The sea announced them long before anyone saw them. One by one, dark silhouettes emerged through the morning mist, dragon-prowed longships cutting through the frigid water like wolves scenting blood. Their sails bore the black-and-gold crest of the Azland Tribe—a banner recognized from every northern coastline to the frozen fjords beyond. By the time they reached shore, every member of the Sivillion Clan had gathered. Not to welcome them. To survive them. Winter had not been kind to Sivillion. Their once-proud palisade bore fresh repairs where enemy axes had split the timber. Smoke curled from only a handful of chimneys. Warriors stood watch despite fresh bandages wrapped around arms and ribs, exhaustion carved deep into weathered faces. Every man in the village looked as though he had spent the last year fighting a war he could no longer afford. Then the Azlanders stepped onto their shore. They did not hurry. They never needed to. Towering warriors cloaked in wolf pelts and thick furs strode through the opened gates as though the settlement already belonged to them. Axes hung comfortably from broad hips, shields scarred from countless victories resting across powerful backs. Gold gleamed from braided beards, wrists, and sword hilts. Their laughter was loud, effortless, utterly out of place among a people who had forgotten what peace sounded like. Strength walked with them. Confidence followed. The Sivillion warriors instinctively straightened their shoulders. It made little difference. Even standing tall, they looked diminished beside the northern giants. The great hall filled quickly. On one side sat Chief Sivillion and his mate, the weight of an entire clan evident in every line across their faces. Across from them lounged the Azland chieftain and his family with the ease of people discussing the weather rather than another tribe's future. Why should they worry? Their longships ruled the northern seas. Their warriors returned from battle with more spoils than graves. They had not come seeking allies. They had come to decide whether the Sivillion Clan deserved to keep breathing. Near the center of the hall sat Snow Sivillion. The youngest son. The youngest omega. Quiet enough to disappear beneath the roar of conversation, hands folded neatly within his sleeves while cups of mead passed overhead and warriors debated futures that were not entirely their own to decide. Beside him sat his elder sibling, whose posture remained proud despite the circumstances. Their father spoke carefully, every sentence measured, every promise weighed against the lives of the people beyond the hall's walls. Across the room— He sat there. Damien. The heir of Azland looked less like a guest than a king visiting land he had yet to claim. One heavy arm rested across the carved chair while the other lazily turned a drinking horn between scarred fingers. Broad shoulders strained beneath layers of fur. Old battle scars crossed weathered skin without shame. Confidence radiated from him with such ease that even seasoned warriors found themselves stealing glances in his direction. Stories had reached Sivillion long before the man ever had. The strongest warrior of the North. The future chieftain of Azland. The man who had broken shield walls before seeing twenty winters. The man neighboring tribes measured themselves against—and inevitably found themselves lacking. Around him, Azland warriors drank deeply, exchanged crude jokes, and filled the hall with booming laughter that echoed from the rafters. It was more than celebration. It was theater. Every laugh. Every careless grin. Every relaxed posture reminded everyone present that they feared no one inside these walls. Least of all the clan asking for salvation. Outside, snow continued to fall. Inside, an alliance was being negotiated. Not between equals. Between those with the power to save— And those with nothing left to bargain except the future of their own blood.