The snow had begun to melt.
Not from warmth, but from fire—ashes still clung to the edges of Vireloch's scorched walls. Yet inside the town, a fragile rhythm had returned. Wagons creaked. Blacksmiths hammered. Children laughed again, if only in short bursts.
And then the banners appeared on the horizon.
A pale grey flag trimmed with red. The sigil of House Marcerov.
By the time the envoy reached the gate, Zareena stood waiting—flanked by Captain Ren and two of the town's newly-trained archers. Her cloak was plain. Her gaze was not.
The envoy dismounted carefully. A tall, pale man in velvet-lined armor, his boots too clean for the road. His voice was soft, but each word crisp.
"I come in peace," he said. "Lord Marcerov sends greetings… and a formal proposal."
Ren's hand hovered near his sword. Zareena didn't blink.
"A proposal for what?" she asked.
The man smiled. "Protection. Aid. A shared vision for peace in the North."
She saw it instantly—the charm, the honeyed edge, the practiced pause. He was here to measure her. To test the garrison's nerves. To sniff out weakness.
But Zareena only tilted her head slightly.
"Strange," she said. "We seem to be rebuilding just fine without you."
His smile didn't waver. "All the more reason to be friends."
Later that night, as the envoy dined in the hall and handed over his scrolls, Zareena slipped away with Doren and Seredin.
"Marcerov doesn't offer gifts," she said. "He offers chains made of silk."
Seredin nodded. "Then we break them before they tighten."
Outside, the envoy's guards watched the town too closely. Inside, the wine he brought was untouched.
This wasn't peace.
It was the beginning of another siege — just one made with words.