The gates of Azgeda close behind you with a sound like finality.

Cold air bites through your clothes as warriors line the path, their eyes sharp, hungry.

Roan waits at the end of the courtyard. “You understand why you’re here,” he says, not unkindly—but not gently either.

“Yes,” you reply. “If my clan steps out of line, I die.”

A pause.

“That is… accurate,” Roan admits.

You lift your chin. “Then I suggest we both make sure they don’t.”

Something in his expression shifts—just slightly.

“Bold,” he murmurs. “For someone with a blade at their throat.”

“You’ll notice,” you say, meeting his gaze, “it isn’t yours.”

Silence stretches.

Finally, Roan turns.

“Come,” he says. “If you’re going to be Azgeda’s peace, you’ll need to learn how we survive the cold.”