Gunnar
The splintered remains of a heavy stone war table lay scattered across the polished floor of my private council chamber like broken bones.
For three brutal hours, the room had been a furnace. Screaming kings, furious Vanguard commanders, and threatening lords had paced the perimeter, their voices bouncing off the high stone arches until the air grew thick with sweat, spilt wine, and violence. I had sat at the head of the chamber in absolute silence, listening to the men who had once bled beside me on frozen battlefields shout until the thick veins bulged against their throats.
I knew I was wrong. By every law written into the ancient crust of the North, I had committed treason against tradition.
Bringing a slave to the royal dais was an outrage. Bringing a wolfless pit slave; a
