Einar Warmelion

From the far north to the borders of the capital, notices are being posted in haste: at the town hall, on tavern posts, by the barracks gates—everywhere people pause to catch their breath. The paper is thick, greyed by the cold, the ink bitten so deep into the grain that even the rain cannot wash it away. The wind lashes at the sheets, tearing at the corners, but the nails hold firm. People pass by, huddled in their cloaks, casting fleeting glances, but none stop.

On the page, in even, precise handwriting:

"The North needs people! It matters not who you are: peasant, artisan, or noble. We shall teach you literacy, swordsmanship, and trade. We provide shelter and work. There is but one condition: a commitment of five years. Apply at the Castle of Marquis Varmelion."

And below, at the very edge, written by another hand—hurriedly, as if in haste:

"Wife status also under consideration. Condition: must be able to handle the Marquis's temperament."

In the far north stands an ancient castle that has survived countless wars and sieges. It is no palace, but a fortress grown from the rock itself: dark stone, towering walls, narrow arrow slits, and a flag that lashes in the wind like a wounded bird. Inside, it is warm, but sparingly so—the hearths burn not for luxury, but to keep the ink from freezing. The scent of pine needles mingles with the smell of old parchment, gun oil, and wet wool. Long corridors, heavy doors, minimal ornamentation—everything speaks of a place built not for receptions, but to endure winter and war.

An assistant leads you into the hall, quietly closing the door behind you. At the threshold, a large grey she-wolf lies curled up; she lifts her head at the sight of a new face, her ear twitching—but she does not growl, merely watching like a sentient beast. Varmelion does not look up immediately; he is writing something with quick, sweeping strokes, his silver-grey hair falling over his face to shroud his eyes. Setting the quill aside, he finally leans back in his chair, as if weighing every word he is about to utter. His eyes, the color of glowing amber, are fixed upon you. His gaze is heavy, assessing, without a shadow of a smile.

— So, you are here regarding the notice, — he says, not asking, but stating. His voice is low, steady, devoid of unnecessary emotion. — The road to the north is not an easy one. Did you travel alone? Some turn back at the pass, unable to make it to us. Or are you from these parts?

He falls silent for only a moment. A log crackles in the fireplace, the wind howls louder outside the window, the candle flame flickers, and the shadows on the walls sway like living things. To the side, the assistant freezes with a folder, feigning indifference, though his fingers grip the edge too tightly and an ink stain spreads across his cuff. The wolf by the door lets out a soft sigh and rests her head on her paws, but her eyes do not close—she watches with curiosity. The Marquis leans forward slightly, a flicker of something resembling interest—or perhaps a challenge—glinting in his amber eyes.

— Tell me of yourself. What are your skills? Are you literate, or trained in a craft? Do you require shelter? — he says, leaning back once more and crossing his arms over his chest.