Stormhold City

Three Days Later, The Gates of Stormhold City.

The wind howled like a wild beast, biting at their skin as Leora and Lucian stood before the towering gates of Stormhold. The fortress-city loomed large, stark against the gray sky. Unlike the grand, polished cities of the south, Stormhold was carved from raw stone and iron, its jagged walls scarred by centuries of battle.

Runes of protection and war, glowing faintly in the dim light, were etched deep into the stone by Seiðr-smiths long ago. The markings pulsed under the weight of the overcast sky, flickering like the last embers of a fire, struggling to survive the cold winds.

The gates—massive slabs of black ironwood—rose taller than three men. Reinforced with steel bands, they were etched with warding sigils, their surfaces weathered by time and battle.

Above, a massive wolf's head, the emblem of Stormhold's ruling Jarl, was mounted with grim finality. Its eyes, hollow and lifeless, stared down at all who entered—a chilling reminder of the city's power.

Leora pulled her cloak tighter around her, the cold creeping into her bones as warriors clad in chainmail and thick furs brushed past. Men and women, their weapons gleaming, strode with the quiet confidence of those who had long known the value of strength.

This was no place for titles or wealth. This was a warrior's city—where muscle and skill spoke louder than any noble lineage.

The crowd swirled around them, splitting into two paths. One led through a wide, reinforced passage where mercenaries, traders, and free folk were funneled in under the watchful gaze of spear-wielding guards. The other was a smaller archway, guarded and strict, reserved for the nobility and high-ranking warriors.

Leora glanced at Lucian, sensing the tension in his jaw. She knew what he was thinking: 'A few weeks ago, we would have walked through the noble's gate.'

But that life was behind them now.

What she didn't realize was that it wasn't Lucian it was Kai. He didn't care which gate they entered; the past was a shadow that didn't touch him.

Lucian's thoughts flickered. 'Leora looks tensed, Now that I think about it, My memories are blurry, Why did those people chased us and what was the reason of the duel between the families.'

Ahead of them, a broad-shouldered warrior in dark steel armor stepped forward, his hand raised like an iron wall. His helmet bore the insignia of a wolf, and his voice was like grinding stone.

"No blood feuds in the streets. If you have a quarrel, take it to the duel pits or the Jarl's Hall," he said, his sharp gaze flicking over them. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes narrowed at their worn clothes. "And if you start trouble, don't expect anyone to step in."

Lucian nodded slowly, his gaze steady as he stepped into the city.

Stormhold unfolded before them—a labyrinth of stone streets and timber longhouses, with towers that reached like black fingers against the storm-gray sky. 

There were no windows of glass or polished marble here. Iron, wood, and stone ruled the landscape, built to endure whatever the heavens or the enemy might throw at it.

Everywhere, warriors trained, their movements as fluid as water in battle. Traders haggled loudly in the streets, while skalds (poets) recited tales of past glories, their voices rising above the din. 

The clang of steel rang from the weapon forges, where blacksmiths hammered runes into swords and axes.

The smell of roasting meat and the rich scent of mead wafted from mead halls, where off-duty mercenaries drank and boasted of their latest conquests. 

Skalds, standing proudly on wooden platforms, recited poems of great battles, and coins—along with silver rings—rained down at their feet.

At the heart of the city stood a statue, the Founding High King, carved from black stone—not golden or polished, but raw, battle-scarred. 

In his hands, he gripped a massive war-axe, and the only flash of color came from the blood-red banners at his feet, each embroidered with the names of the fallen from the last great war.

Lucian turned to Leora. "What now?"

Leora looked at him confused as if Lucian have lost his mind and said "We are going to Lord Jarl manor."

They continued walking, the bustle of the city fading as they neared the gate of the manor. But before they could get any closer, a guard blocked their path—his armor made from wolf pelts, a spear in his hand.

"State your business," he growled, his voice rough like stone scraping metal.

Leora lifted her chin. "We are here to meet Lord Jarl."

The guard's eyes narrowed. "Do you have any identification or something equivalent?"

Leora reached into her pocket and pulled out a badge of iron, its surface engraved with the emblem of the Jarl of Stormhold.

The guard took the badge, studying it for a long moment. Then, with a grunt, he gestured for them to wait.

After a brief pause, the guard returned, his face hard. "The Lord wants to meet you personally."

The Jarl's Keep loomed ahead, carved from the same black stone as the city's walls. Iron braziers lined the tall, narrow corridors, casting long, flickering shadows as they walked.

Guards, their faces cold and unreadable, stood motionless like statues, hands resting on their sword hilts.

At last, they entered the great hall, where Jarl Sigvard Stormbreaker sat upon his throne. 

The throne was made of iron, draped with wolf pelts, and Sigvard himself was a mountain of a man—his storm-gray eyes unreadable, his hands resting on the arms of his chair with a quiet authority.

"So," his deep voice rumbled, "The orphans of Frostbane have arrived."

Leora squared her shoulders, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "We came to claim what was promised to us."

Sigvard's fingers drummed against the wood of his throne. He exhaled slowly through his nose, his gaze flickering with something unreadable.

"Hakon gave you a choice," he said. "You ran. You survived. I won't question that."

His gaze darkened. "But if you've come seeking vengeance, leave now."

Lucian's fists clenched at his sides. The memories were foggy, but his heart beat with a burning, raw anger.

"We're not here for vengeance," Leora said, her voice steady but careful.

Sigvard studied them both, his silence stretching out like the calm before a storm. Then, finally, he nodded.

"There is a manor prepared for you," he said. "Live there in peace. Forget what was lost. There's no returning to the past."

Leora's breath caught in her throat, but she simply bowed, her voice tight. "Thank you, my lord."

Sigvard's eyes lingered on Lucian for a moment longer.

"You," he said, his voice like steel. "Do you understand?"

Lucian met his gaze without flinching. "Yes," he replied, his tone cold.

Sigvard looked at both of them and spoke again, his words heavy with meaning. "You two are injured. As promised, I will provide the medications."

He turned to the guard. "Lead them to their manor and provide the medications."

The guard led them outside, his voice gruff but laced with a quiet urgency. "First things first, we'll get you treated."

He steered them through the labyrinth of narrow, dimly lit corridors, his boots echoing on the stone floor. 

The air was thick with the scent of strange herbs and the faint tang of bubbling concoctions. They passed rooms filled with shelves lined with jars, each one more mysterious than the last—some with glowing liquids, others with dried roots and powders that looked almost magical. 

The journey felt like a walk through an ancient alchemist's dream. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, they reached a small, cluttered room.

Inside, a man stood over a cauldron, his movements deliberate and practiced, stirring something that fizzed and bubbled with an eerie glow. His eyes remained focused on his work, and he didn't bother to look up as the guard entered.

"What do you need?" The man's voice was flat, accustomed to the weight of requests.

"The Lord sent us," the guard replied, his tone serious but tinged with respect. "He wants you to heal them."

The man's hands paused for a moment, and he glanced up from his work, eyes narrowing as they fell on the pair. His gaze flicked between them before he asked, "Who are they?"

The guard hesitated, then spoke with quiet reverence, "The last of the Frostbanes."

For a brief moment, the man's expression shifted—eyes wide with surprise, and something deeper, almost reverential, flickering across his face. 

He didn't speak, but his hand moved quickly to the shelves behind him, grabbing a vial with swift precision. 

"This is a high-grade healing potion," he said, his tone now softer but still brisk. "It should take care of those injuries in no time. Drink it slowly, and you'll feel it working within moments."

He handed the vial to them, his eyes lingering on the Frostbanes for just a moment longer before he returned to his task, already focused on the next brew.

Leora took the delicate vial with an air of refinement, tilting it to her lips. As the liquid touched her tongue, a wave of warmth spread through her, and, with a subtle shiver, her wounds began to close, as if by magic. 

She exhaled slowly, regaining her composure, and then, with effortless grace, she grasped the edges of her cloak and lifted it slightly in a refined curtsy.

"You have my deepest gratitude, sir," she said, her voice a melodic whisper, each syllable uttered with poised elegance.

The healer, clearly taken aback by her formal manners, let out a hearty laugh. "This is the North, my lady," he said, shaking his head with a grin. "No need for such grand gestures here."

Lucian observed the exchange, struggling to grasp the fleeting memories of his mother teaching Leora the courtesies of the South. He thought 'I do remember mom teaching her way of South but I can't remember mom name or face.'

Lucian took the potion next, feeling the cold sensation of it slide down his throat. But his injuries remained—untouched, unhealed.

The man blinked in surprise and scratched his head. "Those injuries... were they from an artifact or something?"

Lucian shook his head. "I'm not sure."

The man's brows furrowed, then he handed Lucian a blue-colored potion. "This is a pure energy potion. It'll remove any aftereffects left by the artifact."

Lucian drank the potion, the warmth spreading through him, but still, nothing seemed to change. The man looked confused, then stepped closer, checking Lucian's pulse.

"Are you hungry, kid?" he asked.

Lucian nodded, a small pang of hunger gnawing at him. "I haven't eaten in a week, I think."

The man grunted and handed him another potion. "Drink this. It'll make you feel full for the next week."

Lucian took the potion and felt a strange sensation. Suddenly, he was no longer in the room. Instead, he found himself in a dark void—a place familiar to him. The same void he had encountered when he died.

Author note: Skalds means poets. (I am uploading chapter after four months, but now they will be continuous. I think (chuckles.))