The journey to the Frostfang geothermal vents was postponed, not by enemy action, but by the relentless machinery of governance. A duchy did not run itself, and the attack on Stonebridge had sent ripples of fear and logistical nightmares throughout the territory. The war against the internal cold would have to wait for the mundane battles of petitions and provisioning.
The Great Hall, still subtly smelling of antiseptic and anxiety from the recent triage of wounded guards, was set for a public audience. This was not the strategic war council of lords, but a gathering of the people—merchant guilders, freeholder representatives, the heads of artisan colleges from Frostheim. Their faces were etched with a new, raw fear. Monsters were a folktale; a butchered village was a horrifying reality.
Lysander sat on the simple, high-backed chair that served as his throne for such occasions, every inch the Duke. But I saw the tightness around his eyes, the slight pallor that spoke of a night spent fighting the inner rot. I sat beside him, not on a lesser chair, but on one of equal height and make. The jet wolf sigil felt heavier than ever on my collar.
Baron Hoff was there, of course, seated prominently among the lesser lords. His expression was a poorly crafted mask of concern over a core of smug opportunism. He saw crisis as a ladder.
The first petitioner was a master smith from Frostheim, his hands still stained with soot. "Your Grace, the attacks on the ore caravans have doubled since Stonebridge. My people are afraid to make the run. We need more guards, or the forges will go cold within a fortnight."
Before Lysander could speak, Hoff cut in, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "A dire situation indeed. But where are these guards to come from? His Grace has already stretched our forces thin with his… new strategies." His eyes flicked to me, a clear implication of where the blame lay.
I felt Lysander tense beside me, the cold energy beginning to radiate from him. The inner voice was whispering, telling him to silence Hoff with a word, to crush the dissent. I saw his knuckles whiten on the arm of his chair.
I placed my hand over his, a small, deliberate gesture on the table where all could see. My touch was light, but it was an anchor. I am here. Breathe.
He took a sharp, quiet breath. The tension in his arm eased a fraction.
"The guards will be provided, Master Smith," Lysander said, his voice admirably level. "Captain Killian is re-deploying troops from the eastern patrols. The routes will be secured."
Hoff opened his mouth to object again, but I spoke first, my voice clear and carrying the practical authority I'd used in the kitchens.
"The re-deployment is temporary," I said, addressing the smith but ensuring the whole hall heard. "In the meantime, the Merchant's League has agreed to a consolidated convoy system. Larger groups, traveling at scheduled times with dedicated escorts. It maximizes efficiency and safety for everyone. Guild Master Theron has the details at the rear." I gestured to where the head of the Merchant's League stood, nodding his confirmation.
The smith's worried expression softened into one of relief. "A sensible plan, Your Grace. My thanks." He bowed and retreated.
Hoff looked furious, his planned disruption neatly sidestepped by preparation and practicality.
Next came a freeholder woman, her face lined with wind and worry. "The worg packs, Your Grace. They're coming closer to the homesteads. We can't work the fields with this fear."
"The Duke's forces are hunting the packs relentlessly," Captain Killian stated from his post near the throne. "We've culled three just this week."
"Hunting is a reaction," I said, drawing the room's attention again. I turned to the woman. "We need prevention. Viscount Grimshaw's trackers are distributing signal horns to every homestead and outlying farm. One blast for sighting a pack. Two for immediate danger. The patrols are being re-routed to respond to these signals as their highest priority." I looked at the Viscount, who gave a silent, grim nod of agreement from the shadows. "You will not be alone out there."
Tears of relief welled in the woman's eyes. "Thank you, my lady. Thank you." The gratitude was for the tangible solution, the feeling of being seen.
One by one, the concerns were raised. A baker worried about grain shortages. A Weaver's Guild mistress concerned about the safety of her members traveling to market. For each, we had an answer. Not a grand, militaristic solution, but a practical, woven tapestry of responses: consolidated purchases, scheduled escorted travel, a new system of fortified waystations.
Lysander led, his commands firm and decisive. But where once he would have only offered the hard, cold edge of military protection, I offered the connective tissue of community and logistics. He was the shield. I was the mechanism that ensured the shield was in the right place at the right time.
We were a duet. He would state a principle; I would outline its execution. He would grant a request; I would ensure its implementation didn't break another part of the system. We didn't confer. We didn't need to. We were two halves of a single mind, governing.
The audience ended. The people left, their fears somewhat eased, their confidence in the Keep's leadership visibly strengthened.
As the hall emptied, Baron Hoff approached the dais, his expression sour. "A pretty display of… administrative efficiency, Your Grace," he said, the compliment an insult. "One hopes it is enough to stop claws and teeth."
Lysander rose to his full height, and this time, the cold that emanated from him was entirely controlled, a deliberate weapon. "It will have to be, Hoff," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet. "As your considerable resources seem entirely devoted to criticism, rather than solutions. The next time you speak in my hall, it will be to offer men from your fields to reinforce the patrols, or grain from your stores to ease the shortages. Not another word of empty complaint. Do you understand?"
Hoff blanched, the blood draining from his florid face. He had overplayed his hand. He had expected a Duke isolated by his curse and his new marriage, not a united front. He bowed, a stiff, jerky motion. "Perfectly, Your Grace." He all but fled the hall.
Lysander watched him go, then let out a long, slow breath. The controlled fury faded, leaving behind the weary man.
He turned to me. "You were…" He searched for the word. "Brilliant."
"I was useful," I corrected softly.
"You were more than that." He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the edge of the wolf sigil on my collar, a touch that was both possessive and reverent. "You saw the whole board. Not just the battlefields, but the bakeries and the trade routes. You saw the people."
"They are your strength," I said, placing my hand over his. "Not just your soldiers. All of them. Protecting them isn't a distraction from your war. It is the war."
He looked at me, and the storm in his eyes had finally, truly calmed, replaced by a dawning, wondrous certainty.
"The Frostfangs can wait another day," he said, his thumb stroking my jaw. "Today, you taught a Duke how to rule. That is a lesson worth learning."
The romance was not in grand declarations or passionate kisses. It was in the quiet aftermath of a public trial, in the shared exhaustion of a job well done, in the awe of a formidable man realizing he no longer had to fight his battles alone. The other characters had served their purpose—they were the whetstone against which our partnership was sharpened, proving its edge not in fantasy, but in the gritty, beautiful reality of building a life worth defending.