Nasuada signaled Jormundur to follow on her way out. He covered half the room in two strides and stood at her side when she pushed the door open. A gust of chilling wind buffeted Nasuada.

"Orik and his dwarves will remain in Feinster during the Frost Months," she said as she turned her back towards the wind. "Same command applies to half our commoners. Only those who can serve the army in one way or another will join us."

Her words troubled Jormundur more than the cold, but he did not express disagreement. He strode by her in silence until they reached the closest messenger shack. Inside, a barefoot girl huddled in her cloak. She came forward at Nasuada's request.

"Arya is to come at my side immediately." She nodded and dashed through the gathering crowd. For a barefoot child, she was surprisingly agile. The cold stiffened limbs and dulled one's senses, yet this girl proved her different. For now. Only half of the redundant commoners had enough cloth or fur to keep themselves warm. The urchins, like the messenger girl, had less than that.

"They can't face the cold with worn rags."

"Lady?" Jormundur asked. Nasuada bit back a remark. Jormundur's ignorance stemmed from his tough nature, but it still infuriated her.

"Our people. They're ill prepared for the frost months." She shuddered slightly. The blanket of clouds made it hard to bear the cold. Her thin dress made it even harder.

"That they are," Jormundur said. His eyes scrutinized the crowd for nothing in particular. "We strive to exploit Belatona's weakness while the cold does the same to us. It's a bad time to march."

"How fares our army, Jormundur?" Nasuada placed a hand on his thick arm. She noticed from his anxious gaze that he needed reassurance. "I made sure they will have proper supplies to ease their journey."

"They are demoralized and prone to snap at their squad leaders for driving them through plains of snow while ice storms buffet them, but they are disciplined, lady. Dine with them; warm them with words, and they will see it done."

Nasuada let out a drawn-out sigh. Jormundur fought for her since they left Farthen Dur. Scared rebels turned into fierce warriors under his command. Nasuada knew her goals, but Jormundur knew the people, the beating heart of the Varden. For this reason, his voice carried the will of the army.

"It was a brash decision. I wanted nothing more than to win Belatona effortlessly. I overlooked the city's greatest defence: our trial of endurance."

When Jormundur said nothing, she pulled him close to her; so close, that her breasts flattened against his hard chest. "What if the elements best us?"

"They won't," he whispered. His hot breath caressed her ear. "Let the army think the same thing. Make them look forward to a victory with few casualties. Blizzards are worse, but hard won battle are the worsest. Bloody battles are always a defeat, no matter who holds the city in the end."

His words banished a sliver of her doubt. For a moment, Nasuada thought of nothing but his warmth. She rested her head on his smooth cheeks, breathed in his sour yet pleasant smell. She always ruled alone, taking Jormundur's loyalty for granted. It ought not to be so. Perhaps he could ease her burden, offer her—

"You called for me." It was Arya's voice that ended it all.

"Yes," Nasuada said as she pushed Jormundur away. His absence allowed the wind to rake at her chest and neck. "We march for Belatona, and you, together with Du Vrangr Gata, will find a way to break the walls."

"Your contraptions are more effective than magic against rock."

"We won't encumber ourselves with siege equipment. Mud will suck it in the moment we reach the plains. Your information allowed me to come up with this plan. It's your mind that has to devise a way to make our march worthwhile," Nasuada said.

If Arya disagreed, she showed no signs of it. "An unlikely feat. Numerous armies tried this, and they broke themselves upon unyielding stone."

"You underestimate Du Vrangr Gata and the human will. Even if you don't, my demand stands. Ask them for advice if nothing sprouts in your mind." With that, Nasuada bid Arya farewell before she had the chance to find a dent in Nasuada's armor.

"She used to be sharp like the elven blade she carries," Nasuada said.

"The metal dulls in time," Jormundur confirmed her suspicions. "And time does not favor the everliving."

Nasuada shrugged. Arya was of no concern to her yet. "Prepare our soldiers for march. Vanguard well ahead of the army, the body of the army, Arya, and the rearguard behind her."

Jormundur saluted and prepared to take his leave. His gaze lingered on her more than necessary before he finally left. As Nasuada resumed her own pace, she thought about Jormundur. What did he see in her? A bold leader, or a slave to her thirst for glory?

When she reached the Surdan ambassador's mansion—now Lazlo's headquarters— Nasuada realized it did not matter. Lies honeyed his words most of the time. Like everyone, he told her what she wanted to hear. Save for the council.

She was about to enter the mansion when a dark skinned Surdan came out.

"What's you doing here?" His voice carried a thick accent Nasuada struggled to understand.

"I have to talk with your commander and the ambassador."

"Surdans have no commander," he said. "And no ambassador."

He brushed past Nasuada like a storm.

"Wait," she demanded in her most authoritative voice. "I gave them this mansion, and I housed your ungrateful lot at the expense of my comfort. For that, I expect a proper answer.

The man turned around, scowling. "That is because you wanted alliance. Consequences. You have alliance." He glanced at the mansion. "Lazlo not here, and the ambassador is no ambassador. He a Gatherer of the artificiers."

An idea sprouted in Nasuada's mind. "Where can I find an artificier?"

"Nowhere," he said and turned.

Nasuada did not bother calling him again. His distrust alone tainted the information she told her, save for his last word. Sabrae said the same, and before her, the ambassador confirmed the uselessness of her curiosity.

She decided to take the matter to Lazlo on the morrow of the next day. If Arya failed to make progress, she needed to consider the artificiers as an alternative.

When she returned to her quarters, Nasuada found Lazlo lounging on her favorite cot.

"I lied to your guards," he said. He turned on his right side to face her. "You are bold. To take a decision before hearing the council, before knowing your ally."

Nasuada froze. A strange shiver ran along her spine, and perspiration covered her hands. It took all her willpower to hold Lazlo's gaze without wiping them.

"It's a necessary risk," she said as she walked towards a chair. "Victories are the best argument one can give." Her knees still trembled after she sat.

"Lay besides me, if my presence comforts you so." She must have noticed her reluctance, for he said, "My army is not yours to command Nasuada, bold leader of the Varden. Your knees buckled when you entered this room, yet your decision to drag us along was spoken with the certainty of a wife. Know your place, or lay with me as a wife should."

Nasuada closed her eyes, gulped in spite of her dry mouth, and tried to regain her composure. Lazlo knew her; that much was obvious. He also saw her as a frightened doe ready to spring away from the predator. She had to prove him different.

But she couldn't. Try as she might to maintain the poise of a leader, she still felt naked before his piercing aquamarine eyes.

"You understand. Good." Nasuada tried to object, but words refused to come out. Lazlo took her silence as an answer, pushed himself up from the cot and went to the door. When wood was smashed against wood, Nasuada released her pent-up breath, got onto her unsteady feet, drank a whole waterskin and fell into her cot.

She hated the sweat on her body, the shivers that she couldn't control. Most of all, she hated her inability to prove herself in front of Lazlo. The shame of defeat felt like drowning. She couldn't breath, couldn't think. And most importantly, she could do nothing to regain control.

The door creaked. Footsteps.

"A word from you in the morrow feeds the troops—"

Although muffled by her sobs, Nasuada recognized the voice. Jormundur. He joined her presently.

"I can't…can't stop," she stuttered. "Want to and…but can't."

"Breath deep. Slow."

Nasuada drew in as much air as her lungs could hold and exhaled slowly. Her senses roused from stupor, and the strange hiccups subsided.

Jormundur reached for her cheek with his bare hand. She winced. His touch was cold, but her cheek no longer felt slick with tears. Tears! And Jormundur, one of the Council members, kneeling besides her, witnessing her breakdown.

Nasuada swatted away his arm and tried to rise, but Jormundur pushed her back gently. "Don't get up yet. You may feel dizzy and your legs will wobble."

He was right. She was light headed. But she could not sit in bed like a squeamish maiden. She kicked Jormundur in the ribs, gripped his arm with both hands and twisted it as she got to her feet.

"Fair enough," he said. "You're not one to listen to someone else's orders."

Jormundur's grimace satisfied her somewhat. A grizzled warrior, overpowered by the maiden he sought to comfort. After he pleaded for release, Nasuada let go of his arm.

"I saw Lazlo rounding this house." He sat on the floor, back propped against her cot as he rubbed his arm. "Was it because of him?"

Nasuada shook her head. "It's something else. He only reminded me of the burden I bear." He lowered his head in thought. To avoid the subject of her embarrassment at all costs, Nasuada told him of the homeless she met on the way to the Surdan ambassador, of the filth she condemned them to without knowing. She also told him of the promise she made to the Surdan ambassador, of how she gave in to fear and forsook her people's greatest desire. Her tongue almost tangled inside her mouth when Jormundur threw her one of his pathetic glances, his eyebrows raised slightly above big, sorrowful eyes. He reserved this look for those pitiful beings that accepted weakness, embraced it, and talked of it with their husbands.

She hated it, but it was necessary. And Jormundur fell for it. He shuffled towards her, wrapped an arm around her neck, then dragged her towards the cot.

"Leadership nurtures regret. We strive to make the best decision for the Varden, and because of this, we tend to overlook the details," he said.

They sat besides one another, Nasuada with her hands clasped on her lap and Jormundur with his back straight as a spear. None spoke. When the silence became unbearable, Jormundur's fingers sought hers. She retracted from his wake with the speed of a mongoose.

"This is different," Nasuada said as she increased the gap between her and Jormundur. "I lied to my people. They would never give up their homes for the surdans, so I found a pretext. War forces us to use the tents. It also lessens suspicion." She took a deep breath. "The people will face the Frost Months in tents because it's necessary, not because I forced them to. Or so they'll believe."

Jormundur stared at the clay bowl on the table in front of them. Withered plains flowers drooped on its sides. They were beautiful during the summer. Nothing more. In death, they served as a reminder for Nasuada.

"Manipulation is a dangerous tool, even more so for the desperate. Even soldiers can tell the difference between taking orders and being handled," Jormundur said. He rested his chin on the bridge of his twined fingers. Not once did he glance at her while he spoke. "Sabrae and Falberd figured it out. It won't be long before the army does the same. And the cornered beast lashes with all its might at its lord."

"What do you propose, Jormundur?" Nasuada said, irritated with his needless disapproval. She raised her voice to get her point across his thick soldier head. "What would you have done?"

"The same," he said in that serene voice of his. "An easy battle fought at the side of an ally is at stake here. We can't let comfort mingle with duty."

"But?" Nasuada knew Jormundur well enough to expect a demand after his praise. This time, it was no different.

"The people need not trust only a leader. That is what the Empire does," his voice dropped to a whisper. "That is tyranny, Nasuada."

"Isn't that what the council is for?" Nasuada retorted. The mentioning of that word quickened the blood in her veins. "To share the power between four people?"

"Not in the eyes of the people," Jormundur said. "Sabrae and Falberd are known to a select few, and even they consider Sabrae a crazed scholar and Falberd an impotent midget." He winked at Nasuada.

For the first time since they left Farthen Dur, Nasuada laughed; an intense, hearty laughter that she could barely control. When her mirth subsided, she realized the implication of Jormundur's joke. Men like him never joked.

Unless they wanted to court a lady.

The thought brought a blush to Nasuada's cheeks. Were it not for her dark skin, Jormundur would see right through her, peer at her desires to share the mantle of leadership, and pursue this irrational infatuation.

As Nasuada's smile faded, she smoothened her dress and studied Jormundur. Brown stubble dressed his angular jaw, and no mustache hid his sincere smile.

Sand and desert flies take me, Nasuada thought. She trudged closer to him, took his hand and looked anywhere but at him.

"How do you consider me?" she asked.

Jormundur wrenched her hand so hard that she lost her balance. His lap muffled her fall.

"First, I have to look at you."

And he did. Her eyes feasted on his pleasant features, drank his cerulean gaze until her heart raced in her chest and the dress became a sweltering cage around her body.

"I think a fine maiden should not be scarred by the decisions she makes, or the hardships she faces." His smile vanished.

"Dear Jormundur," Nasuada said as she pulled a dagger from her belt and pressed it against that stubbled neck of his. "You being overprotective is fine. Suggesting that I'm a coward is not."

He gulped. From his position, he could do nothing. Helpless as a –

Pain forced Nasuada's fingers to relinquish the blade. His grip was unrelenting, and before Nasuada could roll out of harm's way, the cold blade found her neck.

"Hot headed leaders seldom last. Being in the possession of a blade does not mean you can point it at everyone and expect them to obey." He handed the dagger to Nasuada. She took it and went straight for her chair. The farther away from him, the better.

"What do you suggest we do with the council?" She said in the stern voice she used for crowds and strangers.

Jormundur smiled. "Allow them to lead squads. Sabrae can govern over Arya and Du Vrangr Gata. Falberd—"

"Will become an artificier," Nasuada completed for him. Jormundur nodded, but Nasuada did not fall for it.

"Falberd may fit in, but Sabrae has no like for mages. She calls them dimwitted, pretentious , and other words that only she understands."

"That's what you led yourself to believe," Jormundur said. He got up and tied his linen shirt at the neck. "Trust them like you trust me."

"That's too much to ask. Every meeting is the same; they bark like dogs, but when it comes to fight, they whimper and cower."

"Trust them," Jormundur repeated. He picked the furs rested on the stool at the end of the cot, wrapped them around himself and left.

"Trust them," Nasuada said. "Is it not enough that I trust you?"

She paced around the room in search of answers, but they refused to come. All that she could think of was his fragrance, his smile, the way he overpowered her.

Nasuada gave up sooner than she wanted. "Nighthawks," She called. "Call for a messenger boy to bring Sabrae and Falberd to my quarters."