Like webs of power, The Light and The Night reached out to the champions of their seasons, eternally binding them to the vessels of their power. Thus the first rulers began their reign with the greatest warriors and scholars of their time in their service. Bound by The Light and The Night, they became Summer and Winter. As Summer and Winter, they embodied The Unbroken Circle.

-The Second Verse of Creation

A scarred elf with a jeweled shortsword on her hip moved to block Jordan's path. Well-muscled and handsome, her elven androgyny shined through in her mannerisms and the way she moved. The tattoos on her arm labeled her as an elven stargazer, a manipulator of astrological energies. Jordan knew very little about the women who practiced stargazing aside from their ability to enchant gems and their tattoos that moved around their bodies of their own volition. She wore the colors of The White Wash, beastman territory.

She seemed to look through him, not seeing the man but the essence within.

"Pietro, who is this?" Her voice was deep and melodic.

"Tyllden, this is Lord Scoiden," the ravenblood said, stepping aside to join the cluster of knights.

Surprised recognition rippled through the gathering, all but Hakus and, surprisingly, the elf woman, Tyllden. She nodded to herself and a small smirk curled her lips for a moment. Before Jordan could ponder this, a portly man dressed in the colors of the royal family brushed past her and knelt. His features were rounded and crowned with a tonsure cut to his navy blue hair. His eyes were the common slant of the people of the capital and his mustache hung past his chin. He spoke in a phlegmy voice.

"It is an honor, my lord. I was not made aware that a new ruler of Orestine had been raised." He glanced back at his fellows. "I am Sir Harrison Gyeoul. Welcome to Castle Isdaggen."

"Thank you, Sir Gyeoul. This isn't my first visit."

The man stood and cleared his throat. Lowering his voice he said, "I've been head knight for nearly twenty years, my lord, and I make it a point of introducing myself to every visiting dignitary. No offense, but I would have remembered you."

"I came here years ago, sir. In my youth." Jordan noticed how the others listened while pretending not to. Tyllden's scrutiny was especially intense. "When I was last in this castle I was a knight of The Vanguard and Sir Crispen was captain of Isdaggen's contingent."

Gyeoul sputtered as if he wanted to argue, but could not forget his place and position.

"The Meeting of Lords has already started, Gyeoul," Hakus grumbled. "You're interrupting."

He unceremoniously shoved both Tyllden and Gyeoul aside. The other knights bowed as Hakus gestured towards the doors which Pietro was already opening. Warm air wafted out of the room beyond. Jordan nodded to Hakus and the ravenblood before exiting. There were clear political undercurrents to his reception by the Vanguard knights. Judging from the livery of those that spoke up, he suspected there were similar conflicts between their masters: Hardgrave, Iceblood, and The King.

"What am I walking into?" he asked himself as he traversed a short corridor.

Braziers burned in shallow alcoves between pillars carved to resemble the kings of old. Human men with slanted eyes and long narrow beards were occasionally interrupted by barrel-chested orcs with large tusks. They reflected the history of Winter. Unlike Summer, where elves relinquished their leadership and the line of queens stretched back for a thousand generations, The Kings of Winter had often been deposed by orcs who reasserted their rule whenever their human counterparts proved too weak. Despite the fires in their holders, frost clung to the cold stone.

Voices argued as Jordan rounded the corner and came to a chamber dominated by a huge dodecagon table. Massive windows that had once looked out over the countryside were now frames for the cloud-covered gloom. Six men and women sat at the table. But only Kjord noticed him in the doorway. Clearly the orc lord had been expecting his arrival. He stalled Jordan with a quick flick of their old Timberwolves hand signal.

"If we don't begin to consider an alternative for meat, the people of the east will resort to cannibalism once again," argued a cold-eyed blonde woman with a clean-shaven head. She wore a dress of black and burgundy in the colors of The Baked Coast. Her heavy brow and large fists marked her dwarven heritage as much as her height.

"What is so wrong with that," growled a middle-aged beastman with fiery red and gold fur. He bore a familial resemblance to Lord Jarek Hardgrave, Jordan's old friend, and sounded just like him as well. "Winter has always done what it must to live and there has been no shortage of bodies. We might even employ some labor to transport corpses from the dead townships. It will put people to work and allow us to clean out areas before restless begin to take root."

"That's barbaric and disgusting." She scowled, taking a long pull from her goblet. "My people would never go for it."

"Then your people starve while their neighbors stay hardy." he grinned and Jordan was reminded that a number of large beastman settlements bordered The Baked Coast.

The woman hefted a large battle ax from the floor and dropped it heavily on the table.

"Is that a threat, Lady Agnor." The hackles rose around the beastman's neck

"I don't know, Lord Hardgrave. Are you threatening my borders, again?"

He chuckled. "Never. This table forbade it."

"At least consider his idea," sighed a bored ravenblood in brown and silver.

"No, Highwing. I will not!" Lady Agnor snapped.

"Enough, my friends," Kjord said, pounding the table once with his fist. When all eyes turned his way, Kjord wore a big grin. "We have a late arrival."

Standing, he motioned for Jordan to join him. The others watched, the weight of their gazes pressing against something inside. It wasn't just their air of authority, which hung over them like a cloud, but the power which bound all of the Winter Lords together. In their presence, Jordan felt it stir.

"Who is this man, Lord Iceblood?" asked the ravenblood, Lord Highwing. He yawned, his body language unimpressed though his sharp eyes swept over every inch of Jordan.

"He wears the colors of Scoiden," Hardgrave the Younger grumbled. "Orestine has been without a ruler for decades."

"This is my old friend, Jordan Mdu Scoiden, The Sunkiller."

Jordan flinched, but Kjord had warned him during their reunion outside the castle gates. The orc's plan would require as much heavy-handedness as subtlety. The looks of curiosity all shifted. Scheming, distrust, hate, surprise, wonder. The Lords of Winter reflected the mixed feelings of their people. Jordan stood resolute, accepting it all. When he'd made the decision to help Kjord, he knew this might be the reception he'd receive.

"This... this can't be possible." Lady Agnor shook her head. "Clearly you're mistaken, Kjord. This man is obviously a charlatan."

"I assure you, Mulda. He is not. As I've said, he is an old friend."

"Old? He'd need to be ancient." She stood, leaning on the table, hand close to the haft of her ax. "If he is The Sunkiller, where has he been all of these years? Surely not Orestine, it was searched thoroughly during The Years of Inquisition."

Jordan had never heard the term before, but it didn't shock him to know people searched for him. In the years after Shakia's death, he'd been convinced he was being followed. Maybe what he'd eventually shrugged off as madness had been intuition.

"Can't you feel him?" Hardgrave asked. "He's connected to this council, to the table, to Winter. I've seen enough paintings of him to recognize his silhouette. That with Iceblood's declaration is enough proof for me."

Highwing and one of the other lords stomped their feet in agreement.

"It isn't for me."

Agnor picked up her ax and pointed its double head at Jordan's chest. Her eyes were calm and posture relaxed. From experience, Jordan knew dwarves were aggressive people full of anger and booze. They were only calm in the moments before battle.

"Declare yourself upon the table, now, before the seven of us."

"Is this truly necessary," a voice asked from the deep shadows of a far corner. "What if he isn't who Kjord says he is? What will it matter?"

"It matters, sire!" Like the mountain stone that birthed her people, Agnor would not be moved.

Jordan noticed how the others halfheartedly acknowledged the voice. He squinted into the shadows, some trick of the window's diffuse light made it difficult to see more than shapes. Thwarted, he returned his attention to the dwarf in front of him, prepared to fight. Stepping away from Kjord, he placed his hands flat on the table. Energy swirled within, a small but potent concentration of Night. Agnor and the other unconvinced lord touched the table. After a moment, Highwing and the sixth lord did the same. Only Kjord and the younger Hardgrave remained steadfast and unmoved.

"My name is Jordan Scoiden, ward and heir of Cecil Scoiden... Lord of Winter."

The energy flowed into him then reached through the table to the others. Their eyes became black on black voids. For an instant they were tied together through the power of Winter, The Night, then it was over and the power crawled into a small ball at the center of the table.

The lords all breathed deep sighs and relaxed. Agnor sat heavily with her weapon across her lap, staring up at him.

"Those were not the words, but the table revealed the truth within those that you spoke."

"My father had still been lord when I was last here. I've never actually stood in this room before." Jordan walked around to the empty seat beside Hardgrave, its section of table colored in dull Scoiden blue and green.

"How is this possible?" one of the lords asked.

Jordan noticed the clasp of his long cloak bore the sigil of a solitary mountain. The hate darkening the man's eyes wasn't hard to miss.

"I don't know. I found a hole and buried myself, waiting for death to take me. It never did. Eventually, I stopped waiting."

Jordan sat, studying the man. Browning skin with slanted eyes and wavy blond hair, the lord looked like a mix of all of Winter's human peoples. He could have been from anywhere. Jordan didn't recognize the man's red and white colors either. He wouldn't meet Jordan's gaze, but continually gave him sidelong glances.

"Self-inflicted exile. Why have you come back?"

"Lord Pantel has a point," Highwing interjected. "Why have you returned, Lord Scoiden? Surely not to collect on Orestine's meager tributes." He chuckled, but no one else joined him. "I guess the coin is yours by right," he mumbled.

"I'm not here for money. Lord Iceblood asked me here."

Again all eyes turned to Kjord.

"You have that gleam in your eye, Kjord Iceblood. What are you scheming this time?" Lady Agnor shook her head and refilled her goblet from a pitcher on a small bar against the wall. She raised it towards the figure in the shadows before drinking.

Kjord steepled his fingers together.

"I believe I have the answer to all of our–"

"You can't honestly expect us to ignore who this man is!" Lord Pantel stood up so abruptly, his chair tipped over. "This man admits to being The Sunkiller, the one who ended the cycle of seasons and doomed the world. Agnor was just debating eating the dead to keep her people from going mad from lack of protein. Hundreds, maybe thousands, die everyday because of what he's done."

It was one thing to expect people's avarice. It was another to see the hate in their eyes and feel the venom of their words. As with Haru, Jordan found himself hesitant to mount any defense.

"What has he done? He defeated The Queen of Summer in fair combat. I was there, he was following orders."

"Who's orders? King Malcin wouldn't have ordered her assassination. It was his idea to ensure the peaceful transition of power. Before him, the monarchs rarely took the field of battle, because they knew what was at stake."

"You're too young to have known the man."

"I knew of The King, and he wasn't a murderer. Ignoring the rumors and hearsay surrounding The Sunkiller, the only truth is an unprecedented number of people on both sides of the schism have died because of what he's done." The spear at Pantel's feet snapped up to his hand. "I vote that we follow the doctrine of the inquisitors and sacrifice this criminal in the name of The Unbroken Circle and possibly break this curse he's unleashed upon the land."

Jordan watched the man, his hand poised to strike with Wyrm's Tooth at the first hint of advance. When Agnor's goblet soared across the table and struck Pantel across the head, everyone froze. He stood there with wine dripping down his face, blinking while the liquid dripped into his eyes.

"This council denounced the inquisitors, the unbent, and all of the other zealot factions that have risen up to whip our peoples into a frenzy. Don't force us to denounce you."

"Denounce me?" Pantel used his free hand to wipe the wine out of his face and shifted his attention to the dwarf. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Are you? Is it Lord Scoiden's fault that Summer fielded their queen without an heir to claim her power? No. Summer was stupid and they are to blame for this as much as this idiot who's damned us all. Killing him won't change that."

Jordan did feel like an idiot. He knew why Summer had no heir and, if there was blame to be cast, that blame was his too.

"We don't know that."

"Enough of this," said the voice from the corner. "In-fighting gets us nowhere. Are we to fall apart like our counterparts to the south? Are we not better?"

The gathered lords all watched as the owner of the voice stepped out of the shadows as if through a gossamer curtain. He was younger than his voice and wisdom suggested, twenty-five namedays if Jordan had to guess. His face was pale and his eyes slanted like the people of the capital. His high cheekbones and slightly effeminate features made him look beautiful instead of handsome. An ornate ebony pick propped his hair up in a flowing topknot. He sat at the far end of the table, far away from everyone else. With piercing eyes that reminded Jordan of King Malcin, the man scrutinized him.

Agnor and Pantel sat in their respective seats, but their hands stayed close to their weapons. The young man motioned towards Kjord and everyone turned expectantly.

"As I was saying, I believe I have the answer to all of our problems. My plan–"

"Always with the plans, old man," Agnor grumbled, but gestured for him to continue.

Jordan found it a bit comical that his gambling friend from youth had become the old man in the room. Lord Highwing filled two goblets at the bar and handed them to Agnor and Pantel. Both accepted with a nod.

"This forever winter is the biggest of the many thorns in our side. It encourages the unchecked spread of the freeze berries and it encourages vermin infestation like the restless. If we can rein it in, maybe we can find ways to deal with our other issues." Kjord raised his hand for silence as Pantel began to speak. "We need someone to go to The Heart of Winter and commune with The Source Nocturn, The Essence of Night."

Highwing tittered. "I'm sorry, Lord Iceblood, but surely there's more to your solution. The trip to The Heart is an arduous one and communion with The Source is a death sentence to anyone not strong enough to contain its power. I dare say this would be a fool's errand, if it could even work."

"I wish to try it and I want the backing of this table."

"This is indeed one of your reckless gambles, my lord." The ravenblood lord waved his hand dismissively.

"I demand a vote." Kjord stood and stomped the floor.

Hardgrave stood next as did the quiet lord who'd sided with him ever since Jordan entered the room. Agnor and Pantel both shook their heads. Whatever their grievance with one another, they agreed the plan was a waste. Highwing covered his eyes and groaned. Kjord had said they'd vote this way. Jordan slowly stood and stomped his foot with the others, winning a suspicious look from the dwarf lord.

"He shouldn't get a vote," Pantel said.

"He's a lord and present at this meeting," Hardgrave growled.

"Yes, because Iceblood brought him to control the outcome."

Kjord shrugged, not bothering to pretend this wasn't exactly why he asked Jordan to attend. Pantel glared at him then sighed.

"Well played, old man. Well played."

Kjord's plan passed with no more protest. After some deliberation over the details, a resolution was made for an expedition to be sent to The Heart of Winter with supplies and silver provided from each of the Winter Lords

"I don't understand." Pantel paced back and forth in front of the windows. "We will all contribute coin or bodies toward this endeavor, but what will he be providing?" He pointed at Jordan.

"I... I don't have–"

"He will be going to The Source Nocturn," Kjord answered.

"What? That wasn't what–"

"Jordan was a Winter Lord even before I took the position from my father. He's also The Sunkiller, besting Summer's greatest warrior in single combat. No one holds a greater claim on The Night."

Jordan expected Pantel to protest, but instead the man studied Kjord, weighing his words. The other lords seemed equally as caught up in the calculations. Jordan shot an angry look at Kjord, who shrugged. Jordan's mind raced. He'd voted for this only an hour earlier, he couldn't easily bow out now. Kjord had outmaneuvered him, even encouraging him to take part in the decision-making.

"Wait. Why would my claim be greater than The Winter King? Why doesn't King Malcin or his heir commune with The Nocturne?"

"Because I can't..." stated the young man at the other end of the table.

In that instant, Jordan understood why the resemblance to the old king was so strong. He felt foolish for not realizing sooner. He stood and bowed deeply.

"Your majesty, forgive my ignorance, but I don't understand."

"I can explain," Kjord offered. "King Malcin, was murdered in an attempted coup de tete instigated by a dissident cabal of Winter and Summer Lords. The Night went to his son Ma'Lee. King Ma'Lee died in a food riot on the same day his son, Malcedayne I, was born. The child was too weak to hold The Night and, though it did not kill him, it left him... altered."

"My father could hear The Night, even speak to it on occasion, but he's never been its vessel. When he passed away, I inherited his connection to it, but The Source has never sent The Night to me." The bitterness in the young King was palpable.

"King Malcedayne II will go with you, Jordan, and once you've awakened The Source you can direct it to our rightful ruler." Kjord bowed. "Worse case scenario, you are still a viable vessel yourself."

Hardgrave looked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "With a vessel the worst of this forever winter could be buffered. Kjord, Sire, this could change everything."

"Are we really going to risk this man becoming the new vessel?" Pantel asked.

"If it will bring us out of this nightmare, yes!" Lady Agnor stood up and raised her goblet towards the King of Winter. "To your success, sire. May you save us all."

The other lords surged to their feet. "May you save us all!"

Three watched Jordan through the cheers of desperate hope.

The King, whose kingdom rested on their success.

Lord Pantel, whose sigil had been worn by a woman who'd tried to kill Jordan once already.

Kjord, who had gone through a lot of trouble to bring Jordan out of exile.