The First Council
Flakes of snow dropped over Thornhaven as the first proper council of the settlement met within what used to be a barn, now repurposed as a meeting hall.
Seven seats, as Lioran had pledged upon his departure for the north. Each group represented: Lioran for the Flamebound, Kaelen for the secular military, Sister Elara for the Church reformists, Renn for the ordinary refugees, Henrik for the initial settlers, Serra for the erstwhile crusaders, and now a seventh—a northern merchant named Bjorn who'd ridden south with the caravan to forge permanent trade connections.
Mira sat on the sidelines, not council member but advisor, her position transformed from mother to something like conscience for the whole operation.
Lioran sat at the head of the table. "Before we start, I want to be clear about one thing: I'm not in control. This council is. There is no decision without consensus, not my consent. I'm here as one of seven voices, nothing more."
"That's romantic," Torven said standing guard by the door. "But when Crane's army comes in the spring, they won't negotiate with a committee. They'll come for you personally."
"Then we'll handle that then," Lioran said. "But how we make decisions is important. If we're simply another autocracy with a new face, then we've failed before we begin."
Kaelen nodded. "Agreed. Although I'll add that having seven individuals attempt to make quick decisions in an emergency will be chaotic."
"Democracy is chaotic," Elara replied. "That's partly its value. Dictatorships are effective until they get it wrong, and then they're horribly wrong with no way to fix it."
"Talking of fixing things," Henrik said, unfurling a scroll covered in scribbles, "we have to deal with immediate problems. The northern supplies gave us time, but we've got two hundred mouths to feed with infrastructure designed for fifty. We need more shelter before deep winter, or people will die."
"How much time do we have?" Renn asked.
"Three weeks, perhaps four. Then temperatures fall far enough that it's impossible to build."
Serra leaned forward. "My people—the former crusaders—we are experts in military engineering. Quick fortification, barracks building. We can apply those skills to civilian dwellings."
"And we'll have to," Bjorn went on, his northern accent thick but understandable. "More refugees come every day. Word gets around that Thornhaven has food and safety. By spring, you might have five hundred here."
"Can we feed that many?" Lioran asked.
"If the trade routes are stable, yes," Bjorn replied. "But you'll need to have something to trade for other than goodwill. The Frost Kingdoms contributed initial supplies as investment, but continuous trade calls for continuous exchange."
"What do they require that we possess?" Kaelen queried.
"Labor, finally. Finished goods. Farm produce the north lacks." Bjorn unfolded his own maps. "But straight away? Information. The Frost Kingdoms pay good money for news on southern politics, Church activism, army deployment. They've been cut off too long. You're in a position to be their eyes in the south."
Lioran looked around at the others. "We'd be spies?"
"You'd be knowledgeable trading partners," Bjorn said tactfully. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" Elara asked. "Because from where the Church is standing, that looks like cooperation with foreign interests against Crane's crusade."
"The Church already called us anathema," Renn reminded her. "We're past caring about appearances."
The council argued for hours, finally agreeing to set up an intelligence network—not for spying but for each knowing what the other is doing. Southern knowledge traveling north, northern assistance traveling south. A partnership founded on mutual value instead of exploitation.
.....
Construction and Community
The following three weeks were a whirlwind of organized labor.
Serra's old crusaders labored together with Flamebound fighters and regular refugees, building structures with a speed almost unbelievable. They employed a combination of southern timber framing and northern ice-packing methods that they learned from Bjorn—walls that would better insulate than anything the south had ever constructed.
Lioran toiled with them, no longer lord but laborer. His fire was valuable for heat-treating wood, for warming others while they labored in the cold, for melting snow to provide the water used in ice-packing.
He found himself working alongside Clara, the refugee mother who'd fought for him against Crane's first crusade.
"Your son is growing," Lioran noted, viewing the boy playing in the distance among other children, their giggles incongruous against the scene of crazed building.
"He doesn't recall the raids," Clara said, tapping another nail into position. "Doesn't recall hunger or terror. For him, this is life as it should be." She stopped. "I'm thankful for that, scared witless. What if he gets old enough to wonder why we live like this? What do I explain to him about the world that made us refugees?"
"Tell him the truth," Lioran said. "That individuals made decisions—some good, some horrible. That power without empathy causes pain. And that it's up to his generation to do something better than we did."
"That's a tough responsibility for a kid."
"Every generation is inheriting the last one's mistakes," Lioran said. "At least we're attempting to equip them to correct them."
Clara smiled faintly. "You've changed since you've been gone. Less fire, more. I don't know. Substance?"
"I met someone who taught me that power doesn't need to incinerate everything it touches," Lioran confessed. "That there are other things to be strong about."
"This northern queen everyone's talking about?"
Lioran said nothing, but Clara laughed. "Your silence speaks volumes. Good. Even Dragon Lords need someone who thinks they're human."
.....
The Raid
The attack came three days short of winter's coldest cold, when construction would be impossible.
Lioran was checking the new storage buildings when the alarm bell sounded—two short, two long. The warning of hostile forces approaching.
He sprinted to the walls, where Renn was already standing, pointing at the southern tree line. "Crane's men. Perhaps thirty soldiers, moving quickly. They're not attempting to conceal themselves."
"Because they want us to see them," Kaelen said, arriving with his sword already drawn. "This isn't a raid. It's a message."
The soldiers stopped just outside arrow range. Their leader rode forward—a knight in armor bearing Crane's personal seal. He carried a banner of truce, but his expression held no peaceful intent.
"Dragon Lord!" he shouted. "Bishop Crane sends his regards and his judgment!"
"I'm listening," Lioran shouted back, struggling to keep his voice steady even as the ember of anger's sudden blaze burned in his chest.
"You are accused of heresy, of defiling sacred resources, of plotting with northern savages against the faithful. In the name of the High Conclave and the Pure Flame, you are ordered to turn yourself in for cleansing. Do not, and all the souls in this colony will be declared co-conspirators. Spring arrives with the full crusade. Ten thousand warriors. Fifty priests. The combined force of three kingdoms who've sworn to purify your corruption."
"And what if I yield?"
"Then the settlement might live. Your people will be treated with mercy—reeducation, not death. The northern alliance will be broken. Order will be restored." The knight hesitated. "You have until first thaw to make your mind up. After that, mercy is gone."
"Tell Crane," Lioran called out, his voice echoing over the icefield, "that I've learned something significant in the north. Power doesn't need brutality. Strength doesn't need domination. And faith doesn't need persecution." He made fire flare in his palm—not threatening, but visible. "We're not your enemies. We're just people trying to live beyond your reach. That shouldn't need a crusade."
"Heresy doesn't bargain," said the knight. "First thaw. Choose."
He wheeled and rode off, his men following, leaving Thornhaven in strained silence.
.....
The Debate
That evening, the council met in emergency session.
"We can't battle ten thousand men," Torven said flatly. "Even with northern support, even with the power of the Dragon Lord. Those numbers swamp all."
"Then we give him up?" Renn's tone was acid-tipped. "After all we've worked for?"
"I did not say that," Torven answered. "But we must see reality. This is not a fight we can win by force."
"Perhaps force is not the solution," Elara said softly. "Crane anticipates violence. That is what he knows, what he's trained for. What if we offered him something else?"
"Such as what?" Serra inquired.
"Proof," Elara said. "Proof that we're not the corruption he says we are. Proof that what we're creating works, that it's better for people than his purification ever could be."
"You want to invite ten thousand soldiers to stroll through Thornhaven like we did with the first crusade?" Kaelen raised an eyebrow. "That worked once. Lightning doesn't strike twice."
"It doesn't have to be the same," Lioran stated, a thought taking shape. "But Elara's right. Crane believes we're evil. We can't defeat that belief with blades. We must undo it with fact."
"How?" Henrik asked.
Lioran scanned the table, meeting people who'd evolved past followers—they'd become allies in something greater than each individual.
"We record everything," he stated. "Each individual we've assisted. Each refugee we've fed. Each invention we've developed. We take testimony from the erstwhile crusaders who decided to remain, from Church reformers such as Elara, from ordinary folk whose lives were bettered due to what we have constructed. And we send them everywhere—to nobles, to merchants, to other realms. We make it so Crane cannot control the story."
"That's no military tactic," Bjorn told him. "That's. propaganda?"
"That's truth," Mira countered, her voice soft from her corner of the room. "And truth is more threatening to tyrants than armies."
The council argued late into the night, at last deciding on a dual tactic: arm for war while arming the truth. Defense and record-keeping. Steel and stories.
As the meeting broke up, Lioran went out, requiring air, requiring room to think.
The ember throbbed in his chest—not calling for violence, but prepared for it. Evelina's training had provided him with control, but spring would reveal if that control could weather the heat of actual war.
Above him, stars shone in the icy sky. In the Frost Kingdoms, Evelina would be gazing at the same stars, thinking perhaps of him as he thought of her.
"Don't let her down," Valdis had cautioned.
He wouldn't consider it. Whatever arrived in the spring, whatever Crane brought, Lioran would meet it not as the Dragon Lord of fairy tales—scorched the earth that dared oppose him.
But as something new. Something he and Evelina and all Thornhaven were creating together.
Winter's labor persisted.
And the spring's trial drew near.