The inn was quiet for the evening, save for the crackling of the fire and the distant chatter of a few lingering travelers. Killan's party had secured a table in the corner, each one nursing their drinks as the hour stretched late into the night. The air outside had grown colder, but there was an undercurrent of warmth within the wooden walls of the small tavern in Vetasta.
Killan leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly tapping the handle of his mug. The conversation had turned to the Northern Kingdom, and their time spent in the city had provided them with whispers and rumors. As usual, they had to sift through half-truths, vague recollections, and stories from hushed voices. But something about the Northern people intrigued them—something dark, yet enticing.
Vignir, ever the one to take in the atmosphere, spoke first. His voice was low and steady, never one to rush into anything without thought.
"From what I've gathered," he began, his gaze sweeping over the table, "House Svedana has ruled the North for centuries. They've been through wars, mainly with the West, but somehow they stand unbroken. No one dares challenge them at present. They've endured."
Killan remained silent. He knew from history that the South had also lost to the North many years ago, well before his time.
Harlan, who had been silent up until now, spoke next. "I've heard stories... about the women of House Svedana. The townsfolk did say they have powers—abilities, summoning spirits to fight by their side. And some blood magic, or so they call it. That's why they've been able to defend the North for so long. Many people say the women are the heart of that House—the ones who command the power that protects them."
Santi, with his usual bluntness, chimed in. "Sounds like fairy tales to me. Spirits? Magic powers? Let's not get carried away. Magic and other abilities tied to them have not been seen for years now."
"No," Vignir countered with a soft smile, "it's more than that. We know the North has always been steeped in mystery. There's something to it. Perhaps that's why they've managed to stay so strong."
Killan didn't speak immediately. His mind was on what he'd heard earlier that evening—the more disquieting rumors. "What else have you heard?" he asked, his voice steady but with a weight that hinted at deeper curiosity.
Vignir leaned back, crossing his arms as she spoke with caution. "There are stories, you know... about the time when the rule of House Svedana fell to a non-blooded male. A man who was not of their bloodline but somehow seized the throne and became King. That's when the North started to crumble. There were whispers of tragedy—despair at the highest court. And then... it was said that one of the King's many children, a daughter, killed him. Took his life after years of suffering. Some say she did it to end the madness, others say it was for power."
Killan's eyes narrowed as the conversation lingered on the tragic rumors. He was no stranger to rumors or whispers, but something about this story—the daughter of House Svedana taking the life of her own father—struck a chord with him.
"A murder?" he muttered, more to himself than to the others. "A daughter killing her father for power? It's not that difficult to believe."
"Isn't it?" Santi raised an eyebrow. "Given what we know of the North, it makes a certain kind of sense. The people of this land aren't ruled by mercy. They're shaped by harshness. By struggle. But it seems bloodlines matter more than any throne here, and one rose to answer the call of power."
Killan's mind drifted to the men he had seen that day—he heard the townspeople call them Lord Elex and General Asta. The tall, commanding presence of Elex, and the subtle tension in Asta's gaze. They had struck him as figures of strength, and yet there was something elusive about them. After all, he had only caught a glimpse of them as they passed. It was only natural to be curious.
Killan was quiet for a moment, his fingers now gripping the edge of his mug. "I think I saw some people from House Svedana today," he said slowly, his tone thoughtful. "They were dressed as if they were someone important. Two men. Tall, dark-haired… I asked some common folk about them."
Harlan nodded, taking a slow drink before speaking. "What did they say?"
"They mentioned their names," Killan continued. "One is Lord Elex, a Captain of the Northern Armies and the eldest son of the late King. The other, Asta, a cousin of the ruling family, and now a General. They said the two of them have a heavy influence in the North."
Santi leaned forward, eyes narrowed with interest. "You think they're involved in the rumors we've been hearing about?"
"It's possible," Killan said, his gaze shifting to each of his companions. "We need to find out more. We know there's been a shift in the power of House Svedana, and I believe those two men are key to understanding it."
The conversation paused as each of them digested what Killan had revealed. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with questions they didn't yet have answers to. The power in the North was shifting, and now, it seemed, the key players had names. Lord Elex and General Asta.
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting a warm, amber glow across the wooden floorboards. Just as Killan was about to rise and suggest they retire for the night, the tavern door creaked open, letting in a gust of cold northern air. A young boy, no older than ten, stepped inside, carrying a folded piece of parchment pressed against his chest.
The innkeeper wiped her hands on her apron and hurried over. After exchanging a few quiet words with the boy, she walked towards their table, her expression caught between curiosity and caution.
"This came for you," she said, handing the sealed parchment to Killan. "Delivered by a runner from the Keep."
Killan took it, feeling the weight of the seal—thick, silver-blue wax, stamped with a mountain crest partially hidden by clouds. He broke it carefully, unfolding the message beneath the table's dim light.
The words were clear and commanding, carrying the weight of authority.
To Killan of House Valmird, King of Athax and the South,
You are hereby granted an audience within the halls of Vetasta's Keep. You and your company will present yourselves at first light. Bring only your honor. Weapons will remain sheathed.
We welcome you to the North.
—Elex of House Svedana
Killan read it twice, weighing every word before setting it down on the table. His companions leaned in, exchanging glances, the fire casting long shadows across their faces.
"A summons," Vignir said under his breath. "Formal enough. Although that was quicker than expected."
"Or perhaps," Harlan mused, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips, "they were already watching us."
"Direct," Vignir added, his smile sharp. "But not unkind."
"Still sounds like we'll be walking into a lion's den," Santi muttered, cracking his knuckles.
Killan gave a slow, thoughtful nod. "Then we walk in with our heads high."
He folded the letter carefully and tucked it away. "Get some rest," he said, rising from his chair. "Tomorrow, we meet the true heart of the North."
The fire crackled low as they retreated to their rooms, the ancient banners of Vetasta whispering in the cold night air.