Chapter 6 - The Road North
The journey north was a harsh baptism by ice and wind. For three days, Arthur and his escort traveled through dense forests and frosted valleys. The weather seemed to mirror the political climate of the kingdom—cold, unpredictable, and hostile.
Arthur rode at the front alongside Sir Gawain, clad in a fitted chainmail tunic bearing the crest of the rising sun over a crossed sword—his own newly adopted sigil. Despite the freezing drizzle, he refused to wear a heavy cloak, choosing to share the discomfort of his men.
During a brief halt near the ruins of an old watchtower, a young recruit named Bran, barely older than Arthur, nervously approached the king with a skin of water.
"My King," Bran stammered, avoiding direct eye contact. "The men... they say the sword chose you because you possess a pure heart. Do you truly believe we can defeat Malaphar without a massive army?"
Arthur took the water skin, offering a reassuring smile that instantly eased the boy's tension. "An army fights for coin or fear, Bran. But people fight for hope. Malaphar relies on fear. When the northern clans see that we bring food instead of chains, their fear will turn to loyalty."
"And if it doesn't?" Bran asked quietly.
Arthur looked toward the distant, mist-shrouded peaks of Frosthold. "Then Caliburn will show us the way."
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Suddenly, the rustling of brush in the surrounding woods broke the silence. Sir Gawain’s hand flew to his sword hilt instantly, his eyes scanning the tree line. "Hold your positions!" he roared, signaling the guards to form a defensive perimeter around the king.
From the shadows of the pine trees, a lone figure stepped forward, hands raised to show she carried no weapons. It was a young woman wrapped in thick fur pelts, her breath pluming in the freezing air, her eyes wild with a mixture of terror and urgency.
