The fire crackled weakly, casting dancing shadows on the walls of a shallow cave where Cassian and Bjorn had taken shelter for the night. The northern wind, ever ravenous, howled at the entrance, but here, shielded by rocks, the air was almost bearable. Cassian sat on a flat stone, watching the flames with nonchalance, his cloak neatly folded beside him to avoid the dust. Bjorn, opposite, carved a piece of wood with a rough knife, his abrupt movements betraying an agitation he tried to hide.
Cassian said nothing. Not yet.
Finally, Bjorn broke the silence, his voice rumbling like a rockslide. "You didn't really answer, stranger. Why should I trust you? A guy like you, with your courtly airs… What do you have to offer a man like me?"
Cassian tilted his head, a faint smile brushing his lips. "What do I have to offer, Bjorn?" he replied, his voice soft, almost caressing. "Something more valuable than gold or steel. I offer you a vision."
Bjorn grunted, his knife pausing for a moment. "A vision? I don't need your childish dreams. What I need is game, a sharp axe, and men to watch my back."
Cassian leaned slightly forward, his gray eyes catching the firelight, their gleam almost hypnotic. "And if I told you I could give you all that—and more—without you lifting your axe once?"
Bjorn narrowed his eyes, his face etched with mistrust. "You talk too much, pretty boy. Say what you mean, or I'll leave you to the wolves."
Cassian laughed softly. "Very well, Bjorn Ironfist. Listen." He straightened. "The North is chaos. Clans tearing each other apart for scraps of frozen land, chiefs ruling by fear, men dying for feuds forgotten by the next winter. You're strong. You survive. But surviving isn't living. It isn't ruling."
Bjorn didn't reply immediately, but his fingers tightened on the knife's handle. Cassian noted the gesture. 'He's listening. Good.'
"Imagine," Cassian continued, his voice taking on an almost musical cadence, "a united North. Not through brute force, but through an idea. An idea that bends chiefs, rallies clans, makes you not just another warrior, but a man whose name echoes to the court of Valthorn… maybe even the capital of Ayeros."
Bjorn scoffed, but the sound lacked conviction. "Unite the North? You're mad. The clans have hated each other for generations. And me, I'm no chief. I'm a fighter."
"For now," Cassian replied, his smile sharpening. "But a fighter with a vision can become a chief. And a chief with the right words can become a legend."
He stood, stepping slowly toward the fire, his shadow stretching behind him like a cloak. "Let me ask you, Bjorn. When you fight, when you spill blood, who's it for? Your clan? A chief who forgets you once the battle's done? Or yourself?"
Bjorn looked away, staring into the flames. Cassian saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his jaw. "You don't know me," Bjorn muttered, his voice lacking bite.
"Oh, I know you better than you think," Cassian said. "I know men like you. Strong, loyal, but tired of serving causes that don't serve them back. You want more, Bjorn. You want to be remembered. And I can make that happen."
Bjorn raised his eyes, his gaze hard but tinged with curiosity he couldn't hide. "How?"
Cassian smiled. "By playing a game no one in the North understands. The game of words, promises, alliances. You have the strength, Bjorn. I have the mind. Together, we can bend this region."
Bjorn didn't answer right away. He resumed carving his wood, but his movements were slower, more thoughtful. Cassian sat again, satisfied. He didn't need an immediate answer. The seeds were sown.
The next morning, the sky was steel-gray, and light snow fell, dusting the ground with a thin white film. Cassian and Bjorn resumed their journey, descending toward a valley where, according to the Northerner, a small hunters' village stood. Cassian studied his companion, noting every detail: the way he scanned the surroundings, the tension in his shoulders, the way he avoided meeting his gaze for too long.
The village appeared around a bend in the path, a handful of log cabins surrounded by a crude palisade. Smoke rose from the roofs, and the smell of burning wood mixed with roasting meat. A few men, armed with spears and axes, stood guard at the entrance. Seeing Bjorn, they nodded with respect. Seeing Cassian, they frowned, their hands tightening on their weapons.
"Who's this?" growled one, a stocky man with a tangled red beard.
"A traveler," Bjorn replied, his tone neutral but firm. "He's with me."
Cassian tilted his head in a courteous greeting, his charming smile disarming the guards' hostility. "Gentlemen, I'm honored to discover the North's hospitality."
The bearded man grunted, unconvinced, but stepped aside to let them pass. Cassian mentally noted his face.
Inside the village, activity was modest but steady. Women pounded grains, children darted between cabins, and a blacksmith hammered a blade with brutal precision. Cassian absorbed every detail, every glance, every whisper. This village was just one pawn among many, but he knew a chessboard was conquered square by square.
Bjorn led him to a larger cabin, where a middle-aged man in furs adorned with bear teeth awaited. His gray hair was braided, and a crescent-shaped scar crossed his forehead.
"Torvald," Bjorn introduced, his tone respectful but cautious. "The village chief."
Cassian stepped forward, his smile perfectly calibrated—neither too arrogant nor too submissive. "Torvald, it's an honor. I'm Cassian, a… traveler seeking a fresh start."
Torvald studied him, his eyes narrowed like a hawk's. "A traveler, huh? You don't look like a hunter or a warrior. What's a man like you doing in the North?"
Cassian felt Bjorn's attention on him, along with that of the villagers who'd drawn near, curious. "What am I doing?" he replied, his voice clear and confident. "I'm seeking a challenge. The North is a place where men are judged by their deeds, not their birth. I want to prove my worth… in my own way."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Torvald crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "And what's your way, stranger?"
Cassian took a step forward, his gaze locking onto the chief's. "My way is seeing what others miss. Building where others destroy. Making this village, this forgotten corner of Britz, a name even the Duke of Valthorn will fear."
A heavy silence fell. Then a hoarse laugh escaped Torvald. "You've got guts, kid. But guts don't fill bellies or keep wolves at bay."
Cassian didn't falter. "Maybe not. But guts draw allies. And allies… well, they hunt, they fight, they build. Give me a chance, Torvald. Let me prove my words are worth more than steel."
Torvald stared at him for a long moment, then glanced at Bjorn, who stood silent, watching with a mix of curiosity and wariness. Finally, the chief nodded. "One night. You can stay one night. But if you cause trouble, stranger, it won't be the wolves that kill you. It'll be me."
Cassian bowed his head, his smile intact. "One night is all I need."
As the crowd dispersed, Cassian felt the weight of their gazes. He knew every word, every gesture would be scrutinized, judged. But he wasn't afraid. He was in his element.