The horns still echoed when the great doors of the Winter Hall parted.
Bootsteps came first—measured, deliberate, heavy enough to carry across the vaulted chamber. Then came the shimmer of gold-threaded cloth and the soft rustle of fur-lined cloaks.
Prince Leif Aldricsson of Verdelund stepped into the hall.
He had grown tall in the twelve years since Astrid last saw him. The thin-shouldered, guarded boy with lantern-bright eyes had become a young man who carried himself like someone who had already tasted command. Dark brown hair fell in disordered curls that framed sharp, disciplined features. His eyes—still that uncanny blue like fire behind glass—were steadier now, cutting through the chamber with quiet certainty.
His attire marked him instantly as foreign to the North's stark austerity. He wore a tailored black uniform embroidered with silver filigree along the chest and sleeves—patterns of curling vines and laurels worked with southern precision. Gold buttons and clasps gleamed beneath the chandeliers' icy light, and a broad leather belt cinched his waist, its buckle shaped into the head of a lion. Draped across his shoulders was a heavy black velvet cloak trimmed in white fox fur, held fast by gilded chainwork and polished epaulets.
Gloved in black leather, his posture unyielding, every detail projected composure. Yet there was no vanity in his bearing—only the unmistakable shape of someone trained, pressed, and refined for a role since childhood.
Leif stopped just inside, flanked by two retainers in Verdelund blue and silver. He did not bow deeply, only inclined his head with a dignity respectful without being submissive.
"Jarl Egil," he said, his voice smooth and clipped with the lilt of the southern courts, "and Lady Astrid Egildottir of Vinterhall. It has been far too long."
His words carried cleanly through the hall.
Silence followed.
The Winter Hall seemed to draw in a collective breath. The chandeliers flickered faintly, as though the icy runes themselves were listening. No one rushed to fill the stillness.
At the head of the roundtable, Jarl Egil Vinterhall remained motionless. His great hands—scarred by decades of war—rested on the carved arms of his chair. Pale eyes, sharp as glacial edges, measured the southern prince without a word. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Merely weighing.
To his right, Yrsa of the Grey Veil tilted her head a fraction, her pale crystal eyes unreadable. Her staff pulsed once against the flagstones, echoing some private thought. She studied Leif as one might study a shadow in the frost—something that could be nothing, or the shape of a storm.
Svala, the hawk-eyed shield-mother, leaned forward slightly, fingers brushing the hilt of her sword to assure herself of its nearness. Beside her, Bryndis folded her hands, composed yet attentive, her gaze lingering on Leif's cloak and chainwork as though already appraising their worth.
Along the walls, Astrid's eight brothers stood like carved pillars, the stag crest bright upon their armor. Their silence carried an edge sharper than steel. Some narrowed their eyes, others shifted subtly, none lowering their gaze.
Even the Shieldguard by the doors seemed to angle their helms toward the prince.
Every breath in the hall grew louder for lack of words.
Only the braziers dared to intrude, their flames cracking softly in the corners.
Leif did not falter. He remained steady, his eyes sweeping the hall once before returning to the Jarl—calm within the quiet storm.
The silence stretched until it felt etched into the stone.
At last, Jarl Egil stirred. His wolf-fur cloak shifted as he leaned forward, great hands tightening on the chair. When he spoke, his voice cracked across the chamber like ice splitting on a frozen lake.
"Prince Leif of Verdelund," he said, each word steady and deliberate, filling the hall with ease. "Twelve winters have passed since your first steps into this hall. Twelve winters since your house bound its word to ours in ink and blood. And now you stand before me—not as a boy, but as the man sworn to honor that pact."
He rose to his full height, towering even without a helm. Firelight caught on the iron beads woven through his braided beard, glinting sharply as he looked down the length of the chamber.
"You come bearing your father's seal, your brother's blessing, and your own claim by this Accord. Vinterhall remembers oaths. But know this—" His pale eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening without rising. "—we measure men by their strength in frost and storm, not by parchment."
A faint rumble of approval passed among Astrid's brothers, though none spoke.
Egil's gaze lingered on the prince before he inclined his head—shallow, but definitive.
"You are welcome in Vinterhall, Prince of the South. For now, the hall is yours to enter."
An invitation—and a challenge.
Leif did not flinch. He listened with head slightly inclined, expression composed. When the Jarl finished, he let the silence settle for a heartbeat more before answering.
"Your words honor me, Jarl Egil," he said evenly. "My father sends not only his seal, but his respect—and a token of goodwill for the House of Vinterhall. That you may see the South's intent is more than parchment."
He raised one gloved hand in a sharp gesture.
A retainer stepped forward carrying a long blackwood chest banded with gold and reinforced by iron studs. The lid bore curling southern script flanking the crest of House Aldricsson: the golden lion rampant on blue.
The retainer placed the chest upon the basalt roundtable and stepped back.
Leif approached, cloak whispering against the froststone. He set a gloved hand on the chest's lid.
"My father bids me deliver this gift," he said. "A bond of South to North, wrought by Verdelund's finest masters. May it serve as both tribute and promise."
He unclasped the lid and pushed it open.
The hall caught its breath.
Inside lay a masterfully carved warhorn—pale ivory banded in gold, etched with lions and laurels. At each band, northern runes of froststeel glimmered faintly in the firelight. Lion and stag. South and North. Artistry and endurance woven together.
The hall murmured, approval mixing with suspicion.
Leif rested his hand lightly upon the horn. "A horn for war and feast alike. Its sound carries farther than a league, and no storm nor frost will silence it. My father names it Gjallarion, the Accord Horn. Let it sound not only in times of blood, but in times of union."
A ripple moved through the hall.
Old Stigr Ironhand frowned. "Gjallarion… a name too close to Gjallarhorn. Said to wake the gods at world's end. A southerner's jest, perhaps?"
Bryndis studied the work with a merchant's eye. "No jest. Southern gold, lion and laurel… but froststeel runes inlaid by northern hands. They sought our craft upon their own. That is intent."
Rurik, ever curious, leaned in. "Not ornament alone. It bears twin tones—high to summon war-bands, low to call feasts. Traders from Verdelund say its bonds are binding. Drink from it and break the oath, and ruin follows."
Approval and unease twisted together in the murmurs.
Egil remained silent, gaze fixed upon the gift. To Vinterhall, the horn was no small thing—a voice across leagues, calling hosts or kin. A symbol of unity, or a leash gilded in gold.
Leif waited until the hall settled, then raised a hand once more.
"Not all of Verdelund's tribute lies in gold or craft," he continued. "My father bids me deliver another gift—one forged not in southern fire, but in alliance with the frost of your mountains."
The second retainer stepped forward with a long casket of black stone veined in pale ice-crystals. Cold mist clung to it even before it was set upon the table.
Leif placed both hands on the lid and opened it.
The hall leaned forward.
Inside lay a sword no southern forge could claim. A blade of flawless crystal-ice, sharp-edged and clear as frozen glass, tempered with fire and bound by runes. Northern sigils of endurance shimmered faintly within, interwoven with southern glyphs of binding. The crossguard gleamed with silver and gold filigree, inlaid with garnets that caught the torchlight like smoldering embers. The hilt—wrapped in rich wine-colored leather—ended in a jewel-like pommel, dark as frozen wine.
Cold mist rose from the blade as though it breathed.
"This is Frostvein," Leif said. "Forged from ores mined in your Whispering Fjord, tempered with southern flame, and bound in ice by northern runes. A union of South and North—for the hand of Vinterhall's heir."
For the first time since entering, his gaze shifted to Astrid.
"May it serve her as a mark of strength."
The hall stirred—surprise, approval, and unease overlapping. Even the Shieldguard edged forward for a better view.
The crystalline blade pulsed cold against the air, runes flickering like buried embers.
Silence again—until heavy footsteps crossed the stone.
Harald, third son of Egil and Svala, stepped forward. Tall, broad-shouldered, casting a long shadow across the floor, he studied the blade with sharp scrutiny.
"This is no common steel," he said. "Crystal-ice from the fjord caverns, tempered with fire, bound with glyphs that are not ours." His eyes fixed on Leif. "Tell me, Prince—who taught your smiths to weave our runes into southern metal? And what bargain allowed frost to bind a weapon without shattering?"
Not hostile—pointed, shrewd, measuring.
Bryndis leaned in as well, her gaze lingering on the garnet-studded hilt. "The craft is fine. Too fine for southern hands alone. The balance between ice and flame… it speaks of someone who knows both. Harald asks wisely—whose hands forged this?"
Their words drew restless shifts from the brothers lining the walls. The Shieldguard straightened, expectant.
And every gaze in the hall returned to Leif.