Newton walked past the corridor without slowing. The stone beneath his boots was cold from the night air that still clung to the castle walls. A maid carrying folded linens stepped aside quickly when she saw him approaching.
She lowered her head. "My lord."
Newton barely paused. "Prepare a room for Lady Bennet to pass the night."
The maid bowed deeper. "At once, my lord."
But Newton had already moved on. His steps echoed through the long hallway. Torches burned low along the walls, their flames trembling as the morning wind crept through narrow slits in the stone. Servants whispered as he passed. Some stepped aside with respect. Others stared longer than they should have.
The bastard.
The word moved quietly through the castle like smoke.
Newton kept walking. He descended the stone staircase two steps at a time and crossed the courtyard. Frost still clung to the ground. The training yard stood empty, but the smell of iron and sweat lingered in the air as if the soldiers had only just left.
At the far end of the yard stood Martins..Lord Commander of the Northern Army.
The man was speaking with two guards when Newton approached. The guards noticed him first and straightened immediately. Martins turned a moment later.
Newton bowed.
Martins returned the gesture out of courtesy, though his expression carried hesitation.
Newton spoke first. "The army needs to be prepared. I wish to take back the fortress before nightfall tomorrow."
The words landed hard between them. Martins stared at him for a moment, as if hoping the boy might suddenly laugh and say it was a joke. But Newton's face did not change.
Martins stepped closer and placed both hands firmly on Newton's shoulders. "I can see you are eager to prove your worth," he said slowly. "But a battle with a lord of the North is something serious."
His voice carried the weight of experience. Men had died under his command. Hundreds of them.
"I would suggest we wait for the Warden to return."
Newton shook his head before Martins even finished speaking.
"No."
The answer came quickly. Too quickly. "By the time my father returns, Lord Bennet must have rebuilt the damaged wall, and crystalizes his control over the fortress."
Newton's voice lowered slightly.
"It will cost the blood of more lives to reclaim the fortress by then."
The wind passed between them, rattling the training spears leaning against the fence.
Martins said nothing. For a long moment he simply studied the boy's face.
There was something in Newton's eyes that did not belong to a child.
Martins looked away first. He exhaled slowly.
"The boy is right," he told himself. But truth did not make things easier.
"Even though you are right," Martins finally said, "the army of Snowland will never march to battle on the order of a bastard."
The word fell heavily between them.
A few nearby guards stiffened. Newton did not move. For a brief moment something flickered across his face. A quiet sting. A small wound opened by a word he had heard his entire life.
But he swallowed it.
Slowly.
Silently.
Then he nodded. Without saying anything, Newton slid his hand inside his robe.
Martins watched the movement cautiously. Newton pulled something out.
A ring. Gold, and heavy. Marked with the sigil of House Woodland.
He slipped it onto his finger. Then he raised his hand into the morning light. The faint sun caught the metal instantly. The sigil flashed bright against the grey sky.
Martins froze. His breath caught. For several long seconds he did not move at all. His eyes remained fixed on the ring.
The Warden's ring. The symbol of the authority of the Ice throne.
Only the ruler of Snowland carried that seal. And Edmond Woodland never removed it.
Never.
Martins felt his throat tighten. "I… I…" The words stumbled out of him before he could stop them.
His knees hit the ground suddenly. "I am sorry, my lord."
The guards around the yard dropped immediately as well. Steel clattered softly as swords touched stone.
Martins lowered his head. "Prepare the army," Newton said quietly.
The words carried none of the hesitation they had held minutes earlier. "We march at dawn."
Martins remained on his knees. "Right away, my lord."
Newton lowered his hand. The ring disappeared back beneath the sleeve of his robe.
Then he turned. Without another word, he walked away. No one dared look up until he had disappeared back inside the castle.
Newton returned to his chambers in silence. The hallway felt different now. Servants moved faster when he passed. Some pressed themselves against the walls as if afraid to brush against him.
The ring rested heavy on his finger. He closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of his bed.
For a long moment he stared at his hand. His father's ring. The metal felt colder than he expected.
Slowly he choked his head. "The ring isn't meant for the hands of a bastard."
Slowly he removed it and placed it on the small wooden table beside his bed.
Then he lay down again..Sleep returned almost immediately.
Morning arrived with noise. Metal clanging. Horses snorting. Boots striking stone. Newton opened his eyes.
For a moment he forgot where he was. Then the sound of a horn echoed through the courtyard.
He sat up. The army had assembled. Newton stood and dressed quickly. He placed the ring back on his finger before leaving the room.
Outside, the castle had already awakened. Soldiers filled the courtyard. Rows of armored men stood waiting beside their horses. Banners of Snowland moved slowly in the cold wind.
A thousand soldiers stood still.
Martins stood before them, speaking to several captains.
Newton crossed the courtyard but turned away before reaching them. First, he headed toward the guest chambers.
Lady Sandra Benett's room stood at the end of a quiet corridor.
Newton knocked.
at first there was no answer.
He waited for a while. Then knocked again. This time, the knock was harder.
Inside the room, Sandra jerked awake. Her hand moved instinctively toward the dagger beneath her pillow before she fully understood where she was.
The knock echoed again. She exhaled slowly and pushed herself upright. The blankets slid down her shoulders.
She grabbed the nearest robe and wrapped it around herself before crossing the room. When she opened the door, Newton stood waiting.
Sandra blinked. Her hair was still loose around her shoulders.
Newton cleared his throat slightly. "My lady, you should be ready now." Sandra leaned against the doorframe.
"For what?"
"We are heading to Kalkigan to reclaim your fortress."
Sandra stared at him. For several seconds she said nothing. Her eyebrows slowly pulled together. "You are serious with this thing."
Newton remained still.
"I thought you were joking."
A small smile appeared on his face. "I might be a bastard," he said calmly, "but I am a Woodland by blood."
His eyes held hers for a moment. "And the Woodlands don't joke with their words."
Then he turned. And walked away.
Sandra remained standing in the doorway. Watching him go.
The hallway swallowed the boy quickly, leaving only the quiet echo of his steps.
Sandra slowly closed the door. She stood there for a moment, thinking. Then she muttered under her breath. "This is a different breed of bastard."
She moved quickly after that. Cold water splashed against her face. The shock drove the last pieces of sleep from her mind.
She braided her hair tightly and pulled on her war armor piece by piece. Leather straps tightened. Steel plates settled against her shoulders.
The familiar weight returned to her body. Her sword slid easily into its sheath.
By the time Sandra stepped outside, the courtyard was already roaring with movement.
Horses stamped against the frozen ground. Men adjusted armor straps and checked blades.
Banners snapped in the wind. Sandra paused at the top of the steps. A thousand soldiers stood below.
And at the front of them stood Newton. The boy looked smaller than she remembered. But the soldiers around him were kneeling.
Newton felt his heart thundered against his chest. Fear of the battle ahead was beginning to creel in.
"Am I really capable of leading an army to war?" He asked himself.
"Lord Sigmoid is rumored to be one of the Generals that led the Northern forces during Robert's rebellion. He is a mighty war lord. Can I really win against him?"
He exhaled sharply and shook off his doubt.
Newton stood with his arm raised. The Woodland ring flashed in the morning light.
Sandra descended the steps slowly. The soldiers remained kneeling. Their armor glinted faintly beneath the pale sun.
Newton's voice rose over the courtyard. "Warriors of Snowland." The words carried clearly across the gathered army.
"Today we undo the injustice that has been done to a helpless woman."
Sandra stopped walking. A few soldiers glanced at her briefly. "Today we reclaim Kalkigan for the rightful owner."
Newton paused.
His right hand lifted higher. The rising sun struck the ring harder now. The sigil shone bright enough to catch the eyes of every soldier present.
"In the name of Edmond Woodland, ruler of the first men, and of the Norsemen,"
His voice hardened.
"I call on you to reclaim Kalkigan for Sandra Bennett, the rightful ruler."
Silence followed.
Then the army rose. One thousand men stood together like a wave rising from the earth. Their voices thundered through the courtyard.
"In the name of Edmond Woodland, ruler of the first men, and of the Norsemen,"
Steel swords lifted into the air. "We reclaim Kalkigan for Sandra Bennett!"
The shout rolled across the castle walls. Horses reared. The gates began to open.
Sandra mounted her horse without taking her eyes off Newton.
The boy climbed onto his own horse beside her.
For a moment neither of them spoke. Then the horns sounded again. The army began to move.
Hooves pounded against the frozen road as the soldiers rode out of Snowland.
Newton and Sandra led the charge at the front. Behind them, a thousand warriors followed.
And somewhere beyond the hills of the North, Kalkigan waited.
Its broken gates stood under new banners. Men sharpened swords behind those walls. They believed victory was already theirs.
They believed the fortress was safe. But the ground was already trembling beneath the thunder of approaching horses.
And the world held its breath, waiting to see whether the bastard would claim victory. Or fall like every other bastard before him.