The greenhouses were full of people. Young men and women worked between the rows of plants, carefully adding soil to the roots and checking the thin stems. Outside the glass, the first snow was falling slowly. It clung to the wooden frames of the greenhouses and melted against the warm panes.

  Inside, it was warm. The air smelled of damp earth, herbs, and smoke from small stoves that kept the frost from killing the greenery.

  One of the boys stood holding a sapling.

  — Lady Dilfiza, what should I do with this one? — he asked.

  — Bring it here. We’ll keep it inside the house, — the young woman replied.

  She looked different from the rest of the youth. Narrow eyes, thin lips, short black hair. A tattoo began at the bones of her hands and ran up to her neck, partly hidden by her clothing — a mark that immediately revealed her as a foreigner.

  They left the greenhouse and walked toward the nearby house. It was a solitary wooden home by the river that flowed toward Hariv. The city itself was visible from here — its walls darkening along the horizon.

  Dilfiza and the student stepped inside. She placed the sapling on the windowsill.

  — It will do better here, — she said.

  From the window, the other students could be seen working in the greenhouses. Dilfiza watched them silently for a while, until the boy who had brought the sapling called to her.

  — Lady Dilfiza… there are riders.

  She moved to the window.

  Two figures rode along the road between snow-covered fields. Armed. Their horses exhaled heavy clouds of steam into the cold air.

  — They’re mercenaries, aren’t they? — The boy asked quietly.

  — Yes, — Dilfiza said. — It’s definitely them.

  She narrowed her eyes, studying the riders.

  — I recognize one of them. That’s Velm.

  For several seconds, she remained silent, examining the other.

  Then her eyes suddenly widened.

  — Well…

  Her voice rose slightly.

  — That’s Atrion.

  — Atrion himself? — The boy asked in surprise.

  — Yes. Go warn the other students.

  The boy dashed happily toward the door and ran to the greenhouses, calling the others.

  Dilfiza glanced at herself. She straightened her jacket and smoothed her hair. Then she stepped outside to greet the guests.

  Velm and Atrion were already close. They dismounted and approached the small wooden gate that separated the yard from the road.

  — May we come in, mistress? — Velm asked.

  Dilfiza gave a faint smile.

  — Of course. Come in.

  A few students approached to greet the guests, but soon returned to their work. They kept stealing glances at the mercenaries, whispering among themselves.

  Dilfiza led them into the house.

  She set simple food on the table — bread, stewed vegetables, and hot broth. The mercenaries sat and began to eat. The conversation started quickly. They spoke of news from the front, of Hariv, of what was happening in the kingdom.

  After some time, Dilfiza studied them more closely.

  — It seemed to me… did you come from the other side of the river?

  Velm gave a short nod.

  — Yes. We were visiting.

  Dilfiza narrowed her eyes slightly.

  — Visiting? On that side?

  A faint smile touched her lips.

  — Interesting… and who were you visiting?

  Velm broke off a piece of bread.

  — You won’t believe it. Nektokaris.

  — What?!

  Dilfiza straightened sharply.

  The conversation died at once.

  Only the crackle of firewood in the stove could be heard.

  — What made you go there? — She asked more quietly.

  Velm shrugged.

  — Dagmar sent us. Said he could gather information for us about that Suggestor… and explore the Dark Forest.

  Dilfiza watched him even more closely.

  — In exchange for what?

  This time, Atrion answered.

  — For all the lands from Hariv to the mines of Korosten.

  Dilfiza slowly rose from the table. She stepped toward the stove and leaned against the warm stone. For several seconds, she said nothing.

  — But those forests are inaccessible to him. How would he enter them?

  — That’s why we came here, — Velm replied.

  Atrion added:

  — He said something strange. He mentioned you. Said you could help us with that.

  A short pause.

  — And that after this… I would not leave you alive.

  Dilfiza kept her eyes on Velm, who sat motionless at the table. Meanwhile, her hand slipped quietly behind the stove. She found the knife and tightened her grip around it, turning the blade toward her own skin.

  — Then perhaps you will finally tell me what I’m supposed to know? — Atrion said. — And what Velm kept silent about the entire way here.

  — We have long wanted to tell you… — Dilfiza began.

  Velm cut her off.

  — Dilfiza is a Spore.

  He spoke calmly.

  — She can grow a forest in a matter of days… if we find enough victims for her.

  Atrion rose abruptly.

  — I knew it.

  He ran a hand through his hair.

  — The worst suspicion of them all.

  He muttered a curse under his breath.

  — Damn it… what the hell?

  — We truly meant to tell you, — Dilfiza said.

  — Meant to? And couldn’t find the time in six years? — Atrion shot back sharply.

  He pointed at her.

  — Now it makes sense why your relatives tried to kill you in Gravell. Do you understand the king could execute all of us for this?

  He turned to Velm.

  — Spores are strictly forbidden on the continent. And you know perfectly well why.

  — Those stories have nothing to do with me. I’ve never done anything for pleasure, — Dilfiza said, her voice rising.

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  Atrion jabbed a finger toward her.

  — I’ve heard that before. We’ve all heard it. Others like you said the same.

  His voice grew colder.

  — And then they found young victims and pulled Luga straight out of their bodies. Leaving nothing but living shells behind.

  Dilfiza met his gaze without flinching.

  — Mercenaries spend their lives killing people, too. For money. And for pleasure.

  She stepped closer.

  — They rape girls. Burn villages. Slaughter families.

  A brief pause.

  — Yet somehow that didn’t stop you from becoming one of them.

  Atrion opened his mouth. Then closed it.

  Silence settled over the house.

  He paced the room several times, then stopped by the window.

  — We have to inform the king, — he said at last. — And tell him exactly what we intend to do.

  He turned to Dilfiza.

  — How many victims do you need?

  — How large is the area? — She asked.

  Velm answered:

  — We need to cover the stretch by the lake. Dense enough to cast a reliable shadow.

  Dilfiza thought for a few seconds.

  — That’s significant. Three people. Young. Not old. Those who still have many years of life ahead.

  She looked at Atrion.

  — And people around the perimeter. So no one wanders in by accident.

  Atrion let out a heavy breath.

  — Fine. You’ll have your victims.

  He was already standing by the door.

  — I expect you in Hariv the day after tomorrow.

  He stepped outside, mounted his horse, and rode off.

  Dilfiza and Velm exchanged a silent glance.

  As soon as Atrion disappeared behind the trees, she slipped the knife back behind the stove.

  And Velm slowly returned the mace to his belt. He had kept it ready the entire time.

  The Grey Lands. This territory had never known a king of its own. Since ancient times, tribal chieftains ruled here, united for only one reason — to prevent the western kingdoms from swallowing their lands. The soil was rocky, poor, and harsh. Fields yielded little, forests were sparse, and cold mountain winds often destroyed crops before winter even arrived.

  Yet this same land granted them another kind of strength.

  Mountains encircled the territory on nearly every side. Only three narrow passes allowed entry into the Grey Lands, and each had been defended by the clans for centuries. Stone paths, tight ravines, and ancient watchtowers made these approaches nearly impregnable. Many armies had tried to march through them. Most turned back, having lost men and horses before even reaching a battlefield.

  Wars, alliances, and truces were decided by a council of chieftains. Each clan had its representative, and every few years they gathered to choose a First among them — the one who would negotiate and speak for all.

  The rocky ground raised strong warriors, but poor politicians. In hundreds of years, no one had emerged capable of truly uniting all the clans. Each chieftain guarded the interests of his own people, and nearly every council ended in quarrels, threats, or fresh clashes between clans.

  And now the council once again struggled to reach a decision.

  The wooden hall was filled.

  All nine chieftains had come in person.

  That was rare. Usually, one of them sent a kinsman or a trusted warrior in his place. But this time the matter was too important.

  Envoys of Ranuver had proposed an alliance.

  At the center of the great hall stood a massive wooden table. The walls were hung with woven panels of dried moss, herbs, and roots. They served not only as decoration but also to hold warmth within. In large stone braziers, logs smoldered slowly, filling the chamber with the scent of resin and dry leaves.

  The seats of the chieftains were arranged in a half circle.

  Each sat beneath the banner of his clan — rough cloth marked with beasts, mountains, or ancient sigils.

  Some were already arguing in low, tense voices. Others watched in silence. A few warriors stood by the walls, hands resting on the hilts of axes and short swords.

  At the center, behind the main table, sat the eldest among them — the one chosen this year to lead the council.

  His gaze moved slowly across the hall.

  He saw familiar faces.

  Old enemies. Temporary allies. Men who only yesterday might have killed one another in a mountain pass.

  But now they were required to decide together.

  — The envoys of the Rejected are already waiting for our answer, — Hawk said, sweeping his eyes over the chieftains. — They demand passage to the rapids and our aid in the assault of the opposite bank. Speak.

  The first to rise was a broad-shouldered chieftain beneath the banner of a black bear.

  — This is an opportunity, — Bear said. — With the Rejected, we will crush Ceredan. Serain cannot withstand two armies. We will reclaim the lands he gave to The Compact.

  — And can we trust them? — Lynx cut in, a lean young chieftain with sharp eyes. — What will they do once Ceredan falls? Who will stop them then?

  Hawk slowly shook his head.

  — The Rejected army is vast. If they march here by force, we will struggle to hold them back.

  — Which is precisely why we should be their allies, not their enemies, — Bear snapped. — We cannot stop their legions alone.

  From the other side of the table, a lean man with dark eyes rose.

  — A war with Ceredan will be long, — Spider said. — An entire kingdom stands before them. Why would they need our stones?

  — So we are to hope that after victory they simply forget us? — Lynx shot back.

  — In that time we prepare, — Spider replied calmly. — We gather stores, strengthen fortifications, and block the ravines. If they come, we will meet them in the mountains.

  Lynx looked at him coldly.

  — And will we gather people as well? Where do we find warriors after a war with Ceredan?

  Spider shrugged.

  — What choice do we have? We cannot stop that armada.

  — We can negotiate with Ceredan, — Lynx said. — At least they respect their borders.

  Those words stirred the hall at once.

  The chieftains began speaking over one another. Voices rose. Arguments turned quickly into accusations. Some were already shouting without restraint.

  Bear slammed his fist down on the table.

  — Negotiate? With The Compact and Ceredan? — he barked.

  The hall quieted somewhat.

  — Lynx, you are too young to remember how they drove our people from the forests. How they burned our settlements. How they slaughtered our children.

  He leaned forward.

  — Your father nearly died in those woods, — Bear said quietly. — And you wish to negotiate with those who burned them?

  Several chieftains supported him at once — short cries, fists striking the table. The murmur in the hall swelled again.

  Spider raised his hand.

  — Enough.

  The murmur gradually faded.

  — We must consider every option. That is why this council was formed — to deliberate. For now, it is unclear which is worse for us: The Compact or the Rejected.

  His words cooled the hall somewhat. The shouting subsided, and the argument returned to a heavy, restrained discussion.

  Lynx remained silent.

  He had only recently taken his place on the council, and his words still carried little weight among the older chieftains.

  Hawk swept his gaze across the table.

  — Then. What decisions do we put to a vote?

  Bear leaned forward.

  — I decide to negotiate with the Rejected. But I agree with Spider: at the same time, we prepare our defenses. In case, after the war, they turn their army against us.

  He shrugged.

  — But that will be later.

  Hawk nodded.

  — Then the proposal stands: grant the Rejected passage through the passes, yield control of the rapids to them, and support the assault on the opposite bank.

  Cries of approval echoed through the hall. Several chieftains agreed at once. No open objections were voiced.

  — Wait… — Lynx said quietly.

  His voice nearly vanished in the noise, but Hawk raised a hand — and the hall fell silent again.

  — What do we do if the assault fails?

  Bear snorted.

  — With the Rejected, our combined army will be four times the size of Serain’s forces. They will almost certainly lose.

  He smiled.

  — The only question is how quickly.

  Several chieftains backed him with short shouts of approval.

  Lynx lowered his head. The decision seemed already shaped, and the discussion had begun drifting toward the formalities of voting.

  Then Spider rose.

  — And yet… almost.

  His gaze moved slowly across the chieftains.

  — The mercenaries of Red Breach have long been on that bank. And they are not idle.

  A brief pause.

  — The work there does not stop. Not even at night.

  The hall grew quieter.

  Spider leaned forward.

  — Tell me… what happens if they hold that shore?

  Bear shrugged.

  — If we cannot take it here, we strike elsewhere.

  Hawk slowly lifted his head.

  — That “elsewhere” lies near the lands of The Compact.

  He looked around the table.

  — Which means the Rejected would have to pass through our entire territory. Past the settlements of every clan.

  Silence fell. Someone muttered a curse under his breath.

  — That is unacceptable, — Spider said. — Grant them the rapids. Aid in the assault — yes. But let their army march through our lands? That is too much.

  Bear shook his head.

  — It is risky. But if they choose to, they will pass regardless. Their losses will not deter them.

  Spider’s gaze hardened.

  — Then perhaps we should meet them here at once? If, as you say, we cannot stop them anyway.

  — Do not twist my words! — Bear barked.

  The hall erupted again. Several chieftains rose to their feet, arguing openly now. The council split quickly into two camps.

  Hawk struck the table sharply with his palm.

  — Silence!

  The roar gradually faded.

  — We must stand on the opposite bank, — he continued. — Otherwise, any decision we make will turn into a disaster.

  His gaze moved slowly across the chieftains.

  — I propose this: we grant the Rejected the rapids. We assist in the assault. But we deny them passage through our lands. If we fail to break Ceredan at the rapids, we prepare to defend ourselves against the Rejected.

  Bear’s smile turned grim.

  — That will be a wasted sacrifice. We will lose men… and still be conquered.

  Hawk nodded calmly.

  — Objection noted. If this proposal fails the first vote, we will proceed to a second, according to Bear’s plan.

  He rose to his feet.

  — Cast your votes.

  The chieftains rose one by one.

  They approached the old voting jar and dropped their stones inside: a smooth pale stone — in favor, a dark one — against.

  The stones struck the wood softly, one after another.

  When the last stone fell, Hawk bent over the jar and poured them onto the table. In silence, he separated them into two piles.

  Five… in favor.

  Four… against.

  Hawk slowly lifted his head.

  — Then… we will go to war.

  Silence settled over the hall once more. The chieftains exchanged glances.

  Each of them understood one thing: if the rapids were not taken, this council — and the very alliance of the clans — might cease to exist.