The Harshman strode into the Great Chamber like a blizzard. The air around him crackled and groaned; the rushes snapped under his feet. The nobles, the servants, the hunting dogs and the chickens lay sprawled across the floor, sound asleep.

‘I … Have … Returned,’ roared the Harshman, and the stuffed bears wilted under his icy breath. Above him, the hawk’s great wings beat a steady rhythm.

A boy slept on the Faithful Throne, but he was not the Heir, so the Harshman merely picked him up and dropped him on the floor. Then he sat on the throne, pondering his next move.

He liked sitting up there, with bodies everywhere he looked. It reminded him of a battlefield, though there was no blood, which was disappointing, and no slaughterbirds picking over the corpses.

There was, however, an execution block.

The Harshman liked executions almost as much as he liked battles, and for one enjoyable moment, he contemplated chopping off the heads of everyone in the chamber. That would fix the no-blood problem.

But then he would have no one to do his bidding. No one to cower in front of him and beg for mercy.

‘When … I … Am … Margrave … The … Whole … Country … Will … Cower. When … I … Am … Margrave … I … Will—’

His mind creaked out a question. Why should he not be Margrave now?

He gazed out over the Great Chamber, and his iron teeth clattered in something that almost resembled a smile. He had thought to kill the Heir first, but why wait?

Above his head, the hawk settled onto one of the rafters. The Harshman brought his fist down on the arm of the Faithful Throne, and roared to the sleeping people, ‘I … Am … Margrave … Now.’

It sounded so good that he repeated it, even louder. ‘I … AM … MARGRAVE … NOW.’

There, that was settled. He leaned against the back of the throne, enjoying the sense of power. His first act as Margrave would be to send an army to destroy the Saffies. And when the Saffies were all dead, he would turn to the countries north of Neuhalt, and conquer them. No one would be able to stop him, because—

Ah, yes. To be truly unstoppable, he must kill the Heir.

Sniff sniff sniff. He turned to one side of the chamber, then the other. Sniff sniff sniff.

The boy had been here recently, and so had his – what was the word? His ‘friends’? (The Harshman was not entirely sure what friends were. He had never needed friends when he was alive. He had always preferred underlings. Or slaves.)

‘I … Will … Kill … Them … All,’ he growled, and he lurched off the throne, following that elusive scent.

But then he paused. The Margrave of Neuhalt was too important to go scuttling about the towers like a dog. The Margrave of Neuhalt sat on his throne and gave orders, and everyone ran to obey.

‘The … Margrave … Of … Neuhalt … Sends … His … Slaves … To … Catch … The … Heir.’

And with that, the Harshman drew the cold back into himself, and waited for the sleepers to wake and do his bidding.