❄️ CHAPTER 9 — PART 2Winds in the Walls

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Recap of Chapter 9 – Part 1

In Part 1, tensions within the Norheim Defence League deepened as Himiko’s carefully laid trap in the Eastern Gardens finally snapped shut around Zenobia, exposing the first threads of a hidden conspiracy woven through the League. As Zenobia was brought in for questioning, her shaken silence and fragmented recollections hinted at forces moving far beyond her control—forces tied to Merlin’s disappearance, the broken seals beneath the citadel, and the long-buried history of the Wind element. Behind closed doors, Himiko confronted the uncomfortable truth that someone within her own ranks had manipulated events that led to the Strategist’s downfall, shaping his exile and casting suspicion upon him while obscuring the true architect behind the Archivist’s death. Meanwhile, rumours from Frostborne—of unrest, shifting borders, and strange energy surges—pressed urgency upon the council. With trust shrinking and suspicions sharpening, Part 1 ended with Himiko standing alone before the fractured sigil, realising that the conspiracy she sought to expose had already sunk its claws deep into the heart of the NDL.

Whispers Beneath the Treaty

The valley beneath the auroras looked almost holy at first glance — a long white sweep of untouched snow, framed by black cliffs that rose like the ribs of some ancient god. The sky above it churned with ribbons of green and gold, the colours bleeding into one another like spilt enchantment. A traveller could lose themselves in such a sight; a fool could believe it peaceful.

The former Wind Strategist knew better.

He stood on the ridge, his boots sinking into frozen crust, with his cloak snapping against the bitter wind. The cold gnawed at the edges of his sleeves, but he barely noticed it. Old magic had a way of distracting the body. Tonight, the air tasted wrong — metallic, electric, as though lightning were waiting to be born.

The wind coiled around him with an almost plaintive ache, lifting loose strands of his hair, tugging at the fabric of his cloak like a dog begging its master to come home.

He closed his eyes and listened.

There — beneath the gusts, beneath the howling of the storm, beneath even the shifting auroras — a faint thrum pulsed through the ice. It was subtle, more sensation than sound, but unmistakable to him.

Zephyr.

A dragon forgotten by history but not by the world.

The Strategist inhaled sharply, and the wind surged as if relieved to be recognised.

He opened his eyes.

The valley awaited.

He descended.

The Citadel, far from Frostborne's frozen heart, did not sleep.

Himiko stood at the balcony overlooking the war room as the great projected map flickered beneath her. The chamber felt dimmer tonight, as though the crystals feeding the projection were hesitant to burn too brightly while the world whispered of storms.

She rested her hands on the cold stone rail and let her gaze fall across the map.

It was a mess of colour — three enemy alliances pressing in like wolves, markers shuffling as Legions engaged and withdrew, little sparks of Altar Stone activations blinking like malignant stars. The Legendary Season had turned Frostborne into a precise, horrifying machine. Cities didn't fall from brute force anymore — they were undone by mathematics and ritual.

Behind her, she sensed movement.

Wu entered first, quiet as snowfall, clutching a scroll of fresh reports. She always waited just behind Himiko's right shoulder — not because protocol demanded it, but because instinct placed her there. Wu's presence steadied things. She was the sort of woman who never raised her voice unless the world was ending, and even then she'd apologise for the inconvenience.

Loki slipped in next, all lazy swagger and eyes that missed nothing. He leaned in the doorway as though the frame were built for him alone, arms folded, a smirk playing about his lips. Himiko had never decided whether he was a blessing or a warning, and she suspected he preferred it that way.

Charles arrived shortly after, the ancient shield strapped across his back seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it. He nodded to Himiko — a gesture that would have been respectful from anyone else, but from him was practically a love letter. Charles was carved from loyalty and oak. She trusted him with her life, which made it all the more infuriating that she could not trust him with this.

Zenobia stayed near the staircase. She didn't speak; she rarely did when the weight of secrets sat in the room like a beast. Her hands were folded carefully in her lap, but Himiko noticed the tremble in her fingers. Those hands had fought for kingdoms once. They had held power, ruin and hope. Tonight they clutched nothing at all, as though afraid of breaking something unseen.

Himiko let herself study them — her League, her friends, her suspects.

They had all arrived here by different paths.

Wu, the reluctant prodigy whose knowledge of history was matched only by her near-crippling fear of disappointing the very history she sought to preserve.

Loki, the wanderer who'd walked into Norheim with nothing but a smirk and a shadow of a past he refused to name; somehow he'd slipped into the League as though he'd always belonged.

Charles, the knight who'd abandoned a throne he could have claimed simply because someone asked him to stand between danger and a stranger. He had stayed out of stubbornness, devotion, or possibly the inability to say no to a woman who terrified him.

And Zenobia — a survivor forged in desert fire, drawn to the League by Merlin's quiet mentorship and her own longing for a life not defined by warfare.

They were misfits.

They were magnificent.

They were dangerous.

Himiko did not know which of them hid the mole.

She exhaled, a sound more fragile than she intended.

Wu moved closer. "You look troubled," she murmured.

Himiko did not answer immediately. She let her eyes drift across the map again, following the glowing trail of a single scout marker moving north — the path she had cleared, the corridor she had left deliberately unguarded.

A corridor meant for a ghost.

"The wind is moving," Himiko said softly. "And something else is moving with it."

Loki chuckled under his breath. "You do enjoy these ominous pronouncements."

"Only when they're accurate," Himiko replied.

Charles stepped forward. "Is it him?"

Himiko did not say the name. She let the silence answer.

Zenobia's breath caught.

Wu's grip on her scroll tightened.

Loki's smirk flickered into something more serious.

Even Charles's posture shifted, his shoulders straightening as if preparing to shoulder a weight no one else could see.

"He'll try to reach Merlin," Wu said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes," Himiko replied. "And the mole will try to stop him."

She turned from the map and faced her League fully.

"This is the moment. The air is shifting. We need to be ready."

She nodded toward the stairs. "Positions."

Loki vanished first — the man could dissolve into shadow with the ease of a rumour fading out of a tavern.

Wu went next, footsteps soft and measured, already memorising every corridor she would need to navigate.

Charles lingered a breath longer, staring at Himiko with quiet resolve; she squeezed his arm — a rare gesture — and he nodded before departing.

Zenobia followed last, shoulders drawn tight, determination etched into every step. As Himiko observed the girl’s departure, she fervently hoped that her resolve would remain steadfast amidst the imminent peril.

When the room finally emptied, the silence hit her like a slap.

She stood alone in the war-room, map glowing beneath her feet, and let her thoughts turn inward.

She thought of the Strategist — once her mentor, then her rival, then the man whose downfall she had unknowingly facilitated.

She thought of Merlin — wise and weary, hiding truths because he feared the world would not survive them.

She thought of the mole — clever, patient, invisible, shaping events with surgical precision.

And then she thought of Zephyr — the Wind dragon erased from history, sealed in myth, his name spoken only by the desperate or the doomed.

A chill threaded through her.

"Let this be the night," she whispered. "Let the truth show its face."

Wind slammed against the Citadel window, as if answering.

The Scarab King's subterranean chambers smelled faintly of incense and burnt sand, a disorienting contrast to the freezing world above. Merlin sat opposite him, fingers twitching restlessly near the rim of his untouched teacup.

He wasn't thinking of escape — he was thinking of timing.

The Scarab King watched him with the inscrutable patience of his kind. "You've been quiet," he said finally.

"I've been calculating," Merlin replied. "A dangerous hobby for someone in my position."

"Do you fear Himiko's plan?"

Merlin snorted. "Fear? No. I fear only what happens after she succeeds."

He leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment, letting his mind drift toward the valley. He could feel the air changing, the shiver of cold power threading its way through the continent like a herald.

"The storm's waking," he murmured.

"And you believe he will come here?" the Scarab King asked.

Merlin opened his eyes. "He'll try."

"And if the mole reaches him first?"

Merlin's expression tightened. "Then Norheim will lose more than a Storm."

The Scarab King hesitated, then spoke with rare solemnity. "What is waking beneath Frostborne?"

Merlin's voice dropped, barely louder than the whispering flame.

"A dragon that remembers."

And in the valley, the Strategist felt it too.

The ground beneath his feet trembled faintly, as though something massive shifted far below the ice. His heartbeat matched it unconsciously.

The wind around him thickened, curling in spirals that looked disturbingly deliberate.

He slowed, senses sharpening.

Someone else was here.

He didn't turn immediately. He listened.

A faint crunch of snow.

A pause.

A breath.

Someone proficient in Wind, despite lacking the skill.

He had been followed.

By friend?

By hunter?

By something worse?

He took another step — and the wind recoiled sharply.

He spun.

A shadow detached itself from the mouth of the valley, dark against the glowing auroras. The figure stepped lightly, confidently, as though the cold had no claim on them.

They did not announce themselves. They didn't need to.

The Strategist recognised the stillness that preceded them — the way the world seemed to hush, to hold its breath, as though bracing for a quill to strike parchment.

The mole.

He felt the weight of their presence like a knife sliding gently against the spine.

The Strategist did not reach for a weapon.

Wind gathered behind him, furious and protective, but he held it in check with a slow, controlled breath.

"Come to finish the story?" he murmured into the wind, not loudly enough for the mole to hear.

The mole stepped closer, untouched by fear.

Far above them, in the Citadel, Himiko's heart jerked violently — though she did not yet know why.

The auroras twisted overhead like the sky taking sides.

The sigil beneath the Citadel cracked deeper.

The world held its breath.

And the final act began.

📘 SYNOPSIS OF FINAL CHAPTER 

The next chapter (Chapter 10) will bring:

• The staged siege where Merlin is "rescued"
• The confrontation between the Strategist and the mole
• The truth of Zephyr is beginning to surface
• A death that shakes the NDL
• Himiko seizing control of a story that is spiralling beyond her plans
• The awakening of a greater danger for future sagas
• The quiet emotional fallout among the NDL core

This sets the stage for the next cycle of Norheim stories.

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