The gates of Athax creaked open under the morning sky, and the returning party slipped through almost unnoticed.
At first, there were only a few townsfolk about — a blacksmith wiping soot from his hands, a baker stacking loaves. They paused, brows furrowed in confusion, then widened in disbelief.
"It's the King," someone whispered.
"His Highness has returned."
Word spread like fire in dry grass. People came to their doors and windows, murmuring to one another, craning their necks for a better view.
Killan rode at the head of his company, his dark cloak dusted, his expression composed. There was no trumpeting of horns, no grand announcement — only the sound of hooves on stone and the low hum of growing wonder.
Behind him rode his closest men, their faces weary but proud. The colors of Athax — black and red— rippled on their cloaks, a quiet testament to the victory they carried with them.
As they crossed the inner courtyard, castle guards roused themselves, hastily saluting. A few stewards rushed from the doors to greet them, bowing low.
Killan dismounted with easy grace, handing the reins to a stablehand without ceremony. His mind was already ahead — thinking of councils, letters to send, arrangements to make.
It was then that the Lords began to emerge — drawn by the commotion.
Lord Verrin, short and thick-necked, arrived first. His fine black tunic strained against his girth, and his small, calculating eyes glittered as he bowed — a little too low, a little too eager.
"My King," Verrin boomed. "Athax shines brighter with your return."
Not far behind him was Lord Thane, older and thinner, dressed in muted gray. His face, sharp and lined, twisted into something resembling a smile, though his gaze flickered with disdain. He offered a bow, but his muttered words to Verrin did not escape Killan's notice.
Still, Killan acknowledged them with a nod, offering no more than necessary.
As the formalities began to unfold, another figure cut through the gathering crowd.
Eir.
She was dressed for court — but not in a gown as other Ladies would have. Her attire spoke of both status and strength: a finely tailored dark tunic, embroidered at the edges with gold thread, and black fitted trousers tucked into high boots. A short, formal cloak, fastened with the sigil of her house, draped over her shoulders. Her sword remained belted at her waist, gleaming in the pale light — a quiet reminder that though she could play the part of a lady, she was forged of steel like the men.
She moved with purpose, her face composed in a perfect mask of welcome.
"You have returned, my King," she said, voice smooth as velvet, only the slightest tension betraying her.
Killan met her gaze steadily. "The North stands with us."
Eir's jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. "And more than just the North's allegiance, I hear."
Around them, a few Lords and knights pretended not to listen, though their ears sharpened.
Killan gave her a slow nod, unbothered. "A future Queen."
Eir's lips curved into a court-perfect smile. "Then it must be celebrated. Allow me to host a feast tonight in your honor."
For a heartbeat, Killan considered refusing — but knew the cost of it.
"Very well," he said.
Eir inclined her head gracefully, the picture of poised nobility. But behind her calm facade, a storm churned.
A Northern girl. A wild, foreign queen.
Eir tucked her jealousy deep beneath polished manners, hiding the wound that festered in her chest.
As Killan turned away to issue orders and see to his men, Eir remained behind, a fixed figure among the bustling courtyard — a silent oath burning on her tongue.
She would not be so easily cast aside.
Not by Killan. And not by some foreign-born Lady.
The Great Hall of Athax was ablaze with firelight that night, every sconce and chandelier dripping with golden flame. Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh breads, wheels of cheese, and flagons of dark, heavy wine.
Nobles filled the room, their laughter and talk a low roar under the music of stringed instruments. Word of Killan's return had spread beyond the castle walls, and everyone who mattered had come — or had made sure to be seen trying.
At the high table, Killan sat, a silver goblet untouched before him. From a distance, he looked every inch the King his people needed — stoic, commanding, untouchable.
Beside him, Eir played her role to perfection. She was dressed again in court attire — a finely embroidered surcoat over her tailored garments, her hair braided and pinned with discreet jewels. She smiled, she laughed at the appropriate moments, but every so often, her hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist under the table.
The Lords flanked them, drinking and whispering.
"I hear she's beautiful," Verrin said thickly, sloshing wine over his hand. "The Northern Lady. They say she rides like a man and fights like one, too. A curious prize for our King."
Thane gave a dry chuckle, wiping his mouth with a silk handkerchief. "A wild thing from the snow. Let us hope she can be tamed."
Killan heard it all — the gossip, the veiled mockery — but he let it wash over him. He had grown used to the sharp tongues of men who could never reach as high as they wished.
Instead, his mind wandered. Not to the feast, not to the Lords, not even to the uncomfortable weight of the crown pressing against his temples.
But to Aya.
He thought of her in that council room, wearing the deep blue and silver of her house, her hair unbound, her smile — rare and bright — flashing like sunlight through storm clouds.
He thought of the way she had looked at him during their exchange.
Killan's hand tightened slightly on the goblet.
For the first time in years, the path ahead did not seem carved entirely from duty and sacrifice. There was something more now — fragile, uncertain, but real.
Across the table, Eir watched him. She saw the faraway look in his eyes, the faint softening of his mouth. And though she kept her face carefully schooled, a sharp stab of anger twisted in her chest.
The hall swirled around them — food, laughter, music — but beneath it all, darker currents stirred.
Not all the Lords were pleased by the idea of a Northern alliance.
Not all would accept a foreigner sitting beside their King.
And not all wounds, Eir thought bitterly, would heal cleanly.
As the feast wore on, plans began to take root — quiet glances exchanged, alliances forged not by oaths but by shared resentment.
And high above, unnoticed by all, the heavy beams of the hall groaned under the weight of time, as if the very stones of Athax themselves sensed that change was coming.
Later, when the feast had dulled into drunken revelry and the music grew heavier with wine and weariness, Killan slipped away.
He found his way to one of the open stone balconies overlooking the city below. The air bit warm against his skin, but he welcomed it — something clean, something honest after the smoke and clamor of the hall.
He leaned forward against the stone railing, the breath of night washing over him. In the distance, torches flickered along the walls of Athax like tiny stars against the vast darkness.
Footsteps sounded behind him — not hurried, but deliberate.
Killan did not turn. He already knew who it would be.
Vignir came to stand beside him. For a long moment, neither man spoke.
Then, Vignir said quietly, "You chose well, Killan."
Killan gave a low, humorless laugh. "You sound certain."
"I am," Vignir replied. "I saw her. I saw how she spoke, how she looked at you. There is strength in her — but not the kind that tries to outshine your own."
Killan tilted his head, glancing at him. "You sound as if you've been waiting to approve of someone."
Vignir's mouth twitched into something like a smile. "Maybe I have."
They stood there for a while longer, the city silent beneath the stars.
When Killan finally spoke, his voice was almost a whisper. "I only hope she knows what she's walking into."
Vignir clapped a hand on his shoulder, a steady, grounding weight.
"It will be a challenge, my friend," he said simply.
Killan let the words settle in the stillness between them.
Whatever lay ahead — whispers in dark halls, grudges festering among old Lords, the long road to uniting two strong kingdoms — Killan knew one thing with a certainty he hadn't felt in years:
He would not be walking it alone.