The wind in the north bit harder than in Valebast.
It cut through Torik's cloak as he rode, even with the sun overhead. The trees here were bare-armed and proud, as if they knew winter's edge lingered no matter the season. Hills rolled gently around him, dotted with low stone watchtowers and thin banners that snapped in the wind. He had left two of Kell's scouts at the border and gone forward alone, just as instructed. The road to Icentall lay straight, but not simple.
Torik had never been this far north. He'd done his research though, Lord Farris, young, untested in war but shrewd. His lands remained untouched in the last conflict, not because of strength but neutrality, a neutrality Kell needed to break.
Which meant Torik needed to speak convincingly.
But before he did that, he needed to know what kind of man he was about to meet.
When the walls of Icentall finally came into view, solid grey stone built with no ornament, Torik veered off the main road. He skirted the outer fields on foot, weaving through smallfolk cottages and tradesmen's streets, a face among many.
He spent the day listening.
He bought ale at a quiet tavern near the eastern district and played the role of a traveling peddler. People talked when they drank. Talked about the city, about Farris.
They admired him.
But they also whispered.
Lord Farris had no bride. No mistress. No children. He hosts musicians from the capital, men with soft voices and softer hands. Once, he'd built a private garden inside the keep for a "companion" who vanished right before a Bound priest paid him a visit.
The Bound's dogma was clear. A man who loved men was an abomination, and they have made show of those they found.
Torik listened. Took notes in his mind. And said nothing.
By dusk, he rode to the gates.
The guards stopped him at spearpoint. He didn't raise his hands. He didn't bow.
He just said, loud enough for every soldier to hear:
"I am Torik. Of Valebast. I come as envoy for Lord Kell Ysara."
One of the guards raised his eyebrow, "Torik who, we were expecting a lord not a boy."
Torik looked up at the man, "Torik of the Valebast slums, I'm no highborn."
The laughter was immediate.
Not cruel, exactly. But mocking.
A boy from the gutters, claiming parley with lords.
They escorted him inside anyway. He had the House Ysara seal.
The keep was less a palace and more a fortress, utilitarian, harsh, efficient. He was led into a hall ringed with guards and flanked by marble columns so plain they may as well have been quarried yesterday.
Lord Farris sat on a raised platform. He looked younger than Torik expected. Maybe mid-twenties. Slender but tall, dressed in blue-trimmed black. His expression was unreadable.
"You are not Kell," Farris said as Torik was announced.
"No," Torik replied. "He sent me."
A guard whispered into Farris's ear.
Farris raised a brow.
"You are Torik... of the slums?"
"That's right."
A few guards chuckled.
Torik didn't flinch. "I came because we need your help. Kell's army is small but growing. The king's army is larger and moving. Galrick leads it. He'll be at our gates within weeks."
"That is not my concern," Farris said smoothly. "My people are safe. My walls hold."
"They won't if the king wins," Torik replied. "You think neutrality protects you? The Bound don't respect neutrality. They respect obedience."
Farris rose from his seat, descending the steps with measured calm. "You come to my court and insult my alliances?"
"I come here with eyes open," Torik said. "And ears. The Bound don't just kill their enemies. They punish difference. They punish those who don't conform."
Farris stilled.
Torik held his gaze.
"Their scriptures list the names of sins. And they don't care how noble your blood is if you love the wrong person."
The silence was sharp. A blade poised at the edge of denial.
A few guards nervously eyed each other.
Farris's mouth moved slightly. Then he looked away.
"You speak boldly. For a gutterborn."
"I speak honestly. For someone who wants to see Kell win."
Another long pause.
Farris turned to one of his attendants. "Prepare a room for our guest."
Torik blinked. "So you'll-"
"I will send two thousand spears to Kell's banner," Farris said. "And my oath."
Torik let out a slow breath.
"Thank you."
Farris glanced back. "Not for you. For the kingdom. And because I won't let men who hate me wear my colors."
Torik said nothing more.
He had what he came for.
But that night, they dined together.
The meal was quiet, consisting of roasted venison and wine so sharp it bit the tongue. Farris asked no small questions. He wanted the names of other lords. Who was wavering. Who was loyal. What the mood in Valebast had been since Ysara's death. Torik gave him everything. Truth, not dressed up. Just what he knew.
"Do you believe in Kell?" Farris asked as they drank.
"I believe in what he makes me want to be," Torik said. "I grew up thinking no one decent made it far. But he... he gives a damn. And that might be enough."
Farris didn't respond. But he refilled Torik's cup himself.
They spoke of war, yes. But they also spoke of men. Of power. Of the invisible lines people drew around their lives. Farris confessed that he had expected someone more polished. More diplomatic. Torik laughed and said he could fake it but hadn't earned it.
Farris raised a toast. "To the unpolished, then."
Torik clinked his cup against the lord's. "To the ones who aren't ordinary."
When Torik left the next morning, he rode out with a small company of riders, their banners furled. Lord Farris would follow soon with the rest.
The north would not remain silent.
And Torik, for the first time, rode not as a thief, not as a veilbinder, but as something else entirely.
An envoy. A voice. A herald of a king the realm had not yet crowned.
But perhaps one it needed.