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I add the clinic fuel to my calculations, followed by the communal storehouse estimate and what each household might conceal from the tithe collectors.

The result remains the same.

Lowtown does not possess enough medicine and fuel to survive an ordinary winter. The clouds gathering over the ridge promise one far from ordinary.

Through the window, Morwen’thir Stronghold watches from above.

Rhysandir Morwen’thir controls forests we cannot enter, storehouses we cannot approach, and hearths that never die. He could release enough tiphe to keep Lowtown alive. He could lower the tithe. He could order his healers to descend the mountain.

He has done none of those things.

I close the ledger, but the numbers remain carved into my thoughts.

When winter reaches its worst, practical choices will become brutal ones. I will decide who receives medicine, which homes receive fuel, and how much suffering a body can endure before help becomes useless.

This time, there may not be enough to save anyone.

2

RHYSANDIR

The karasu arrives with blood on its beak.

It lands upon the iron perch beside my study window and extends one black-scaled leg. A narrow message case is secured above its talons. The bird watches me with bright, pitiless eyes while mountain wind claws at the glass behind it.

“You took your time,” I tell it.

The karasu clicks its beak.

I unfasten the case. The creature shakes its feathers, scattering two drops of blood across the stone floor, then turns its attention toward the covered dish of raw meat kept near the hearth.

“The report first.”

It clicks again.

“Your disapproval has been noted.”

I remove the rolled paper and place a strip of meat on the perch. The karasu seizes it, snaps its head back, and swallows.

The report bears no seal. A single line of cipher identifies the writer as one of my observers among the lower Khuzuth houses. I cross to my desk and open the paper beneath the steady light of a neptherium lamp.

Varrus has given another speech.

The location is a private hall in Orthani, though nothing spoken before thirty nobles remains private. He addresses younger heirs, lesser warlords, and house representatives hungry for influence. Such audiences are useful. They mistake proximity to an old house for power and repay attention with loyalty.

According to the report, Varrus begins with the Causadurn Ridge.

He praises the Warrior, then invokes the martial traditions of the first Khuzuth houses. He speaks of conquest, inheritance, and strength proven through expansion. Only after feeding his listeners their preferred legends does he turn toward Morwen’thir.

Lord Rhysandir builds walls where his ancestors broke armies.

I read the sentence again.

The insult is competently shaped. That irritates me more than the insult itself.

My fortifications protect three trade routes, two mining settlements, and the most vulnerable pass through the northern ridge. They have reduced caravan losses and prevented waira packs from reaching inhabited valleys. Varrus knows this. Facts are irrelevant to his purpose.

A wall can be called prudence or fear. He has chosen fear.