PART 2 — The Crest of Winterfall
The square exploded into frightened whispers beneath the falling snow.
“What did he say?”
“No servant?”
“That crest belongs to the royal bloodline…”
The guards near the pillory hesitated nervously, gripping their spears tighter as icy wind howled between the stone buildings.
But the old man never lowered the golden crest.
His weathered hand trembled slightly beneath the snow.
Because he recognized it.
Not from stories—
from war.
The wolf suddenly growled deeper beside the girl, thick silver fur rising along its back as armored footsteps echoed across the frozen courtyard.
From the castle gates—
three black-armored knights emerged into the square.
Their crimson cloaks snapped violently in the wind.
At their center walked Lord Varric.
Cold eyes.
Scar across his jaw.
Hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
The crowd instantly backed away.
Even the guards looked afraid.
Lord Varric stopped beside the pillory and stared directly at the old man.
“You talk too much for a stable keeper,” he said calmly.
The old man slowly closed his fingers around the crest.
“And you bury too many truths for a lord.”
Tension froze the square solid.
Snow drifted silently between them.
Then Lord Varric’s eyes shifted toward the frightened girl locked in the stocks.
For the first time—
fear touched his expression.
Small.
But real.
The girl noticed it immediately.
And so did the wolf.
The massive animal stepped directly in front of her, golden eyes fixed on the lord with a low dangerous growl.
Lord Varric’s voice darkened.
“That child died twelve years ago.”
The old man lifted the crest higher for the entire town to see.
“No,” he answered quietly.
“She survived.”
A wave of shock spread through the villagers.
Women covered their mouths.
Men stepped backward in disbelief.
Because engraved into the golden emblem beneath the snow—
was the ancient crown of House Winterfall.
The lost royal family slaughtered during the castle fire years earlier.
The girl’s breathing became shaky.
“…I don’t remember any of it,” she whispered.
The old man looked at her with grief in his eyes.
“You were never supposed to.”
Then suddenly—
the wolf barked violently toward the castle walls.
Everyone turned.
High above the square, shadowed figures appeared along the battlements.
Archers.
Dozens of them.
Lord Varric stepped backward slowly.
His hand finally gripping his sword.
“Kill the wolf,” he ordered coldly.
The giant grey beast bared its teeth instantly.
But before the soldiers could move—
the old man shouted with terrifying force:
“Touch the heir…”
A pause.
Then—
“…and this kingdom burns with her.”
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