Meanwhile, far to the north, Snowland stood silent beneath a sky the color of steel.
Cold winds scraped across the frozen towers of the fortress, rattling banners that hung stiff with frost. Guards stood along the walls wrapped in thick furs, their breaths rising in white clouds as they watched the icy plains stretching endlessly beyond the city.
Inside the fortress, the throne hall of the North was already filled. Lords from every province had gathered.
Heavy boots echoed against the stone floor as men shifted impatiently. Fur cloaks draped over armored shoulders. Some leaned on carved staffs, others rested their hands on sword hilts as they waited.
The Ice Throne stood at the far end of the chamber.
It was carved from a single block of pale crystal ice taken from the deepest glacier in Snowland. The seat glowed faintly beneath the torchlight, cold mist drifting slowly from its surface.
The throne of the Warden.
It was empty.
Murmurs spread quietly through the hall. Then the doors opened. The sound echoed sharply through the chamber.
Every head turned. Newton stepped inside. His boots struck the stone floor with careful rhythm as he walked forward. The long hall stretched before him, lined with nobles who had governed the North for decades.
Older men. Experienced men. Men who had seen wars and winters that could kill armies.
Newton's fingers brushed the ring on his hand as he walked.
The royal ring. Cold metal pressed against his skin.
He turned it slowly, feeling its weight.
A reminder.
His father had placed it there. The murmurs in the hall faded as he moved deeper into the chamber.
But something else remained.
Stillness.
No one bowed. Not a single lord bent his head. They watched him approach with unreadable expressions.
Some eyes were curious. Others were cold. "What justice can a bastard dispense? That he has what it takes to express authority?"
Many simply looked at him as if he did not belong in the room. He might wear the royal ring. But to them, he was still a bastard.
Newton noticed. He said nothing. His footsteps continued across the stone floor until he reached the front of the hall.
Martins stood nearby, waiting. The old councillor watched Newton with calm interest.
"This way, my lord," Martins said. He lifted his hand and gestured toward the Ice Throne.
Newton stopped. For a moment he simply stared at it.
The throne glimmered beneath the torchlight, mist curling slowly around its edges.
The seat of the Warden.
His throat tightened slightly. "I am a bastard," Newton said quietly. His voice carried across the silent chamber. "I am not supposed to sit on the Ice Throne."
A few councillors exchanged faint glances. Martins smiled faintly. "You are not supposed to wear the royal ring," he replied. His eyes dropped briefly to Newton's hand. "But yet, your father placed it on your finger."
The words hung in the cold air.
Newton looked down at the ring again. The metal caught the light. His father's voice echoed faintly in his memory.
"You might not be a Woodland by name, the blood flows in your veins."
A moment passed. Then another. Finally Newton turned. He walked toward the throne.
Every step felt heavier than the last. He reached the seat and paused again. Then he lowered himself onto it.
The ice touched his back. Cold, and sharp. It slipped through his clothing and spread along his spine like a blade of winter.
Newton shifted slightly. His shoulders tightened. But the movement lasted only a second.
Then he straightened. His expression hardened. The boy vanished. The authority of the throne settled slowly into his posture.
He looked out across the chamber. "Bring in the prisoner," he commanded.
The words rang clearly through the hall.
Several guards immediately turned and left through the side doors.
Silence returned.
The councillors watched him carefully now. Some whispered softly to one another. Others simply studied the young man sitting on the frozen throne.
Four minutes passed.
The doors opened again. The sound of chains echoed before the prisoner even appeared.
Metal scraped harshly against the stone floor.
Two guards dragged a man forward between them. His wrists were bound with iron shackles.
Chains hung from his arms and legs, clattering loudly as he was pulled into the center of the chamber.
Lord Sigmoid Bernett. His clothes were torn from the struggle of his arrest, but his posture remained defiant. His grey beard hung unevenly across his chest, and his sharp eyes scanned the room with quiet fury.
The guards forced him to stand before the council. A young man stepped forward beside a tall desk.
He held several scrolls beneath one arm.
The clerk.
His accent carried the smooth tone of the Liberian coast.
He opened one of the scrolls and cleared his throat. "Lord Sigmoid Bernett," he announced. His voice echoed across the chamber.
"You have been charged with unlawful violation of the Warden's decree." He lifted his eyes from the parchment. "How do you answer to this charge?"
Silence.
Sigmoid said nothing. His gaze remained fixed ahead.
Newton watched him from the throne. The hall waited. "Answer the question," Newton commanded.
His voice carried sharp authority. Sigmoid's jaw tightened. Slowly he lifted his head. His eyes found Newton.
"And who are you," he said coldly, "to give me instructions?"
The councillors stirred slightly. Sigmoid's voice rose. "You are a bastard." The word echoed through the chamber. "The lowest ranks of humans in Astarous."
His lips curled with contempt. "How dare you give me orders."
Several men shifted uneasily. Newton did not move. A faint smile appeared on his face. His fingers rested lightly against the arm of the throne.
"I have the royal ring with me," he said calmly. Sigmoid stared at him. Then he burst into laughter. The sound bounced against the stone walls. He turned toward the assembled councillors.
"Since when," he shouted mockingly, "does a bastard now wear the royal ring of the North?" Murmurs spread through the hall. Several councillors exchanged uncertain glances.
One of the older lords stepped forward slightly. "Do you question the Warden's judgement?" he asked sharply.
Sigmoid spat on the floor. "Edmond has always been a fool," he said. His voice carried loudly through the chamber. "He does foolish things and makes foolish decisions."
The hall erupted with whispers. Men leaned toward each other, speaking urgently beneath their breath. Some looked toward Newton. Others looked toward the floor.
Newton felt the words strike deep. The insult landed hard against his ribs. He stood suddenly from the Ice Throne.
The sudden movement silenced the room. "You dare insult my father?" he demanded.
Sigmoid lifted his chin. His eyes met Newton's without fear. "I did," he replied. His voice carried open challenge. "What does a bastard like you have to do about it?" The words fell like stones into the silence. They knew he was clearly challenging Newton.
Every eye in the chamber turned toward Newton. He could feel the weight of their attention pressing against him. Testing him. Measuring him.
Newton's fingers curled slowly into fists. "I can take all insults," he growled. His voice trembled slightly with anger. "But not on my father."
Sigmoid laughed again. "I spoke the truth everyone already knows," he said. His voice rang loudly across the chamber. "The Warden is a fool."
Several councillors winced.
Sigmoid continued without hesitation. "Only a foolish or mad northern Warden will sire a bastard…" His eyes burned with contempt. "…and then place the royal ring on his hand." The words hung heavily in the air.
Newton stood still for a moment. Then he nodded once. "Grab him," he commanded. Three guards stepped forward instantly. They seized Sigmoid by the arms.
The old lord struggled violently, chains rattling loudly as they forced his hands behind his back. "Take him out," Newton said. His voice was cold. "And place his head on a spike." Gasps spread through the hall.
The guards dragged Sigmoid toward the doors. His chains scraped loudly across the floor as he was pulled away.
The murmurs of the councillors rose into uneasy waves of whispering.
Some looked shocked. Others studied Newton carefully.
Martins stood quietly near the throne. A faint smile crept across his lips. He folded his arms slowly. "Does the boy have the balls to do it?" he murmured to himself.
Newton remained standing for a moment longer. Then he reached for a cup resting beside the throne. He filled it with wine from a nearby jug. The dark liquid sloshed gently inside the cup.
Newton lifted it and poured the wine down his throat in a single swallow. The burn spread through his chest. He lowered the cup slowly. Then he stretched out his hand. "Give me my sword."