Dyrian of Kovalinn, his eyes pearl gray, smiled at his pet fondly. He was only a century old, the youngest Veder to rule upon the Ward. His white face was spattered with freckles; his clothing was plain: a brown cloak trimmed in black sable, the bear on his tunic picked out in amber, jet, and swirling jasper. There was a twisted circle of gold around his throat to match one on his wrist, but he wore no crown. In his lap there was a living pine bough, its needles a lush hunter green.

Ridha knelt, her fur cloak over one shoulder, the steel of her armor still cold from the ride up the fjord. She watched him keenly, weighing his youth.

The boy was not alone: advisors fanned around him, either seated or standing. Kesar stood at his right hand, unbothered by the sleeping bear. On his left was clearly his mother, her hair as red as his own, gathered into two long braids beneath a circlet of hammered iron. She was broad, similar in build to Ridha, a cloud of white fox fur around her shoulders, a chain-mail gown pouring over her crossed legs. Her eyes were flint, unblinking.

The princess of Iona weighed the Monarch against his diplomats. Who commands the enclave? Who speaks for Kovalinn? Who do I have to convince?

“He’s larger than usual,” Dyrian said, straightening in his chair. It was too big for him; his fur boots dangled over the flagstones of the raised dais. He looked younger than his decades, his face still clinging to fat. There was a sword at his side and a dagger in his boot, suited to his small size.

“Putting on fat for the winter sleep,” he added, smiling a toothy grin, showing a gap between his teeth.

The smile did not reach his eyes.

Ridha raised her chin. Her focus narrowed to the Monarch, and not the others, who lived thousands of years between them.

“And what of you, my lord?” she said. “Do you intend to sleep as well?”

Behind him, his mother’s mouth twitched but did not open. As Ridha had guessed, no one spoke for Dyrian but Dyrian.

The boy rested his hands on the arms of his chair, the wood carved in the likeness of his pet.

“I was told Ionians dance around the point,” he said, amused. His gray-white eyes belonged to a wolf, not a child. “Not you, Princess.”

“Not me,” she answered.

Her skin crawled with a shiver. The great hall of Kovalinn was a long room beneath a thatched roof, the walls made of cut lumber. Today it served as the Monarch’s throne room, emptied of onlookers but for his council. Two open pits ran the length of the chamber behind her, shimmering with hot coals and lit flames, but the great doors were swung wide, letting in the echoes of winter. Snow danced along the flagstones, swirling around her boots.

Ridha tried to ignore the cold. “What did my mother tell you in her sending?”

He tapped a finger against his lips, thinking. “Enough,” he finally answered. “A Spindle torn, the rest in danger. Blood and blade in the wrong hands, serving What Waits and his devouring hunger.”

Her insides twisted. It was a song she knew well, but she winced every time it was sung.

Dyrian leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees. His wolf eyes flashed. “A calamity already beyond our control.”

Ridha stood gracefully, her jaw set. “I disagree.”

The boy grinned again, looking sidelong at his mother. Her eyes sparked to his, conveying a message Ridha could not read.

“Oh, I thought you were here for a social visit,” he said, shrugging. “So, then, Ridha of Iona, what do you want of us?”

No, those with endless years tend not to worry about time lost. Even when they should, Ridha thought, biting her tongue. Again she looked over the advisors, weighing their influence as she weighed Dyrian’s. I’m not a diplomat, she thought. I’m no good at this.

Dom would be far worse.

“I want you to fight,” she bit out, laying a hand on her sword. Her eyes dropped to the pine bough in his lap. “Lay down the branch, take up the ax.” She felt desperate. She sounded desperate. Ridha hated it but would not stop. If I have to beg, so be it. “The Ward is not yet lost. And I don’t think it’s worth losing.”

“Not like your mother does,” Dyrian muttered. “The Monarch of Iona is Glorianborn. I cannot fault her for seizing any opportunity to return to the land of our ancestors, the realm that sings in her blood. She aches for home, as so many do.” He turned in his chair, assessing the other immortals. A few were silver-haired, thousands of years old, their hearts in another realm too. They stared, silent, their faces like a stone wall no one could ever climb.

Ridha felt sick, her stomach twisting.

Then the Monarch looked back to her, his wolf eyes alight.

“I do not,” he said sternly.

She felt the breath leave her body. “My lord—”

His mother stood, her dress of mail shimmering like scales on a fish. She was near seven feet tall, milk-skinned, a warrior queen with scars on her knuckles.

“What brought you here?” she demanded. There was a strange rasp to her voice, unnatural. Ridha gulped, spotting another scar, a pearly line of white cut across her throat. “Of all the enclaves? We are not the strongest nor the largest. The journey is not easy, even before the winter, even for an immortal such as you. Why us, Ridha of Iona?”

“The raiders of the Watchful Sea have not raided; no gray sails fly,” she said simply. It was no use to tell them she heard this at a no-name tavern, from mortals already fading to dust.

“Their longboats haven’t been spotted this season. The towns and villages of the southern kingdoms have not burned.” It had been decades, but Ridha still remembered the sight of longboats on the water, emerging from a cloud of smoke with flame at their backs. Like dragons rising out of the sea.

The Vedera of Kovalinn did not answer.

Ridha crept forward. If this was victory, she could feel it in her fingers, nearly slipping. “What are they running from?”

“Running?” Dyrian scoffed. He eyed his mother, still standing, nearly a bear herself. “No, the raiders of the Jyd do not run.”

Fear lanced down Ridha’s spine. Fear . . . and hope. Her voice shook. “Then what are they preparing to fight?”

On the floor, the bear stirred, yawning his fearsome jaws. His teeth were three inches long, yellow and dripping. He looked up at his master and blinked sleepy, warm eyes. Again, Dyrian scratched his fur, earning a satisfied hum from the bear’s throat.