Clang.
Clang.
The bell rang—sharp, unrelenting. Not ceremonial. Not distant.
Urgent.
"Raiders!"
"To the walls—move!"
Voices tore through the fortress, rough and immediate. Boots struck stone in uneven rhythm. Somewhere beyond the walls, something heavy splintered.
Fitz did not wake all at once.
He stirred—slight, reluctant. The warmth beneath the furs held him just long enough to resist the cold reality beyond them.
"A little longer…" he murmured, voice muffled against the pillow.
Clang.
Closer this time.
His brow twitched.
Then—
With a sudden, irritated motion, he kicked the sheets aside and sat upright.
Cold struck instantly.
Sharp. Invasive.
Fitz inhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, as if the air itself had offended him.
"No," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "I am not some idle guest."
A pause.
His shoulders straightened.
"I am the prince… and now to be Lord Consort of Nivia."
Another breath.
"…Get some spirit."
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting unforgiving stone. A faint shiver ran through him—quickly suppressed.
Composure returned.
It always did.
—
The mirror stood where it had the night before—simple, slightly warped, its edges touched by frost. Before it sat a small wooden basin, filled with water that looked far colder than it should have been.
Fitz approached.
Paused.
Then dipped his fingers in.
He did not react.
But his hand withdrew just a fraction faster than intended.
"…Bracing," he murmured.
Still, he gathered some water and brought it to his face, washing with careful, deliberate motions. Each movement precise. Controlled. As if routine alone could impose order on this place.
When he finished, he looked up.
For a moment—
Not a prince.
Not a consort.
Just a boy staring back at himself.
Then—
His chin lifted slightly.
A faint, almost private smile touched his lips.
"I am, objectively speaking, quite handsome," Fitz said, pointing—just slightly—at his reflection. "It would not be unreasonable to assume she—"
"I definitely did not, my lord."
The voice came from behind him.
Flat.
Immediate.
Uninvited.
Fitz froze.
Not dramatically. Not visibly.
But completely.
The smile vanished.
His hand lowered.
And when he turned—
He was composed once more.
Lady Saskia Nivia stood near the doorway, one hand still resting lightly against the wood as if she had just entered. Her posture was perfect, as always—but her expression…
Not.
There was a curve to her lips.
Subtle.
Contained.
Dangerously close to laughter.
Their eyes met.
A pause.
Measured.
Then—
"I see," Saskia said, her tone smooth, though something unmistakably amused lingered beneath it, "I have arrived at a… revealing moment."
Fitz held her gaze.
Unmoved.
"That was the wind," he replied calmly. "The North is… quite vocal in the mornings."
A beat.
Saskia's composure cracked—just slightly.
A soft sound escaped her.
Not quite a laugh.
But close enough.
"Of course," she said. "How careless of me to misinterpret the… wind."
Silence settled between them.
Short.
Awkward.
Strangely so.
Fitz adjusted his sleeve.
Unnecessarily.
Saskia stepped further into the room.
In her arms, folded with care, were garments—thicker, darker, practical. Northern make. Heavy with purpose rather than design.
"I brought you proper clothing," she said, regaining her usual tone. "Southern attire will not suffice here."
Her eyes flicked—briefly, deliberately—to his current state.
Light fabric.
Unfit.
Then back to his face.
"This is the edge of the world, my lord," she added. "Warmth is not a luxury."
Fitz inclined his head slightly.
"Your consideration is noted."
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Neither moved immediately.
Neither spoke.
Children, for a moment—
Unsure of where to place themselves.
Then—
"I will leave you to prepare," Saskia said, turning slightly toward the door.
She stopped.
Just before stepping out.
"…There is an attack at the outer walls," she added, quieter now. "A minor one."
A beat.
"You need not attend."
Fitz's gaze sharpened.
"Because I am a guest?"
"No," Saskia replied, without turning. "Because you arrived yesterday."
Another pause.
Something unspoken passed between them.
Then—
"I will not be in the way," Fitz said.
Simple.
Direct.
Saskia glanced back at him.
Measured.
"You might be," she said. "You don't know the terrain."
"And you do," Fitz returned.
"Yes."
A breath.
Cold air shifted between them.
Then—
"Then I will follow your lead," he said.
Not defiant.
Not submissive.
Certain.
Saskia studied him for a moment longer.
Long enough to reconsider.
"…Very well," she said at last. "Dress quickly."
Her gaze flickered—just briefly—to the basin, the mirror…
And then back to his face.
That almost-smile returned.
Faint.
Controlled.
"…And perhaps," she added, "consult the wind once more before you leave."
She stepped out.
Grinning.
The door closed.
—
Silence returned.
Fitz stood there for a moment.
Still.
Then—
A quiet exhale.
"…Unfortunate," he murmured.
A pause.
Then, softer—
"…that she heard that."
But something in his expression had changed.
Not embarrassed.
Not entirely.
Just—
Less distant.
He reached for the garments.
And began to dress.
——
The corridor breathed cold.
Not the biting gust of the outer walls—but the quieter kind. The kind that settled into stone, into bone, into habit.
Fitz stepped out from his quarters.
He had adapted.
Not fully. Not yet.
But enough.
Layers of thick northern wear wrapped around him—dark, practical, built for survival rather than appearance. Yet beneath it, subtle lines remained. Cleaner cuts. Finer stitching. A structure that spoke of the South, even when buried beneath necessity.
At his collar, half-hidden beneath the weight of his cloak, rested the faint glint of his royal emblem.
Not displayed.
Not denied.
Simply… present.
His boots struck the stone floor with quiet certainty as he moved forward.
Ahead—
Ser Wilbur waited.
The old knight's gaze swept over him once, slow, deliberate… and then lingered.
A pause.
Then—
"Well," Ser Wilbur said, voice dry with unmistakable amusement, "what a sweet spouse you have, my lord."
Fitz did not stop walking.
"It seems," Wilbur continued, falling into step beside him, "you enjoy each other's company."
"Hush, Ser Wilbur," Fitz replied, his tone level—but just strained enough to betray him. "Do not embarrass me further."
A beat.
Then—
"Yes," Wilbur said, nodding solemnly, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "Indeed, my lord."
Fitz's jaw tightened.
Slightly.
"Let us go."
—
They moved through the fortress corridors, their pace steady, their path purposeful.
The sounds of alarm had not faded.
If anything, they had sharpened.
Steel against steel. Distant shouting. The dull, heavy rhythm of something striking wood—or stone.
War.
If it could be called that.
"You walk differently," Ser Wilbur noted after a moment.
Fitz did not look at him.
"I walk."
"You adjust," Wilbur corrected. "Already."
Silence.
Then—
"It would be inefficient not to," Fitz replied.
A pause.
Wilbur hummed, low in his throat.
"And the lady?" he added, far too casually. "Do you find her… efficient as well?"
Fitz's expression did not change.
"She is competent."
"Ah."
Another step.
"Competent," Wilbur repeated, as if testing the word.
"Yes."
A longer pause.
Then—
"So," Wilbur said, voice low with quiet amusement, "was your assumption correct, my lord?"
Fitz stopped.
Not abruptly.
But enough.
A slow breath passed through him.
Then he resumed walking.
"…You heard nothing," Fitz said.
"I am old, my lord," Wilbur replied. "Not deaf."
A faint sound escaped him—something dangerously close to a chuckle.
Fitz said nothing more.
But the faintest hint of color touched the edge of his ears—
Gone as quickly as it came.
—
The outer air struck them as they stepped beyond the inner halls.
Sharper.
Louder.
Alive.
Men moved along the walls with practiced urgency. Torches flickered against the wind. Beyond the gate—
Figures.
Large.
Too large.
Crude weapons rose and fell against the reinforced barriers in uneven rhythm.
"Smashing Clan,the many song of giants" Wilbur murmured in tone.
"If one must name it," Fitz replied.
At the forefront—
She stood.
Lady Saskia Nivia.
Unmoving amidst motion.
She wore a black dress, hidden beneath a heavier outer cloak, carrying its presence—deep, striking, deliberate against the muted tones of the North. Snow caught briefly in her hair, melting without notice.
She was speaking to a guard.
Calmly.
While chaos moved around her.
Fitz approached.
Her eyes found him immediately.
Sharp.
Aware.
"Lady Saskia," Fitz said, voice steady despite the noise around them, "how is the attack proceeding?"
A pause.
Then—
Her gaze shifted—just slightly.
"To the wind?" she asked with a small smile.
Fitz blinked once.
"Not particularly enjoyable," he replied. "Unlike speaking with you...my love."
A beat.
Ser Wilbur, behind him, said nothing—
But his silence was… loud.
Saskia tilted her head.
Smiled.
Just slightly.
"You improve quickly, my lord," she said.
Her tone was smooth.
But her eyes—
Not.
"If you continue at this pace," she added, stepping closer, "you may one day hold a conversation without blaming the weather."
Fitz met her gaze.
Unmoved.
"I find the weather to be a convenient scapegoat," he said. "It lacks the ability to argue back."
A flicker.
There—
Gone—
Something like amusement crossed her expression.
"Unfortunate," she replied. "You may find I do not share that limitation."
A pause settled between them.
Not awkward.
Not quite.
Something else.
Then—
"Anyway," Fitz said, shifting slightly, returning to form, "my question."
His gaze moved—briefly—toward the gate, toward the towering figures beyond.
Saskia followed it.
"Fairly well," she said.
Her tone changed.
Not softer.
Sharper.
Focused.
"The Smashing Clan," she continued, "are said to descend from giants."
As if summoned by the words—
One of the raiders surged forward.
Massive.
Easily a head taller than any man on the wall.
Seven feet.
Perhaps more.
Its weapon struck the gate with a heavy, splintering force.
The wood held.
Barely.
"They average seven to eight feet," Saskia went on, unshaken. "Their strength is… inconvenient."
"Inconvenient," Fitz repeated.
"Yes."
Another strike.
Louder.
"They are still primitive," she added. "Uncoordinated. Predictable."
A guard shouted.
An arrow loosed.
It struck.
The massive figure staggered—but did not fall.
Fitz watched.
Carefully.
"Yet persistent," he said.
"Yes."
A pause.
Then—
"They will withdraw before full engagement," Saskia continued. "They always do."
"Testing," Fitz murmured.
"Probing," she corrected.
Their eyes met again.
Understanding passed.
Quick.
Clean.
Behind them—
Ser Wilbur folded his arms.
Watching.
Not the battle.
Not the walls.
But them.
And the faintest grin returned to his face.
Unnoticed.
Or perhaps—
Ignored.
——
A minute passed—
Then the assault… stopped.
Not gradually.
Not in retreat.
It halted.
As if a single will had drawn a line through the chaos.
Below the walls, the howling thinned into something quieter. Shapes shifted in the dark, withdrawing—not in panic, not in defeat, but with purpose. The tribesmen pulled back just beyond bow range, their silhouettes swallowed by the storm.
As if making way.
Ser Jared's brow tightened.
"Halt your attack!" he barked from atop the wall, his voice cutting clean through the wind. "Do not waste arrows! Hold your shots!"
The archers hesitated—then obeyed. Bows lowered. Strings eased.
Silence followed.
Wrong silence.
Ser Jared descended quickly from the wall, boots striking stone with controlled urgency. He crossed toward Saskia, Fitz, and Ser Wilbur without delay.
"My lady. My lord," he said, voice low but firm, "the tribe… they appear to be retreating."
Saskia did not move.
Her gaze remained fixed beyond the gate.
"Too easy," she said quietly.
A pause.
"They are repositioning."
Fitz glanced at her.
Not hopeful, he thought. Accurate.
Before another word could be spoken—
"Ser Jared!!"
A shout from above. Strained.
"Something is approaching—fast!"
Another voice broke in, sharper now—
"—By the ridge! Gods—"
A beat.
"…It's massive!"
The wind carried it first—
A rhythm heavier than footsteps.
Closer.
Faster.
A shadow tore through the veil of snow.
Not stumbling.
Not slowing.
Charging.
"Ten feet—!" the guard cried. "Ten feet tall—!"
The shape resolved into something too large for a man, moving with brutal certainty. Each step crushed ice and stone alike, the sound reverberating through the walls.
"Archers!" Ser Jared roared, already turning back toward the gate. "Loose—NOW!"
Arrows flew.
They struck.
Some lodged.
Most glanced aside.
None slowed it.
Fitz's grip tightened—just slightly.
That is not meant to be stopped from afar.
His eyes moved quickly—
Over the forming shield line.
The tightening ranks.
The empty space behind them.
No bows.
No second layer.
They have nothing to answer it once it breaks through.
"…My lady," Fitz said, low but clear.
Saskia's gaze flicked to him—brief, sharp.
"The archers," he continued. "There are none positioned inside."
A pause—just enough to think.
"They should be behind the shield line. If it breaches, they will have a clear shot. Otherwise…"
He didn't finish.
He didn't need to.
Saskia held his gaze for a fraction longer.
Measuring.
Not the idea—
Him.
Then—
"You heard him," she said, already turning. "Pull half the archers from the wall. Second line—behind the shields. Aim for joints, eyes—anything that yields."
"Yes, my lady!"
Men moved at once.
No hesitation.
Fitz exhaled—quietly.
Useful, he noted.
At least once.
Ser Jared did not wait.
He ran—already shouting orders as he climbed back to his position.
"Brace the gate! Reinforce the inner bar! Move!"
Below—
Saskia turned—not toward the gate, but toward her men.
"You," she called, her voice cutting through the rising noise. "Gather the reserve. Form a line before the gate. Shields forward—tight formation. No gaps."
Her hand lifted—not to strike, but to direct.
"Second rank, spears ready. Do not advance unless ordered."
"Yes, my lady!"
Men moved.
Too few.
Always too few.
Fitz watched them gather, watched the way discipline held where confidence could not.
They will stand, he thought. Even knowing.
"…Ser Wilbur," Fitz said quietly.
The knight turned at once.
"My prince?"
Fitz hesitated.
Only a breath.
Then—
"Get me a sword."
A pause.
Ser Wilbur's gaze sharpened.
"My prince—"
"I'm not skilled," Fitz admitted, lower now. "But I cannot stand behind words alone."
For a moment—
He was not a prince.
Just a boy trying not to be one.
Ser Wilbur studied him.
Then, without argument, he drew his blade and offered it hilt-first.
Fitz accepted it.
The weight settled into his hand—unfamiliar, unwelcome.
He adjusted his grip.
Not right.
But not useless.
Saskia noticed.
Of course she did.
Her gaze lingered for a fraction—
He chooses to stand.
A small pause.
"Stay behind the line," she said.
Her tone was calm.
Not dismissive.
Practical.
"You are of greater use alive than proving a point."
Fitz met her eyes.
"I will do both, if possible."
A faint pause.
Then, quieter—
"…though I suspect I will fail at one of them."
For the briefest moment—
Something almost like dry amusement touched her gaze.
"Then fail at the correct one."
She turned away first.
Her focus returned to the field—not as a combatant, but as something else entirely.
A commander.
An observer.
A mind forced to measure loss before it happened.
"Reinforce the flank," she called to a passing soldier. "If the gate falls, we fall inward—not outward. Do not break formation."
"Yes, my lady!"
She stepped back slightly—away from the immediate line, toward the inner edge of the courtyard.
Not retreat.
Positioning.
Where she could see.
Where she could think.
Where she could still command.
Above—
"Hold it!" Ser Jared roared.
The first impact came—
Not a strike.
A collision.
The gate did not shake.
It crumpled.
The massive figure did not slow as it met the wood and iron—it drove through it, shoulder first, with a force that turned structure into debris. The already-weakened beams split instantly, the central bar snapping like brittle bone.
For a single, violent moment—
Wood folded inward.
Iron screamed.
Then—
The gate exploded.
Not opened.
Not broken.
Erased.
Splintered timber burst inward in a storm of jagged shards. Hinges tore free from stone. Snow and wind rushed in behind it as the towering figure crashed through the threshold without losing momentum.
Men in the front line staggered—some thrown back by the force alone.
Too large.
Too fast.
Too close.
For a single heartbeat—
Stillness.
Fitz steadied himself, sword raised—not expertly, but with intent. His breath caught, just slightly.
So this is it, he thought.
No distance.
No time to think.
Beside him—
Saskia's voice, unwavering:
"Hold the line."
She did not move forward.
She did not reach for a weapon.
But every movement around her bent to that command.
And for a moment—
They stood there.
Not as heirs.
Not as titles.
Just two children—
Trying very hard not to be.
Until the creature took its next step.