The First Root

The gates of Veyrakar stood open.

Once called Lareth Varn under the Empire, the city was broad-shouldered and walled in pale stone, perched above the Seran River like a lion keeping watch over its prey. The banners of the Pale Falcon had already been stripped down days ago, torn and discarded by the townsfolk before the first of Harkoraal's vanguard had even crossed the outer bridge.

Now the Black Wolf flew.

Senjar rode at the front.

He did not smile to the crowd that watched in wary silence from arched balconies and narrow alleyways. His horse moved at a slow, deliberate pace. Behind him followed his guard battered riders of the war, marked by dust and dried blood, bearing the banner that had shattered the plains.

The city had not resisted. Word of the Governor's defeat at Tivar Crossing had arrived two days ahead of him. The garrison had fled. The noble families locked their gates and waited. And when Senjar entered, he did so as victor.

The square before the old provincial palace had been cleared. Stone steps scrubbed, the hall opened for the first time in a month. No soldiers stood in defense of it. Only the city's people, watching.

Senjar dismounted, and stepped up the stairs alone.

He paused before the great ironwood doors, then turned.

His voice rang out not shouted, but projected like iron on stone.

"From this day forward," he said, "this city is no longer Varn. No longer a keep for the Empire. This is Veyrakar, seat of the black wolf, capital of Harkoraal Arlic."

A stillness passed through the crowd. Then murmurs. Then bows.

And behind him, the banner was raised again.

The Black Wolf had a throne now.

By midday, the hall had been cleared. The governor's tapestries removed. The marble floor washed and the old banners cast into the fire pit beneath the northern hearth.

Senjar sat at the center of the long chamber.

No crown. No ceremony. Just a carved chair of dark stone and iron, once made for the Empire's hand. Now reforged. Behind him stood Rell and two of his guard. On his right, Gavren sat, shoulder still wrapped from the wound he'd taken in the last battle.

He turned to a scout.

"Ride to Tathar's Cross," Senjar ordered. "Tell Mara I want her here. Bring Radan Tol as well. And tell them… we are no longer a tribe. We are a state. They are to begin the records of rule."

The scout bowed and departed.

Another courier stepped forward.

Senjar looked at him. "And the elders?"

"They're on their way, my Arl. From the mountains and the southern tribes. All loyal. They ride fast."

Senjar nodded. "Good. I want them all here."

Then he turned to Kaelric and Varrik, standing before him.

"Rest now for today. Tomorrow you will each take two thousand men. Divide the province. Every town. Every fort. Every village and ridge and watchtower will be Harkoraal now."

Kaelric grinned. "About time."

"You'll go with Gavren," Senjar said, pointing to Varrik. "And Rasa will go with Kaelric. The people must see Harkoraal now as rulers. Not the Empire."

Both men bowed, then left the chamber.

Only Rell and Gavren remained.

Senjar looked up at the great arch above the throne. The space where once hung the Empire's seal was empty now.

"Make a new crest," Senjar said.

"What should it be?" Rell asked.

Senjar stood.

"A black wolf. One paw raised. Standing above a broken crown."

Then he looked out the tall windows over the city, the rooftops, the smoke from the smithy chimneys, the river beyond.

"This city is ours. This land is ours."

"And now," he said, stepping back toward the seat of power, "it is time they call me what I am."

He sat.

And for the first time, in the city now named Veyrakar, beneath the wolf banner and the eyes of all Harkoraal.

Senjar was named High Arl of Harkoraal Arlic.

The wind through the palace arches carried the scent of river reed and new stone. Somewhere below, stonemasons were chiseling down the old sigils from Veyrakar's walls falcons, laurels, and the marble relief of a long dead emperor's face. In its place, a wolf was rising.

Senjar stood in the council chamber, its long windows open to the light, its round table made anew from red pine, shaped without Imperial patterns. Not a throne room. A war hall. A planning den.

A government chamber, for what would come next.

The doors opened.

Mara entered first.

She wore only her usual dark coat dusted from the road. Behind her came Radan Tol, more soldier than officer now, eyes sharper, shoulders square. With them came several scribes and three carts bearing ledgers, scrolls, and wax seals.

They bowed before Senjar.

Mara did not wait for ceremony.

"You asked for order. I bring parchment," she said, setting the scroll cases before the table.

Senjar smiled faintly. "I asked for a city."

"And you'll have it. But it will run by rule, not just will."

She stepped beside the table and opened a scroll. "We start here. Food stores, water tables, grain trade. Then coin and tax. Then guards and land titles. I need full control of the treasury and council to do it right."

"You'll have it," Senjar said. "And the title?"

Mara gave a dry smirk. "Call me what you want. But if I run the state, I want it clear, I speak in your name. I act by your seal. If I burn a thief's warehouse, I want the wolf behind it."

"Done," Senjar said.

She looked at him.

"Then I'll make this a capital worth keeping."

As Mara turned to her work, another sound echoed from the main gate below.

Drums.

Low and slow. The rhythm of returning tribes.

Senjar stepped to the balcony as the procession entered the square not military, but ancestral. Elders from Harkoraal tribe approached, each wearing the marks of their kin. No horsemen. Only walkers.

The city paused to watch.

Senjar met them in the outer court.

He did not sit. He did not raise his voice.

He placed a single hand upon his chest, and bowed low.

"I was Arl of the wandering. Now I am Arl of what we build."

The oldest among them, a white-eyed woman, stepped forward. She carried only a polished piece of stone, old and smooth.

She placed it at Senjar's feet.

"The first root," she said.

Each elder followed suit. No words. Only offerings. Flint from the southern mines. A vial of riverwater from the east. A broken spear from a lost chief. And at the end, a small bundle of scorched grain, bound with black thread.

Senjar knelt and took them all.

"These will stand in the heartstone hall," he said. "For every law passed, we will remember who bled before it."

The elders bowed.

No crown was placed. No throne was built taller.

But in that moment, the tribe of Harkoraal became a nation.

Later that evening, as torches were lit across the terraces, Senjar met with Kaelric's second scout in the garden chamber.

Kaelric had crossed the midlands. Varrik was two days from the eastern hills. Every town surrendered. Two castles held still both fortified. Senjar read the parchment twice, then handed it to Mara.

"Let them take them," he said. "Tell Kaelric to break no walls if he doesn't have to. But let them know if they fight, they lose the right to kneel."

"And our borders?" Mara asked.

"Locked down," Senjar replied. "By spring, Harkoraal ends where the mountains rise."

"And after spring?" she said.

Senjar looked out the tall window, where the black wolf banner rippled above Veyrakar.

"We will see."

The black banners of Harkoraal no longer marked camps or battlefields. Now they flew from the ramparts of Veyrakar's citadel stitched not only by hand, but by blood and declaration. This was no longer the Imperial capital of a broken province. It was the heart of something else.

Harkoraal Arlic.

And Senjar sat upon its seat.

Not crowned in gold, nor hailed in song but named. Named by the warriors who had survived Tivar Crossing, by the elders of the tribes who had marched through fire to reach him, by the new lords whose loyalties were forged in war.

He was now High Arl of Harkoraal Arlic, and the people knew it.

The throne was not ornate no falcon crests, no silk banners. It was carved of Iskorith granite, rough-edged, set high above the council floor of the old hall. From here, Senjar heard the steps of war echo on stone. From here, he would command the future.

Mara stood at the base of the dais, Radan Tol at her side, fresh dust on their cloaks. Behind them came the last of the tribal elders Morva, Garrin, Telmar, and half a dozen others who had once stood beneath canvas halls in the snow, now come to see what they had bled to build.

They bowed.

Senjar rose from the throne.

"No Empire commands this city," he said. "No falcon watches from its towers. From this day, Veyrakar belongs to no crown but our own."

The silence was solemn. But strong.

Senjar turned next to Garrin.

"You told me about the Duke. What do we know of the him?"

Garrin stepped forward.

"His name is Vaeren Athros Varkaan," Garrin said. "The Emperor's younger brother. Forty-three winters. Ruthless. Cold. Efficient. His rule stretches across all eastern Varkaan. And every noble in his domain answers to him before the crown."

"Does he have an army?" Mara asked.

"Two standing legions. Possibly more. He commands trade routes from the east coast to the inland passes. If the Empire holds the sword, the Duke holds the purse."

"Family?" Senjar asked.

"One daughter. Aelira Vaeren. Twenty one years of age. Educated at the Imperial Academy. Wields no magic. But she governs half his provinces in his name. Some say she's sharper than her father. Others whisper the Emperor fears her more than her father."

"And his relationship with the Emperor?" Senjar asked.

"Tense," Garrin replied. "Not yet shattered. But strained. The Duke commands loyalty from half the realm. The Emperor commands only fear."

Senjar nodded slowly.

"So the west belongs to the crown. But the east… belongs to him."

"And now, Arl," Garrin said, "our lands Iskorith border his and that of Emperor."

Senjar stepped down from the dais, his boots thudding on the polished stone.

"Send no threat," he said. "Send a gift."

Mara raised a brow. "A gift?"

"A blade, folded in the steel of Tivar. Wrapped in cloth marked with the wolf. Carried by a quiet man."

"What shall the message say?" Garrin asked.

Senjar gave a faint smile.

"Let it say: We remember who stood. We remember who watched. And we know who will come next."

He turned and looked toward the high windows where the wolf banner snapped in the evening wind.

"And if he is watching…"

Senjar's voice dropped to a whisper.

"…then let him see what we've become."

He turned back toward Garrin, voice low.

"Let word spread. Let the Duke see the wolf doesn't retreat after its first kill."

"You want to provoke him?" Garrin asked.

"I want him to wonder. I want his nobles questioning what I'll do next."

Garrin gave a small nod. "And what will you do?"

Senjar approached the council table and touched the edge of the map Mara had marked earlier that morning. His finger traced the border between Iskorith and the eastern provinces ruled by Duke Vaeren.

"We hold the province," Senjar said. "That much is now certain. But power gained on the battlefield can still be lost at the border."

He looked up, eyes hard.

"Tomorrow, I'll send emissaries. Traders. Spies. Quiet men with open ears. I want to know every movement at Vaeren's court. I want to know how he breathes."

Garrin folded his arms. "And the daughter?"

"Aelira," Senjar murmured, testing the name on his tongue. "Send her a gift. A rare gift. And watch her every move."

"A hawk with black feathers?"

Senjar gave a small smile. "No. Something rarer than a hawk."

"What then?"

"Truth. Wrapped in courtesy. No more, no less."

Garrin raised a brow.

"Is this diplomacy?"

"No," Senjar said, turning back toward the window. "I just want to know more about her."