Chapter 110: Chapter 110: Lady Vaelora von Iskandar

The carriage rumbled to a slow halt.

Noel shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing as he peered through the frost-covered window. The view beyond was anything but welcoming.

High stone walls towered before them—thick, weatherworn, and built for war, not for show. The Iskandar stronghold wasn’t the ornate manor one might expect from a noble house. It was a fortress, plain and simple, nestled deep within a snowy valley between jagged mountains.

Snow lashed the world in thick sheets. The sky above was a dull gray, pressing low over the peaks like a weight. Even the air felt heavier here.

Noel exhaled slowly and reached for his gloves, pulling them on with deliberate care. He wore a long black winter coat, the fabric thick and insulated, with a high collar turned up against the wind. Sturdy black boots rose to his knees, crunching faintly against the carriage floor as he shifted his weight.

His blond hair had grown slightly during the past weeks, now falling in uneven strands across his brow. Against the starkness of his attire and the bleak world outside, his emerald-green eyes stood out sharply, bright and cold.

Beside him, Noir sat quietly, fur puffed out against the cold. His black coat shimmered faintly with streaks of deep violet, each strand seeming to catch what little light remained. His eyes—dark irises rimmed in a deep shade of purple, surrounded by inky black—watched the world with a calm, unreadable gaze.

’Looks like we’ve arrived, Noir.’

Noel pushed the door open and stepped down into the snow. The wind hit him instantly—biting and sharp, cutting through layers as if seeking out weakness. He straightened his coat, ignoring the chill.

At the front of the carriage, the butler sent by House Estermont—remained seated, reins in hand. The horses stamped restlessly, breath misting in the frigid air.

Noel approached him, voice calm. “You can return now. Let them know I’ve arrived safely. I’ll be back before mid-April.”

The butler gave a respectful nod. “I will inform Lord Estermont.”

Without another word, he flicked the reins, turning the carriage. Snow kicked up in its wake as it began the long journey back through the pass.

Noel watched it disappear into the curtain of white.

’Just like I said, Noir. It’s going to be a long month.

Noel adjusted the strap of his sword belt as he made his way forward. Revenant Fang hung at his waist on one side, a familiar weight. On the other side, his Dimensional Pouch rested against his hip, secured to his belt—a silent reassurance.

Noir trotted at his side, paws making almost no sound despite the thick layer of snow beneath them. His sleek black and violet fur stood out sharply against the endless white.

They stood now before the great stone gate of the Iskandar fortress. The wall loomed high overhead, the stonework rough and ancient, worn smooth in places by centuries of wind and ice. Thick snow cascaded from above, swirling down in waves that made it hard to see more than a few meters ahead.

Noel tilted his head back slightly, observing the gate through the haze.

’Seems like you enjoy this kind of weather, Noir.’

The shadowy wolf gave no response, simply sitting down beside him with practiced calm, tail curling over his paws.

Noel took a breath, voice steady despite the cold that gnawed at his throat.

“GOOD DAY!” he called out, voice cutting through the storm.

A beat passed. The wind howled on.

Then—a deep groan of stone and iron. Slowly, with a grinding sound, the great gate began to open. Snow poured off its upper edges in heavy sheets.

Noel reached down, unclasping Revenant Fang from his belt. Without a word, he slipped the blade into the Dimensional Pouch, its presence vanishing from sight. There was no need to provoke suspicion on the other side of these walls.

He glanced at Noir, giving a small nod.

Together, they stepped forward, passing beneath the towering arch of stone as the gate yawned wider to admit them.

The world beyond the threshold waited in shadows and steel.

The first thing Noel noticed upon stepping through the gate was the sheer silence of the place.

No bustling servants. No idle chatter. Just the crisp crunch of boots over snow, the distant clang of steel on steel, and the low murmur of the wind weaving through stone and ice.

And standing directly in his path—a man who looked like he belonged to another age entirely.

The guard was massive. Broad-shouldered, thick arms barely contained by a fur-lined leather tunic. A mane of fiery red hair fell in tangled waves past his shoulders, matched by a thick, braided beard. His skin was pale from the cold but flushed from exertion, and a wicked scar traced one cheek. In one hand, he rested a massive axe against the ground.

His blue eyes narrowed as they took Noel in.

“State your business, boy,” he rumbled, voice deep as a landslide.

Noel stopped a few paces away, posture relaxed but alert. Noir sat at his side, unmoving.

“Good day. My name is Noel Thorne. I’ve come to request an audience with Lady Vaelora von Iskandar.”

At the name, the guard’s brow rose. A dry chuckle escaped him.

“Thorne, is it? Your kind hail from the other side of the continent, boy. This is a long way from home.” His eyes glinted. “I’m afraid Lady Vaelora does not entertain visitors so easily.”

Noel’s expression didn’t change.

“She was informed of my visit. Lady Selene would have sent word ahead.”

A long pause followed. The guard studied him a moment longer, then gave a grunt.

“I see… wait here. I’ll confirm it.”

With that, the red-haired warrior turned and strode off through the snow, the haft of his axe resting across one shoulder.

Noel watched him go, eyes narrowing slightly.

Then, shifting his weight, he allowed himself a moment to take in the fortress interior.

Ahead lay the main building—a castle of dark stone, its towers rising grim and jagged against the pale sky. It looked more like an old warlord’s keep than any noble estate.

To the left, a row of stables housed powerful warhorses, their breath steaming in the cold. To the right, training grounds stretched out beneath a blanket of snow. There, soldiers drilled in small groups—grunting, swinging weapons with brutal force.

There were no spells or enchantments to be seen—only steel and raw strength.

Axes, swords, maces—heavy weapons all. Even in the blizzard, they trained without hesitation.

’It is true there are no mages. Not a single one. The only exception must be Selene.’

The thought lingered as the snow eased, visibility widening just enough to see the harsh discipline of the place.

Noel let out a slow breath, eyes tracking the distant figures moving with grim determination.

He waited.

The sound of heavy boots crunching through snow brought Noel’s attention back to the gate.

The red-haired guard had returned, a faint breath of steam escaping his mouth as he spoke.

“Follow me. Lady Vaelora will see you.”

Noel gave a small nod and stepped into motion, Noir falling into step beside him.

As they walked deeper into the fortress, Noel felt the weight of many eyes upon him.

Warriors paused mid-swing in the training fields. Stablehands stopped their work. Even passing guards slowed to watch.

Their gazes weren’t curious. They were appraising, sharp as blades honed for war.

And soon enough, the whispers began.

“Look at the little doll that wandered in.”

“He’ll be crying back to his manor soon enough once his balls freeze off.”

Noel didn’t flinch, his expression unreadable as ever.

’Yes, yes. I’ll surely run back.’

The thought came dry, with a flicker of quiet amusement beneath it.

He kept pace with the red-haired warrior, shoulders squared, steps steady.

They passed beneath a smaller archway and into the heart of the keep.

Inside, the cold persisted. The stone walls radiated chill, their surfaces rough and unadorned. Simple iron torches burned along the walls, their flames fed by mundane oil, not magic.

The air smelled faintly of steel and ash.

This was not a place of comfort. It was a place built for endurance.

Their path led through narrow corridors and wide, empty halls, all shadowed in tones of gray and cold blue.

At last, they reached a set of large doors marked by deep carvings—scenes of battle and conquest etched into the dark wood.

The red-haired guard halted before them, turning to Noel.

“This is where I leave you. Inside, Lady Vaelora von Iskandar awaits.”

He stepped aside, thick arms crossed over his chest.

Noel paused for a beat, gaze flicking briefly toward the towering doors.

The doors opened with a low groan of old hinges, the sound echoing faintly through the vast chamber beyond.

Noel stepped inside.

The air here was colder than anywhere else in the fortress, though not from the weather. It came from the weight of the room itself—an aura of authority and danger that pressed against the skin like frost.

The hall was vast and bare, its high ceiling lost in shadows. Thick stone columns lined the sides, stark and unadorned. No banners, no gilded ornaments.

A single beam of light spilled down from a wide opening in the ceiling, illuminating the center of the chamber—a long crimson carpet stretching from the door to a raised dais.

At the far end of that carpet sat the throne.

It was no golden seat of luxury. The throne was forged from the bones of magical beasts, their twisted forms polished and woven into an imposing structure of fang and spine.

Upon it sat Lady Vaelora von Iskandar.

She looked exactly as Noel had imagined—and far more dangerous.

Her hair fell in a sharp silver cascade, streaked with dark strands. Piercing ice-blue eyes watched him from beneath a strong brow, their gaze sharp as the northern winds.

Her frame was powerful, broad-shouldered and muscular beneath a fur-lined cloak. One hand rested upon the arm of the throne; the other lay near the haft of a massive battle axe, its edge resting against the bone-carved seat.

By her side stood Selene—rigid, composed, her usual steel in place. Her eyes met Noel’s for a brief moment, unreadable.

Noel advanced, each step slow and measured, boots silent over the thick carpet.

He stopped before the dais, posture straight, gaze steady.

For a beat, silence reigned.

Then Lady Vaelora’s voice cut through the air—cold, clipped, and without pretense.

“Why have you come?”

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