The tribute from the Frost-Song Clan arrived as the mountain passes surrendered to the full grip of winter. They came not in chains, but in a grim, silent column: thirty cat-women crafters, ten weavers whose fingers were deft with frost-thread, and ten healers versed in the esoteric medicine of ice and resilience.
They were not young; they were the experienced, the valuable a tangible piece of their clan's soul handed over to the usurper. Queen Sylas's message was clear: this was a deep cut, not a shallow scratch.
Nicolas had them housed in a new quarter, their lodgings clean but austere, separated from the main human settlement by Valerius's subtly woven ice-walls.
Their integration was to be monitored, their skills absorbed, their wills in time claimed. Lyra oversaw the process with a blend of elven diplomacy and steely pragmatism, her growing belly a constant reminder of the power they now served.
But Nicolas's mind was already soaring beyond the glacial peaks, towards the perpetual, mist-shrouded skies of the neighboring country.
"We are blind beyond the mountains," he stated to his inner council Lyra, Kaela, and the now ever-present, silently observant Valerius. They were in the hall's map room, where Sly's sketches had been refined into a detailed landscape of the border region. "The Ice Country probes with claws. The Mist Country sees with wings. We cannot build a kingdom with our eyes on the ground."
"The Bird-folk of the Aerie Clans are insular and proud," Lyra said, her finger tracing the vague, cloud-like markings that denoted their territory on the map. "They trade little, wage war mostly amongst themselves for sky-rights, and view all 'ground-walkers' with disdain. They are not expansionist like the cats, but their scouts see everything that moves in the high valleys."
Kaela grunted. "Feathers and arrogance. What use are they?"
"Eyes," Nicolas said, his own gaze fixed on the map. "And reach. Imagine knowing an enemy's movement days before they reach our borders. Imagine being able to strike from above, at the moment of our choosing." He looked at Valerius. "Could your magic ground them? Bring a storm to clip their wings?"
Valerius's silver eyes grew distant, calculating. "A localized blizzard, heavy with ice and turbulent wind… yes, Master. It is possible. But to capture, not just destroy… that would require precision. A cage of downdrafts and frozen air. It would be… an exquisite challenge." A faint, disturbing smile touched his lips. The artistic puzzle appealed to him.
A plan, cold and audacious, took shape. They would not wait for the Bird-folk's attention. They would pluck a feather from their own sky.
Two days later, a carefully selected work detail composed of the newest cat-crafter tributes and a guard of Kaela's humans was sent to a distant, exposed ridge to quarry a particular type of pale stone Lyra insisted was needed for the heir's future chambers. It was a deliberate display of vulnerability, a juicy worm wriggling on open ground.
Nicolas, Kaela, and a contingent of her best hunters hid in the lee of the neighboring peak. Valerius stood apart, his robes whispering against the stone, his hands moving in slow, intricate patterns as he gathered the mountain's cold breath.
They did not have to wait long.
A shadow, swift and silent, passed over the sun. Then another. Three hawk-like figures circled high above the work detail, their forms sleek and taut with muscle, great wingspan flexing as they assessed the scene. Bird-folk scouts. They communicated with sharp, melodic cries that carried on the thin air.
As they began a tighter, investigative spiral, Valerius acted.
He did not shout. He exhaled. A stream of silver-blue vapor left his lips and shot upwards, dissipating rapidly. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then, the air around the circling scouts 'thickened'. The clear sky congealed into a sudden, furious micro-storm. Wind, which they rode as masters, turned traitorous, becoming a chaotic maelstrom of conflicting gusts.
Then came the ice not falling snow, but a horizontal blast of needle-sharp hail, specifically targeted at their powerful wing joints and sensitive eyes.
The scouts cried out in shock and pain, their elegant flight dissolving into a panicked, tumbling struggle against the unnatural weather. One was dashed against the cliff face, wings snapping. The second managed to break south, fleeing towards its territory, one wing badly torn.
The third, the largest and seemingly the leader, fought valiantly. But Valerius's magic was a sculptor's tool. He shaped the wind into a crushing funnel, forcing the scout down, down, towards a flat expanse of rock near Nicolas's hiding place.
The Bird-man hit the ground with a heavy thud, his wings splayed awkwardly, his body bruised and coated in a sheen of frost. He tried to rise, his taloned feet scraping stone, his beak open in a defiant shriek.
Kaela was on him in an instant, not with lethal force, but with overwhelming control. She pinned his wings with her weight, her forearm locked across his throat, her growl silencing his cries. Her hunters swarmed in, securing his limbs with stout ropes.
Nicolas walked forward slowly. The captured scout was magnificent up close. His humanoid torso was lean and corded, covered in fine, tawny feathers that gave way to powerful, golden-brown wings now pinned and trembling.
His face was sharp, with fierce, golden-rimmed eyes that burned with outrage and confusion above a cruel, curved beak. He wore light leather armor adorned with feathers and sky-blue stones.
"Ground-walker filth!" the scout spat, his voice a harsh rasp. "You dare? The Aerie will darken the sky with our wrath!"
Nicolas knelt before him, ignoring the threats. He reached out, not to strike, but to touch the primary feather of one pinned wing. It was strong, resilient, perfect. "Your wrath is a distant cloud," Nicolas said, his voice low and resonant. "My will is the ground upon which you lie. Your name."
The scout hissed, turning his head away.
Nicolas placed a hand on the scout's feathered chest. He could feel the frantic, soaring rhythm of a heart built for the open sky, now trapped. He pushed a tendril of his warm power into that rhythm, not to crush it, but to 'tempt' it.
He offered sensations not of the ground, but of a new, higher purpose: the pride of serving a king who commanded the very storms, the honor of being the eyes for an empire that would touch the clouds. He twisted the scout's innate desire for a superior vantage point, for a masterful flock leader.
"Your name," Nicolas repeated, the command woven with seductive promise.
The scout shuddered, his fierce eyes glazing over as the foreign, compelling warmth invaded his spirit.
The sky was freedom, but this… this felt like being part of a new, dominant sky. His resistance, born of racial pride, buckled under the tailored assault.
"Talon," he gasped out. "My name is Talon."
"You are mine now, Talon," Nicolas said, forging the bond fully. He wove the scout's love of height and observation into a framework of utter loyalty to himself. "Your skies now belong to me. You will be my eyes. You will teach me how to see."
As the bond snapped into place, Talon's body went slack, then rigid with new devotion. The outrage in his golden eyes melted into a focused, awestruck intensity. He looked at Nicolas as the ultimate peak, the only thing worth circling.
"I see… Master," Talon whispered, his voice reverent. "The world… it looks different from your side."
Nicolas stood. He now had a sorcerer of ice and a scout of the sky. His reach was extending. He looked south, towards the perpetual mist.
The Bird-folk had lost a scout. Soon, they would learn they had gained a master. And Nicolas's kingdom, once earthbound, now had its gaze lifted towards the heavens.