Daggers of Ice

Chapter 10

1010.

The Tenth Year of the Golden Age.

Edmund.

The gryphon descended through a curtain of snow, its midnight feathers rimed with frost, its cry echoing against the sheer black cliffs that rose before them. The fortress came into view like something born from the bones of the land: jagged, vast, its towers crowned with snow and smoke.

The Black Keep; she called it.

The walls were cut from stone and dark basalt, veined with ice that caught the dying light and fractured it into shards of cold colour. Banners of grey and white hung limp in the wind, their edges stiff with frost.

And when the gryphon's talons struck the courtyard stones, the sound reverberated through his ribs.

They were met instantly – wolves, at least a dozen of them, their eyes glinting gold in the half-light. Their hackles were raised, low growls rumbling like thunder through their chests. Behind them stood men and women wrapped in furs and mail, their faces painted with soot and snow, hands resting on the hilts of curved northern blades.

Arianna dismounted first, her boots whispering against the frozen ground. She did not speak, merely inclined her head once. The wolves' growls died in the same breath – obedience as clean as a blade drawn and sheathed. They stepped aside in eerie, practiced unison.

Edmund swung down after her, the cold biting instantly through his gloves.

The nearest wolf snarled at his movement.

"You may follow," Arianna said without turning, her voice soft but edged. "So long as you can keep your footing."

He almost smiled at that. "I'll manage."

She didn't look back.

They moved through the great archway into the heart of the Keep – and the heat vanished entirely. The air inside was sharp, thin, full of echoes. The walls glittered faintly where ice had fused with black stone, veins of frozen water tracing strange, organic patterns through the masonry. Torchlight flickered blue in the cold, giving every shadow a spectral edge.

The hall ahead opened into something vast – an audience chamber that could have swallowed Cair Paravel's throne room whole.

The court was already gathered.

Wolves lounged at the foot of the steps, amber eyes gleaming in the dimness. Dwarves in blackened armour murmured low to one another, their beards decorated with bone and bronze.

Women in layered furs and leather stood with the bearing of generals. Their gowns were cut like armour, broad-shouldered and belted in bronze, heavy with embroidery that shimmered faintly in the cold light. Silver-threaded wolves and runes marked their hems; fox fur collars dyed in red and gold framed faces both beautiful and fierce. Their braids were bound in leather cords and bronze rings – symbols of rank, lineage, or the gods they followed.

The men were no less striking: tall, broad-shouldered, their cloaks pinned with antler clasps or wolf teeth. Many carried axes rather than swords; others bore spears fashioned of bone and black iron. Their braids were functional more than beautiful, tight plaits meant to stay put through sweat, snow, and steel.

And among them moved creatures Edmund had only seen in whispered stories; creatures of the dark and cold; creatures whose breath steamed in the cold, their hooves striking sparks against the stone.

No one bowed.

No one needed to.

As Arianna strode past them, conversation fell like snow from the eaves. Every gaze followed her – not in fear, not even reverence, but something closer to awe. She moved through their midst like a force of nature, each measured step echoing against the frozen stone.