The sun over House Valenpor was weak that morning, its light filtered through the thin glass of the study window, turning gold to pale straw. Lucien leaned in his high-backed chair, watching dust spiral through a single, persistent beam. The world outside seemed silent, as if the estate itself were waiting for his word.
His hand traced the rim of a wine goblet, but he did not drink. He had not slept. The swelling bruise of humiliation—Elias's threats, the battered body of Toby, the knowledge that the North could reach him at will—sat heavy in his chest. He had known many kinds of power in his life, but never the sort that came wrapped in scars and iron and violence. Never the sort that wore a mask not to frighten, but to hide how little it cared for the opinion of southern men.
No, he thought, staring at his own reflection in the glass. You won't win by playing the wolf against a monster. You must find something bigger than the beast, and use them to as shield and sword to your cause.
You must use the law. You must use the Crown.
A rap sounded at the door. Lucien did not turn.
"Enter."
A steward entered, his eyes low. "The magistrate has returned your summons, my lord. He awaits in the audience chamber."
"Good," Lucien replied, rising. "See that he is fed and kept comfortable. And send word to the clerk—I will require every document pertaining to House Wylt, the marriage contract, and the conditions of Ilya's departure."
He allowed himself a small smile as the servant retreated. A legal battle was not the sort of war that left bones in the snow. No, this was a gentleman's terrain—words, signatures, the slow tightening of rules like a noose.
He would bring Elias to heel, and the North with him.
The audience chamber was cool, the hearth cold from a night of disuse. Magistrate Perrin waited, thin-lipped and precise, his black robes sharp as creased paper. Lucien entered with the slow, deliberate dignity of a man accustomed to authority.
"My lord Count," Perrin intoned, bowing with a gesture just deep enough to show respect, not submission.
"Magistrate. Thank you for your haste. I regret the urgency, but you see the necessity."
"I have been apprised of your servant's injuries," Perrin replied, not glancing at the silent, bandaged figure hunched in the corner. "And of your daughter's…marriage."
Lucien's eyes flickered. "A political match, as is proper. Yet Lord Wylt abuses his station. There was no provocation—only the word of a bitter girl, whose grievance is plain to any who studies the matter, and a man whose reputation—"
He let the sentence trail off, inviting Perrin to finish it in his own mind.
Perrin's brow lifted imperceptibly. "The court will demand evidence. Eyewitness, written testimony. The Duke's word carries weight in the North."
"Not here," Lucien replied, voice sharpening. "Here, in the shadow of the throne, the old laws still bind us. I will present my case—injury done to a noble servant, without legal cause, and an attack on my honor as Count and patriarch of House Valenpor. The Duchess's testimony is—" he let himself smile— "of course suspect, given her position as married off daughter to a long passed count. I suspect she wishes her territory back- both from me, and the Crown."
Perrin considered, then nodded. "The process will not be swift."
"Nor need it be. Delay is its own victory. See the summons drafted. And make it known in the capital that House Wylt may answer for its conduct. I want every rumor, every doubt, whispered from court to kitchen. Let the King watch, but do nothing. I want the North isolated, angry and distracted."
Perrin bowed, an agreement between foxes.
As the magistrate left to begin the paperwork, Lucien stood at the high window and looked east, toward the cold invisible line that separated his world from theirs.
He would win this. He would tear down their myth, word by word.
He allowed himself, finally, a sip of wine. It tasted of iron and old fruit. He savored it.
Late that afternoon, the rider departed.
A Valenpor banner hung from the saddle, the horse's hooves pounding over rutted roads and frozen streams. The sealed summons was tucked safe in a leather pouch, already bearing the ink of the southern magistrate. The dust of the journey lifted behind him, trailing like a warning.
Toward Velwynd he rode, bearing a message that would shatter the fragile peace of the North.
A demand, not a plea.
The rider did not slow as the last fields gave way to wild woods. He carried with him more than a summons—he carried a challenge.
One that would force the North and South to reckon with one another once more.