The gates of Snowland stood open. The iron chains that usually held them shut had been lifted hours ago. Word had already spread through the town. Riders were returning. The army had come back from Kalkigan.
Men left their workshops. Women stepped out of kitchens, wiping their hands on their aprons.
Children ran barefoot through the streets, pushing through the gathering crowd. They all moved toward the road that led from the forest.
A line of riders slowly appeared beyond the trees.
Dust followed them. At first the people stood quietly, squinting through the fading light.
An old man leaned against a wooden staff near the front of the crowd. His eyes narrowed as he studied the approaching riders.
"They didn't fight," he muttered under his breath. His voice carried just enough for the people near him to hear.
The army looked too calm. There were no wounded being carried. No blood-soaked banners. Just riders moving steadily toward the gate.
At the front rode Newton Ice. His posture was straight despite the long journey. The horse beneath him moved with measured steps, hooves striking the dirt road with slow, heavy sounds.
Beside him rode Lady Sandra Benett. Her shoulders were back. Her chin lifted slightly.
There was a confidence in the way she held the reins, the quiet pride that comes with knowing the outcome of a battle before the crowd even hears it.
The people parted as the riders passed through the gate.
Whispers followed them. Some eyes settled on Newton. Others turned toward the prisoner tied to the horse further back in the column.
A few gasps escaped the crowd when they recognized him.
Lord Sigmoid Bernett.
His hands were bound. His legs were tied firmly to the saddle. Blood had dried dark against his boots.
The whispers grew louder as the riders moved deeper into the city. Newton kept his eyes forward. The road led toward the stone hall where the Warden council gathered.
The riders reached the wide courtyard and dismounted.
Guards stepped forward immediately. Newton swung down from his horse, his boots touching the cold stone. "Lock the prisoners up," he said. His voice carried across the courtyard. "When my father returns, he shall judge him."
The guards nodded and began pulling Sigmoid down from the saddle.
Chains rattled.
The prisoner was dragged toward the holding cells.
Newton turned toward the castle. Lord Martins stepped forward from the entrance.
His expression remained calm, but his eyes were sharp. He watched the guards dragging Sigmoid away before slowly shaking his head.
"That is not our way."
Newton paused.
Martins folded his arms behind his back. "If you intend to judge him," the lord continued slowly, "then he must be judged within two days."
His voice remained steady. "I do not think your father will have returned by then."
Newton felt his chest tighten. His heart thudded hard against his ribs. "I hope," he said carefully, "you are not suggesting that I preside over the council that will be judging him."
Martins tilted his head slightly. "Of course."
The words landed calmly. "You are the representative of the Warden right now. You wear the ring of authority."
His gaze did not move. "You will have to judge him."
Newton stared at him. For a moment he said nothing. Then he shook his head.
Violently.
"I can't do that." His voice rose slightly. "I am just a boy."
The courtyard had grown quiet. Several men standing nearby glanced toward them.
Newton's hands clenched. "I do not have the experience."
He paused.
His mind raced through the thought again. The council. The nobles. The trial.
"No."
He shook his head harder. "No. No. No." His voice grew firm. "I am not doing that."
Newton turned sharply and started walking away. A hand grabbed his arm. Martins yanked him back.
Newton stumbled a step before facing him again.
The lord's face had hardened. "You are either judging him," Martins said quietly, "or releasing him."
Newton's breath caught. Martins leaned slightly closer. "You should have thought of this before arresting him instead of killing him in combat."
The words hung between them. Then Martins released his arm. He turned and walked away without another word.
Newton stood alone in the courtyard. The wind had grown colder. Evening shadows stretched across the stone ground.
He exhaled slowly. "What have I just landed myself in?" His voice barely escaped his lips. His fingers rubbed his temple.
"I should have let the war be till father returns." The words sounded bitter.
Newton stood there a moment longer before forcing his legs to move. He walked toward the entrance of the hall. His steps echoed against the stone floor. His heart still pounded heavily in his chest.
As he reached the entrance, someone stepped directly into his path.
Lady Sandra Bennet.
She didn't hesitate. Before Newton could react, she threw her arms around him. Her embrace was sudden and tight.
"Thank you," she cried. Her voice trembled with emotion. "Thank you for helping the helpless."
Newton stiffened. He slowly placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back.
Her arms loosened. He stepped away from her. "There is no need to thank me." His voice returned to its usual calm tone. "I only did the job my father entrusted me with."
He did not wait for her response. Newton turned and walked into the corridor. His footsteps faded deeper into the hall.
Sandra remained standing at the entrance. She watched him go. Her eyes followed the boy until the shadows swallowed him.
Something had changed. She had seen it clearly in Kalkigan. The way he moved. The way his blade had cut through Sigmoid's defense.
The way the seasoned warrior had fallen to his knees. The memory still burned fresh in her mind. She exhaled quietly. "He may be a boy…" Her fingers tightened slightly. "…and a bastard."
Her gaze remained fixed on the empty corridor. "But he has everything I want in a man." Her lips curled seductively.
Morning arrived quickly. The news traveled faster. Across the markets of Snowland. Through the taverns. Into the training yards. The story spread.
"The fifteen-year-old bastard of the ruling house defeated Lord Sigmoid Bernett in single battle."
Every retelling made the story heavier. Harder to believe. But the witnesses were too many. Soldiers who had stood at Kalkigan repeated the tale.
They spoke of the duel. The heel cuts. The fall. The moment Sigmoid dropped to his knees. Fear began to creep into the words.
Men spoke Newton's name more carefully now. Children who once mocked him as he walked through the streets grew quiet when he passed.
Some lowered their eyes. Others simply stepped aside.
The whispers followed him everywhere. Newton sat on the edge of his bed.
The next evening, the small room was quiet. Sunlight slipped through the narrow window, touching the wooden floor.
His elbows rested on his knees. His hands were clasped tightly together. His mind returned to the council chamber.
To Martins' voice. You will have to judge him. Newton rubbed his forehead slowly.
"I am too young to preside and judge Sigmoid in the presence of these proud and stubborn men." The words escaped his lips in a quiet murmur.
He leaned back slightly. The wooden bed creaked beneath him. "But if I do not judge Sigmoid…"
His jaw tightened.
"…he will be set free." The thought made his stomach twist. "And the battle I just won will count for nothing."
His fingers slowly clenched.
The silence in the room deepened.
Newton exhaled through his nose. "I guess I have no choice." His voice sounded steadier now. "But to judge him."
He pushed himself to his feet. The mirror hung against the wall. Newton stepped toward it, staring at his reflection.
The reflection stared back at him.
A boy.
Fifteen.
He studied his own face for a moment. Then he smiled faintly.
But as his eyes moved upward, something caught his attention.
His smile faded. He leaned closer. A thin strand of hair hung on his bale head.
Newton lifted his hand slowly. His fingers touched the strand. He stared at it. For a moment he said nothing.
The color was wrong. He blinked once. Then again. The strand was not black. It was red. A deep red.
Newton's smile disappeared completely. His fingers held the strand as he leaned closer to the mirror.
His breath slowed. He stared harder. More closely. "Why…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "…is my hair red?" His eyes widened slightly. "And not black like every other person's?"
A quiet gasp escaped his lips.