The ancient city lay dark and silent in the fjord beneath the last full moon of winter. The night was relieved only by the hearthfires that glowed from paneled windows here and there along the winding, shrouded streets, sheltered by tall stone walls whose origins were now lost to memory. Sparks struck against the darkness, little havens of warmth against the icy air.

Down from the mountains into which the city had been dug, a bitter wind tore over the walls and searched for weaknesses in the stone to slip into and shatter. But the city held fast, as it had for thousands of years, since the days of the old ones and their beloved chieftain.

Goddess-born, so she was. The Bear-Mother of all men. The first of her kind to teach them to shift their shapes and take the form of the kings of the wild north. It was those fierce-throated ones, the ones whose steps shook the earth, whose unyielding claws once shaped and carved their souls into the very ice, leaving cracks that branched and spread deep into the heart of the earth so that the lifeblood of its core flowed back into them. She, whose name is also What Might Be and The Lightseeder, had brought them to this sacred land to build the first stronghold and to live free.

And such was the birth of Aesirlund, the God-Lands.

High above these winding streets towered the citadel, a soaring edifice of stone and glasswork. And in one window, a broad silhouette stood silently, watching.

At the gates of the city, there was a small commotion that drew the attention of the watcher. After a few minutes, the gates were opened, and a rider slipped out into the night.

As the figure of the solitary traveler receded across the bridge into the dark horizon, the sky began to awaken above the city. Rods of vivid green light blossomed, then undulated slowly across the stars in hypnotic, pulsing waves, forming and reforming. Within the bands of light, a single star burned brighter than the others.

Below the city, beneath the massive bridge that connected it to the mainland, the inky, icy waters of the fjord flowed languidly, reflecting back the heavenly display. From the top of the citadel, the silhouette watched it all for a few more moments, then turned away.

Three hundred miles to the southwest, a woman stood at a very different window, in a very different tower. She watched the star. Behind her, she heard the latch on the door turn, locking her in for yet another night.

The sun rose brightly over the warm stone walls and crenellations of the royal city of Lovissia, bathing it and the surrounding grasslands in a golden glow. A faint breeze swept across the grass and rippled in waves down to the craggy coastline of an azure sea.

The city, in whose southern districts busy citizens were rising, or had risen hours ago, was the work of many generations. Perhaps the greatest testament to this fact was the great observatory. Set in the northeastern district, its looming structure was topped by a golden dome. This was both an architectural feat in itself, and a reflection of the veneration in which its scholarly vocations were held.

Surrounding it was the Royal College of Lovissia, with great halls of learning, humbler dormitories for students, and pleasant gardens. Flowering trees and fragrant blooms filled the lawns and spread westward down the main avenues towards the northwestern districts, where the noblest families’ great estates presided over the city from above with paternal tolerance.

At the very heart of this rich city lay a sprawling palace of rosy stone and rich mosaics. It was a most impressive sight for both the newly arrived visitor and longstanding citizen alike. Its present occupant had taken a great interest in expanding and enhancing its charms — with a generous, though involuntary, contribution of taxed gold from its citizens — into a true pleasure palace that drew the envy of every noble for an invitation from within.

On the second floor in the east wing, down tapestried corridors and soaring pointed archways suspending filmy drapery, was a large, bright and well-appointed breakfast room. In it was spread a great table laid with food and drink. And round this table sat three stately women dressed in the finest gowns, in jewels and veils rich with color.

The oldest of these, a dark-haired woman with graying temples and a comfortable frame, sat complacently sipping from a flagon of watered-down wine. Before her was a plate of delightful-smelling pastry. Beside her, the two younger women chattered amongst themselves. They made faces at each other, glancing every so often at her plate, which she affected not to notice. How tiresome they were both were, with their melon slices and terror over waistlines.

At the table’s head stood a tall man, with a refined build that spoke to centuries of careful breeding. He was dressed in honey-colored robes of a fine, soft cloth and trimmed with gold embroidery. A slender gold circlet sat upon his olive brow, and his silver hair hung down his back in a sheet to his waist. From his neck hung a pendant of gold set with precious stones and set with a most curious, intricately wrought serpent.

His face was handsome and cruel, and his lip curled as he silently read a letter. It had been delivered to him just moments ago by the exhausted messenger, who had traversed the snowy tundras of the north in an astonishing sennight’s time in order to make his errand.

“Breakfast, Your Serene Highness?”

Astan, Pashan of Verunia, glanced up from the letter, his yellow-golden eyes flashing. He gave an impatient wave, returning his attention to its contents. The servant carefully laid a dish of poached eggs and pastry before the Pashan, then silently backed away.

Astan read the letter through once more to be sure, then made a sound of amusement as he finally seated himself.

“Do you hear this, my dear?” He waved the letter at the most senior lady, who looked at it without interest. “This barbarian has the gall to not only threaten our peace, but to demand, as retribution, these so-called disputed lands.”

“What lands, Your Highness?”

The Pashana, Queen Consort and first wife of His Serene Highness, took a deep bite of her pastry. To her right, the Pashan’s two younger wives took even less notice, deep in conversation with each other over a delightfully scandalous affair at court.

“Of course, they barged in right when it was in her mouth!”

This last line was uttered by the youngest wife without much sense of discretion. The Pashana caught this salacious detail and reflected not for the first time, what a relief it was to leave the Pashan’s earthlier needs to the other young pashanas.

After bearing a beautiful daughter, now nearly grown, followed by two healthy boys, she had earned the right to indulge herself for the rest of her days in good food and her own pursuits of interest, whatever — and whoever — they might be.

Not that this letter could count as such; she had no mind for political affairs, and experience had taught her that her own opinion was never desired anyway. But she knew her duty well enough to show concern.

Astan continued, waving the letter in emphasis. “Lands that are rightfully under the protection of Verunia. Never mind that. If this Northern barbarian cannot safeguard an entire region of people, then he has no right to claim them as his own. Ha,” he scoffed again, re-reading the last portion. “‘Or my life shall be forfeit.’ How very eloquent for a savage. We must congratulate him on being able to spell the word.”

“I hope you may not fear for your life, Husband,” said the Queen Consort complacently.

“I fear only that my patience may suffer from continued insult,” replied Astan. “But this barbarian, this Jarl Torben Volundbjorn of Erundfjal as he styles himself, has a reputation for fighting like an animal. What a nuisance. Ho, you there!” He called to a servant standing at attention by the spacious paneled doors. “Fetch the Lord Commander.” The servant bowed silently and departed.

“Forfeit indeed,” muttered Astan, then picked up a fork and stabbed at his eggs.

A few minutes later, a figure appeared in the doorway, his silhouette slightly shadowed by the morning light behind him. He stepped into the room and bowed deeply.

To the Queen Consort’s amusement, the young pashanas came alive suddenly, flirting and fluttering their eyes. They both thought the Lord Commander a striking and virile man, if not quite fine enough to be called handsome. He was middle-aged, with a dusky golden countenance, close-cropped, salt-and-pepper hair, and a firm build beneath his fine leather armor.

“Brevir.” Astan raised a hand in acknowledgement.

“Your Royal Highness, I am at your command,” said Brevir with a curt nod.

Astan drank deeply from his chalice. “How quickly could a third of the legion be shifted to our northernmost outposts?”

If the Lord Commander of the Armed Forces were surprised by this improbable question, he hid it well under impassive features.

After a moment’s pause, he said, “Your Highness, our men are somewhat scattered. It will take time to consolidate supply lines to the north. You will recall that our concentrations have been on the west—”

“Yes, yes, I’m not an idiot. I gave the order, after all,” interrupted Astan. “How quickly, then, do you estimate we would need, say, two hundred men and three ships, should we be required to maintain our northern borders from this idiot bear?”

Octurus Brevir considered, knowing that the Pashan would likely not appreciate any kind of answer above a few days. But two move nearly two thousand men that distance in three days? It was nothing short of ridiculous. And what of the rebellions in the west that his men were busy quelling?

“Your Highness, we can have two hundred arms moved within three days. The fleet, possibly, with good winds, as you know. Any more will require serious time and coordination—especially our naval forces.”

Astan sighed and steepled his fingers together. “It won’t do. The barbarians move quickly, they may already be preparing to advance. Damn this Torben half-wit.”

Numbers would not be their most pressing concern, thought Brevir. He also thought it prudent to refrain from pointing out that this so-called half-wit jarl had managed to secure the eastern border of his hold from invaders with an army half the size of their enemy. It was said that the Aesirlunders could use magic, too, though this had only ever been a rumor. And of course, if Astan truly thought the Northman’s army so incapable, he wouldn’t be so anxious to secure a bloody third of the legion for an invasion. Brevir sighed internally.

“Shall I give the orders, Sire, to move the two hundred to the north?” he asked instead.

“Yes. No, stay—” Astan raised a hand.

A thought had occurred to the Pashan and his eyes gleamed anew. “Move the men. However…I have also had the most delightful idea. This jarl is known to be an ambitious man. Doubtlessly a foolhardy one as well. A jarl with no heir, however, is a ruler whose power dwindles day by day.”

Brevir gazed back at him carefully. “Sire?”

“This jarl has no court, yes? No wife—or woman, or whatever titles these barbarians use. And no heirs.”

Brevir cast his mind back to what intelligence he had on the Jarl of Erundfjal. “He was married, I believe, some time in the past…sickness took both wife and child.”

“Ah. How strange, then, that he should not take a new wife to secure his line. Perhaps he has a few bastards waiting in the wings. Their lines of succession are not so correct as ours.” Astan considered for a moment. “I wonder what ambitions would induce the bear to remarry,” he mused, then let his gaze rest squarely on Brevir’s.

The Lord Commander waited a few moments but the Pashan seemed to be teasing him to guess. He had an idea of where this was going and sighed inwardly. “You mean…?”

Astan leaned back and regarded Brevir. “Suppose that we offer him a compromise—the hand of our royal daughter and, say, a sizable tract of land in exchange for a peaceful end to this…unfortunate border dispute.”

For the first time in this exchange, the Pashana started and dropped her pastry. “Husband, you cannot mean to give our Lilliv to this savage?”

Astan waved a hand reassuringly. “Of course not. Here is the brilliant part. We will send that girl—the one Brevir found—for a royal wedding. By the time she arrives, and that idiot discovers he’s been duped, we will have amassed our army in plenty of time to meet his wrath.” He laughed at his own jest.

The Pashana stared at him doubtfully, and Octurus felt compelled to say, “Are you certain, Your Highness? It is a…an enterprising plan, to be sure, but risky. It could be perceived poorly to our friendly neighboring kingdoms that we should engage in such subterfuge with a royal impersonator. And we have not yet discovered the identity of the outlander. Should she be of noble blood—”

Astan waved a hand. “Brevir, please. Two and a half moons have passed and no one has come to collect her. She’s nobody, and certainly indebted to us for her safekeeping. As for the question of perception—well, there is nothing in the whole of Aesirlund to compare to our civilized realms in the south, yea, even those we war with. No kingdoms in these northern wastelands, only earldoms, and what do they even preside over? Nothing but ice and snow. No, depend upon it—it will be seen as a great joke—and a stroke of victory against barbarism—to trick these savages into thinking they’ve gained a great coup.”

As if considering the matter concluded, the Pashan pushed back his chair and rose. “Meanwhile, what have we promised? Nothing. The girl has obviously no royal blood and is princess of nothing, so no lands can be snatched from us by that score. And while all of it unfolds, we will have the time we need to consolidate our men in preparation for whatever senseless attack that this jarl no doubt plans on making—whether or not we offer him anything.”

Brevir’s jaw tightened imperceptibly at the callousness of the Pashan’s speech. He could not help asking, “And what of the girl?”

Astan waved a dismissive hand. “What of her?”

Brevir forced himself to breathe evenly. “What of her safekeeping once she is in the hands of an unpredictable warlord?”

Now the Pashan turned his gaze towards the grave commander, his eyes cold and dark. The air in the room was suddenly heavy and stagnant, and the two young pashanas fell silent from their chatter.

When the Pashan of Verunia spoke, his voice was low and flat. “What a question to ask me, Lord Commander.”

Not quite knowing what he was doing, Brevir found himself staring back at Astan almost challengingly, his burning gaze leveled against his sovereign’s. It was a stupid show of insolence, he knew, but he felt suddenly volatile inside, seething with a white hot fury that was as shocking as it was sudden. And as he stared at his lord, Astan’s gaze grew almost incredulous at this subtle dissent.

Finally, Brevir wrenched his eyes from Astan’s and the tension broke. The Lord Commander remained quiet for a moment, regaining his composure. It was a foolish risk to incite potential revenge on the part of the Jarl of Erundfjal through an insulting prank. It was also the sworn duty of Octurus Brevir to protect Verunia at all costs, but he knew the disposition of the Pashan and the likelihood of shifting his mind at present.

“Very well, Your Serene Highness, I will prepare a letter for you to sign, proposing the marriage for the courier to return to the Jarl of Erundfjal.” He bowed briefly.

“Do that,” snapped Astan, regaining his composure, “and then see to it that the ‘bride’ is brought to me directly.”

Octurus Brevir quelled an internal sigh as he poured over an unfurled map of the continent, spread across the large, handsomely carved table in the pashan’s private quarters. Across from him, Pashan Astan frowned thoughtfully down at the map, turning the large jeweled ring set on his forefinger round and round with an absent thumb.

He knew better than to contradict his pashan’s justifications, but the unspoken truth was that Verunia had been steadily creeping farther north over the past ten years. North to where the mountains of Aesirlund held vast resources of ore, silver and copper—materials that were desperately needed for Verunian armory, commerce, astronomical devices, and the fashionable tastes of the nobility.

Verunian mines were running dry, no matter how much they worked to keep this a secret from most of Verunian society. The pretense of gaining this “disputed land” was no better than the first step in a long-term strategy to secure a solid supply road into the heart of Aesirlund.

The Aesirlunders, meanwhile, were not a unified nation. Instead they were a scattering of jarldoms and towns, hunting camps and fishing villages along the cold northern seas and freshwater rivers that surged through the tundra, flush with snowmelt in the spring. A strong and hardy people, to be sure, but no match for the disciplined strength of Verunia’s armies.

The villages could easily be wiped out, and then Verunian peasantry sent to settle camps along the supply road. A dirty business, by all counts. But he was not one to question his pashan’s orders. Still, it was not a campaign that he looked forward to with any great joy.

There was Skaldhavn to consider, perhaps. But as a maritime city on the western coast of Aesirulund almost directly north of Lovissia, it was more invested in commerce than warfare. With some military persuasion and extremely favorable conditions for Verunia, Skaldhavn probably would be more profitable as a mercantile ally than a conquest.

And then there was Erundfjal, of course—an anomaly of civilization adrift in the northeastern wilds. Jarl Torben would be no man to underestimate, and it was his holdings that held the most mining, if the most recent survey maps, taken discreetly, were to be believed. Brevir’s mind drifted north, remembering the tales he’d heard of the strange, ancient city. He wondered if any of them were true.

A sound came at the great doors to the Pashan’s quarters, then opened to reveal the Royal Steward. In his wake, the strange woman followed. Brevir watched as her eyes took in everything, then slid towards his own in recognition. She smiled slightly and he inclined his head in response.

The Royal Steward bowed. “The outlander is here, Your Highness.”

The Pashan ordered the door to be shut, then he turned and smiled patronizingly upon beholding the young woman. Then he halted and stared at her.

Her coloring was like the Saxels of the middling tribes of the continent. She was pale, with hair as vibrant as flax in high summer, tawny and bright. But there was something else in her face…something familiar that filled him with a startlingly intense hatred, deep and primal.

It was her eyes that truly arrested him. Deep violet eyes, the color of lilacs in the spring when the rains soaked the meadows. They drew him now, almost hypnotically. For a moment, he wavered between the unexpected desire to submit to their pull, and a sharp, cold stab of fury at such power. Astan swallowed quietly, his own pupils dilating slowly.

How did she survive? The thought, unbidden, flashed through his mind, but its origin was as confounding to him as its meaning. He brushed it aside.

Astan turned to his second-in-command, his face a mask of calm. “Well, Brevir, what say you now?”

Brevir looked back at him, his own dark eyes impassive. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, Your Highness. Only that prudence would dictate we exhaust all possibilities to discover any connection to a foreign power.”

“Yet none have come forward thus far to claim her, have they?”

Brevir bowed his head silently to acknowledge the truth of this statement.

Astan took a few steps closer to the woman and gazed down at her. She stared back at him expectantly. He found this a bit unnerving, such directness an undesirable quality in a woman.

“Let us see what kind of figure she has,” he pronounced suddenly. He reached forward and began to pull her robes from shoulders.

A shriek ripped through the regal calm of the great chamber. Suddenly the woman’s right hand whipped forward and shoved the Pashan’s hands away, while her left thrust a small flash of metal towards his face. Her hair, torn loose, streamed down her shoulders and those liquid violet eyes flashed with ferocity, her cheek flushed with fire.

“NO.”