Your home kingdom of Cygareth, a land of glittering lakes and golden fields with its marbled halls and soft candlelight was such a stark difference from Vráthgard it nearly took her breath away.

There were no cobbled roads here, no statues of long dead queens or polished grandeur. The path your procession rode past the borderlands was one of mud and stone, the only markers of civililization being the wooden longhouses and watchtowers that dotted the hills, their sharp silhouettes standing defiant against the wind.

You must have felt it, Ervyn mused, the rawness of this place, the way it refused to bow.

And yet, as you and your following neared The Hall of Járn, you did not falter. The fortress, at first glance, seemed only wood and stone, but then you realize it's something far older and more exquisite than any palace. The hall itself is vast, built from the bones of the mountain it resides in, dark timber reinforced with iron and its towering beams wrapped in the carved histories of the Vráthgardr people.

You were smaller than he expected.

Not in stature—no, the queen of Cygareth stood with her chin lifted, shoulders squared, wrapped in silks that did nothing to soften the steel in her spine. But you looked too delicate for this hall, too finely made to stand before the Farskeld and not be swallowed whole.

And yet, you did not shrink beneath their stares.

Ervyn hadn't seen queens before, but what he pictured was different than the real thing—he imagined the way they carried themselves like something untouchable, something meant to be adorned and admired but never dirtied with the weight of the world.

But you were not a porcelain thing.

You were a blade wrapped in silk, a feather caught in a storm, bending but never breaking.

He had expected fear. Cygareth's nobility saw his people as wild things, uncivilized, barely better than beasts. He had thought you would speak prettily, but keep your distance. That you would flinch at the weight of their stares. But you stood steady.

Eyes that reminded him of dusk-lit water, sharp but unreadable, swept across the hall with careful precision. You were assessing them just as much as they assessed you.

And then those eyes landed on him. A flicker of something—not fear, not uncertainty, but curiosity. It was gone in an instant. But Ervyn felt it like the brush of a blade against skin.

You had not come alone, of course not. The leader of The Varanyr flanked you, clad in silver-trimmed armor, his hands rested on his sword's hilt, eyes flicking warily between the Vráthgardr as though expecting treachery at any moment. A diplomat, soft-eyed but wary, stood just behind you, adjusting his robes as though uncomfortable among so much iron and steel. A councilor, a man older and sharper than the others, had the look of someone who had seen too much and trusted too little. He muttered something under his breath to you, and you gave the barest nod.

They were not weak. But they were out of place. Gilded knights and silver-tongued envoys had no place in the halls of the Farskeld among this den of war-leaders, oathkeepers, and warriors.

At the center, upon a seat of carved ironwood, sat Járyn Volrik Blackwolf. His presence was a storm held at bay, a man whose silence held more weight than words. His scarred hands gripped the arms of his chair, watching you like a wolf assessing prey. Ervyn's gut twisted in an unwelcome flurry of unease.

To the Blackwolf's right stood Skjolda Yrva, the Thornmaiden, a woman with wild auburn hair braided in tight knots, a sharp gaze filled with quiet judgment.

Greigar One-Eye, his ruined gaze gleaming with distrust, muttered something under his breath, and you could feel the weight of his suspicion settle upon you like a blade at your throat.

Kjorn of the Rimefang leaned against a stone pillar, watching you with the stillness of a hunter, unreadable, unmoving.

And then, Svaen Hjoldr stood at the edge of the council, silent, still as ice, his expression giving nothing away.

The room hummed with the weight of expectation—as if you had walked into a den of wolves, and they were waiting to see if you would bare your throat or show your fangs.

"Peace," your letter had claimed. But Ervyn did not believe in peace. Not the kind that came from soft words and treaties written in ink.

Cygareth's rulers had never sought peace—not truly. They had sent envoys before, men who spoke in riddles and empty promises, who sat in these halls and expected the Vráthgardr to kneel in gratitude for the scraps they were offered.

But now, for the first time, a queen had come herself. You stood before the Farskeld with no grand speeches, no illusions of superiority. You had crossed into the wild lands yourself and stood in the Hall of the Járn without trembling.

Ervyn did not know if you were brave or simply naïve.

But he could not take his eyes off you.

The realization was as unbidden as it was unwelcome. A strange grip around his heart made him seize, his brows furrowing in a mix of annoyance and confusion.

"You've come a long way for words, little queen. Let's hear them." Ervyn prompts, almost amused.