The night cloaked the village like a shroud, the biting cold seeping through every crack in the log cabins. Cassian sat on a straw pallet in a small hut lent by Torvald, watching shadows cast by a single candle. The flame flickered, fragile but enough to light the subtle smile playing on his lips. He had one night to weave the first threads of his web, and he had no intention of wasting it.
Outside, the village barely slept. The murmurs of guards, the crackle of watchfires, the distant howl of a wolf—it formed a raw symphony, far from the hushed intrigues of Valthorn's court. Yet to Cassian, it was the same music. Men, whether courtiers or barbarians, were all made of desires, fears, pride. He just needed to find the right note to play.
A creak at the hut's entrance broke his thoughts. The rough wooden door opened, and Bjorn's massive frame filled the space. He still carried his axe, strapped to his back—a sign of caution rather than threat. His wary eyes scanned Cassian before settling on the candle.
"Not sleeping, pretty boy?" he growled, closing the door behind him.
Cassian raised an eyebrow, his smile widening slightly. "Sleep? When there's so much to do? The North hasn't bored me yet, Bjorn."
The Northerner leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Torvald gave you one night. But he's watching you. The whole village is. One wrong move, and you're a dead man."
Cassian tilted his head, as if seriously considering the warning. "I'm flattered to draw so much attention. But tell me, Bjorn, why are you here? You're not just Torvald's messenger, are you?"
Bjorn frowned, thrown off by Cassian's perceptiveness. He hesitated, then muttered, "I want to understand. Your words yesterday… they sound good, but they stink of a trap. What do you really want?"
Cassian rose slowly. He stepped closer, stopping just out of reach, his gray eyes locked on the warrior's. "What do I want?" he repeated, his voice soft. "I want what every man wants, Bjorn: control. But not the kind you force with strength. No, true control, the kind that bends hearts before bodies. I want the North to remember me—and those who stand with me."
Bjorn scoffed, but the sound lacked conviction. "You talk like a madman. The North doesn't bend."
"And if you're wrong?" Cassian replied, his tone almost intimate. "What if the North could be shaped, not with axes, but with promises? With dreams? With a man like you, guided by a man like me?"
Bjorn fell silent, his fingers nervously tapping the knife handle at his belt. "Sit, Bjorn," Cassian said, gesturing to a crude chair near the candle. "Let's talk. Not as an exile and a warrior, but as two men who want more than this world offers."
Reluctantly, Bjorn complied, sitting with a grunt. Cassian returned to his pallet, crossing his legs with almost provocative elegance. "Tell me," he began, "who is Torvald to you? A respected chief? A tyrant? A father?"
Bjorn flinched slightly, a movement so subtle only an observer like Cassian would notice. "Torvald is… a chief. He's tough, but fair. He protects the village."
"Fair, you say?" Cassian tilted his head, his smile taking a mocking edge. "And yet, here you are, in the middle of the night, talking to a stranger he barely tolerates. Why? Because deep down, you know 'fair' isn't enough. Torvald protects, but he doesn't dream. He survives, but he doesn't build."
Bjorn clenched his jaw, his gaze wavering. "And you, what do you build? Words? Lies?"
Cassian laughed, a clear sound that echoed in the hut. "Lies? Oh, Bjorn, lies are for amateurs. I weave truths… truths men want to hear. Like the truth that you deserve more than being just Ironfist, another warrior. The truth that this village, this wretched corner of Britz, could be the start of something great."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tell me, Bjorn, who are this village's enemies? Other clans? Beasts? Or maybe… Torvald himself, with his old ways?"
The Northerner stiffened, his eyes flashing with anger. "You go too far, stranger. Torvald's not perfect, but he's not the enemy."
Cassian raised his hands in a placating gesture, his smile unshaken. "Of course, of course. I'm not suggesting he is. But think about this: a chief who can't see beyond the next hunt, the next winter… is he truly worthy of your loyalty?"
Bjorn stared at the candle, his thoughts clearly in turmoil. Cassian didn't push. He knew silence was an acid that eroded certainties.
Finally, Bjorn spoke, his voice low. "There's a clan, to the east. The Frostfangs. They attack our hunters, steal our game. Torvald says we just hold out, avoid war. But it weakens us. The men grumble. They want blood."
Cassian nodded. "The Frostfangs, you say? Interesting. And if, instead of war, there was another way? A way to make them yield without losing a single man?"
Bjorn stared, intrigued despite himself. "How?"
Cassian stood, approaching the candle to adjust its wick, a casual gesture that drew Bjorn's attention. "Tomorrow, I'll speak to Torvald. I'll offer an idea—one that pacifies the Frostfangs without spilling blood. And you, Bjorn, will carry it. Not me. You."
"Why me?" Bjorn asked, wary.
"Because," Cassian replied, his smile sharp, "men follow those they respect. And when they see you've brought peace, protected the village without a drop of blood, they'll start looking at you differently. Not as a warrior. As a chief."
Bjorn didn't answer, but his eyes gleamed with a new light.
The next morning, Cassian was summoned before Torvald in the large cabin. The chief sat on a carved wooden seat, surrounded by a few village elders and warriors, including Bjorn, who stood back. The air was heavy, the gazes hostile. Cassian, true to form, entered with casual confidence, his cloak impeccably draped despite the journey's grime.
"So, stranger," Torvald began, his voice rough as a bear's growl. "Your night's up. What do you have to say before I decide if you stay… or leave?"
Cassian bowed his head, his smile charming but respectful. "Torvald, men of Britz, I thank you for your hospitality. And I come with a proposal—a solution to a problem that, I believe, weighs on you."
A murmur ran through the assembly. Torvald narrowed his eyes. "Speak, but choose your words carefully."
Cassian stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the room, catching every expression, every twitch. "I've heard of the Frostfangs. Raiders who threaten your hunters, steal your resources. You could fight them, of course. But blood calls for blood, and winter is near. What if, instead of war, you had peace? A peace that makes you stronger, without losing a single man?"
An old warrior with a grizzled beard laughed. "Peace? With the Frostfangs? You're mad, exile."
Cassian ignored the jab, his smile steady. "Not the peace of the weak, but of the cunning. Send an emissary—a respected man, like Bjorn Ironfist here—with an offer. Not tribute, but a deal. Share some of your hunting grounds, the ones you don't use in winter. In exchange, ask for their protection against other clans. An alliance, not submission."
Torvald leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "And why would they agree?"
"Because," Cassian replied, his voice clear and confident, "even the Frostfangs know winter is cruel. They want to survive, like you. Offer them a way to do so without fighting, and they'll listen. And if Bjorn carries this message, they'll see a warrior. They'll respect strength."
Torvald's eyes slid to Bjorn, who stood straight, visibly surprised to be singled out. The villagers murmured, some skeptical, others with growing interest.
Torvald sat back, his expression unreadable. "A bold idea, stranger. But if it fails, it's your head that rolls."
Cassian bowed his head, his smile sharper than ever. "Then give me a chance to prove my words are worth more than blood."
As the meeting dispersed, Cassian met Bjorn's gaze. 'Prove useful, and be my stepping stone…'