Klaus’s voice echoed across Iskandriel like thunder trapped in crystal. "I AM KLAUS LIONHART, ENVOY OF THE RIKXIA EMPIRE—"
Silence followed. Not the silence of disbelief, but the stunned quiet of recognition. Of legend made flesh.
In the rchant district, a shopkeeper dropped his ice-carved wine goblet. It shattered against the frozen counter with a sound like breaking stars. "Klaus Lionhart?" he whispered. "The boy who shattered a Mythril Crystal? At twelve?"
Three streets away in the scholar’s quarter, a historian abandoned his scrolls mid-sentence. His quill clattered to the floor as he rushed to his balcony, his rheumy eyes straining at the white-haired figure on the dragon’s back. "They said he beca the youngest Swordmaster on the continent," he murmured to his apprentice. "Stronger than anyone his age. Stronger than anyone period."
A baker’s daughter pressed against her window, breath fogging the ice pane. "Mother! It’s him! The one from the stories! The one they say cut through an entire army of demons at the Northern Wastes!"
"But his hair—" her mother began, squinting upward. "The portraits show silver hair, like Emperor Roman’s. This one’s is white as fresh snow."
"The gods change their favorites however they wish," the girl replied reverently. "I’ve heard rumors he fought a monster so powerful it swallowed an entire city whole, and lived to tell the tale."
Across the city, similar conversations unfolded on balconies, in barracks, and within the grand halls of the eight ruling families. The na Klaus Lionhart had crossed continents on rchants’ tongues and scholars’ parchnts—always accompanied by impossible feats and whispered awe.
On the western watchtower, Captain Veyl lowered his ballista controller, his knuckles white on the chanism. "Hold fire," he ordered, his voice tight with uncertainty. "I need confirmation."
"But sir—" his lieutenant began.
"That’s Klaus Lionhart," Veyl snapped. "Rikxia Emperor’s own grandson. The one who—" He cut himself off, glancing at his n. "You’ve all heard the rumors. You know what they say he did at the Aequalis Array trials. We don’t shoot imperial envoys, even when they ride beasts we thought extinct."
"He doesn’t look right though," another guard muttered. "All the portraits show silver hair. This one’s white. And his eyes—they glow like moonlight on fresh snow."
Veyl didn’t take his gaze from the sky. "Send word to the Ice Palace. Tell them Klaus Lionhart has arrived. And tell them his hair has changed."
* * *
In the Council Spire at the city’s heart, eight figures gathered—though only one stood physically present. The others manifested as shimring projections, their forms crafted from condensed starlight and frost, seated around an octagonal table of purest ice.
"The na has been confird," said the physical presence—a man with sharp cheekbones and ice-blue eyes that missed nothing. "Klaus Lionhart claims to be an envoy of the Rikxia Empire."
"If he is truly Klaus Lionhart," rumbled a projection with a face half-hidden in shadow, "he cannot be here simply to deliver ssages. The Lionharts don’t send their precious prodigies on diplomatic errands. He must be here to see what stance we’ll take in the coming war."
"If he is truly Klaus Lionhart," repeated another hologram, her voice lodic but laced with suspicion. "I’ve heard troubling rumors about him since the incident at Northwatch. They say he returned changed. That sothing inside him awoke."
"Are you trying to boast about your spy networks again, Yenark?" chuckled a bear-like projection with a thick beard of frost. "We all know your agents crawl through every shadow on the continent."
"Kukuku," laughed a slender figure whose features constantly shifted between young and ancient. "Rumors are just that—rumors. But they carry truth’s shadow. I’ve heard whispers that the boy carries not just his grandfather’s swordsmanship, but sothing... darker."
"We cannot let him et the Ice Queen without confirming his identity first," stated a stern-faced projection whose armor seed carved from mountain peaks.
"Of course we can’t," snapped the ice-blue eyed man. "You’re stating the obvious, Theron."
"I propose House Stark’s patriarch et him first," suggested the shifting figure. "The Starks oversee our defenses. If anyone can determine whether this is truly the Lionhart heir, it should be Erion."
A new projection materialized at the table’s edge—tall, imposing even in holographic form, with short black hair and eyes like obsidian. "I will et him," Erion Stark said, his voice carrying the weight of glaciers. "I’ve studied the boy’s fighting style from reports. If he is an imposter, I’ll know within three exchanges. If he is genuine... well, the Lionhart na deserves proper respect."
"Agreed," said the ice-blue eyed man. "I will inform the Ice Queen of our decision. She’ll want to prepare regardless. The fate of Iskandriel may hinge on whether that truly is Klaus Lionhart circling above us."
* * *
As the council concluded their eting, a transformation swept across Iskandriel. One by one, the enchanted crystals embedded throughout the city dimd, plunging districts into darkness. The ballistae powered down, their humming energy fading to whispers. Within monts, the entire octagonal city lay in shadow—except for one section.
Like a glowing slice of pizza cut from the frozen landscape, the Stark district remained illuminated. Crystals there blazed with blue-white light, casting the ice towers and bridges in stark relief. A single path ford—a corridor of radiance leading from the city’s outer wall to a central courtyard where a single figure waited.
Klaus didn’t hesitate. With a ntal command to Dudu, they descended toward the illuminated district. The Night Dragon folded his massive wings, gliding silently over the darkened city like a shadow given form. As they passed over districts now hidden in darkness, Klaus heard snatches of conversation rising from below:
"—heard he can shatter stone with his bare hands—"
"—No, one thousand swords lifted at the Sword Selection Ceremony—"
"—Nothing can break Mythril except—"
"—they say he’s not even human anymore, that sothing changed him after Northwatch—"
Dudu landed with surprising grace in the Stark courtyard, his claws clicking against the singing ice. Before them stood a man who seed carved from the sa glacier that birthed Iskandriel. Tall and broad-shouldered, with short black hair and eyes that held the depth of frozen lakes. His presence radiated authority that required no crown or scepter—every line of his stance proclaid power.
The man studied Klaus with an intensity that would have made lesser n falter. He took in the white hair, the crystalline blue eyes, the obsidian sword at Klaus’s hip1, and the dragon at his back. Then, with a slow, deliberate movent, he bowed—just once, at the waist. Not the deep bow of a subject, but the respectful dip of one warrior acknowledging another.
When he straightened, his voice cut through the winter air like a blade honed on mountain winds.
"I am Erion Stark."
Greed, who had changed to his Sword form
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