live longer, Marvik. But not always best."

She turned to go, her voice carrying back over her shoulder.

"If you mean to war with Dawnhaven, then you had better pray the frost and the sea do not choose sides first."

Marvik stood alone in the hall, the firelight painting his face in lines of shadow.

His hands rested on the table, over the maps that now felt like cages.

Fifty thousand men in Dawnhaven. Six months.

And a world that suddenly seemed far larger, and far more dangerous, than he had ever allowed himself to imagine.

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