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But I can close the solarium door.
I can warm water.
I can make the dead soil live.
And within these glass walls, I can protect a place where humans are permitted to heal.
12
RHYSANDIR
The envoy arrives beneath Varrus’s crimson banner.
I watch from the gallery above the great hall as four dark elf riders cross the inner ward. Snow clings to their black cloaks. Their equus are bred for southern roads rather than mountain ice, a choice intended to display wealth even at the cost of good judgment.
The lead rider dismounts without assistance.
He is tall, narrow-faced, and dressed in ceremonial armor polished too brightly for travel. Crimson leather wraps his forearms. A silver emblem of House Varrus fastens his cloak at the throat.
Two attendants lift a long object from the second equus.
The shape beneath the covering requires no interpretation.
Sarveth stands at my right. “No request for hospitality arrived before them.”
“Varrus prefers entrances to negotiations.”
“Shall I leave them in the ward?”
“No. Let his envoy deliver whatever performance he has carried through the snow.”
We descend.
Joran has already arranged the household guard along the walls when I enter the great hall. Servants light the high braziers, though the vast room remains cold. Neptherium veins run through the pillars like frozen black lightning.
The envoy bows when I approach the dais. He bends precisely as far as courtesy demands between noble houses of disputed influence.
“Lord Morwen’thir,” he says. “I bring honor from Lord Varrus.”
“Then he has parted with something unfamiliar.”
A few guards lower their gazes to hide their reactions.
The envoy’s expression remains fixed. “My lord entrusted me with a gift worthy of your ancient house.”
At his signal, the attendants carry the wrapped object forward. They lay it across a low stone stand and remove the cloth.
The battle axe beneath it is magnificent.
Its double blade has been forged from dark steel polished to a smoky gleam. Fine runes line both edges. Crimson leather wraps the haft from the silver collar to the pommel. A Warrior’s consecration mark has been carved below the head and filled with powdered neptherium.
The gift is not generosity.
It is an accusation given metal and ceremony.
House Morwen’thir earned its authority through war. My ancestors held the Causadurn passes against waira raids, rival claimants, and invading armies. Varrus sends me a Warrior-consecrated weapon because he has spent months telling the king’s court that I have abandoned martial honor for fortifications and cautious alliances.
An axe is meant to remind me what he claims I am no longer willing to wield.
