The third day dawned clear and brutally cold, a sharpness in the air that promised winter's final, deepest bite. The camp was a study in organized tension. Grynn's Crimson Paw warriors, now with a proprietary air, patrolled the outer ice fields. The Southern scouts were invisible, but their presence was felt in the uncanny lack of surprises. Silverfang worked on expanding the sheltered living quarters against the cliff face, using prefabricated sections the Vault's fabricators could now produce—basic, durable shelters that beat a snow den.

Lyra was in the agricultural bay, overseeing the inoculation of the next batch of growth trays, when the alert came. Not through the comms, but through the bond—a sudden, focused spike of attention from Kael, stationed at the command post. Movement on the southern glacier. A fast-moving group. Ronan's signal.

Her heart stuttered. She wiped her hands and moved quickly, not running, but with a Keeper's purposeful stride. By the time she reached the main entrance chamber, Kael was already there, Nabil beside him, both watching the external monitors.

On the screen, a small group of figures emerged from the blinding white of the glacier, moving with the weary but determined gait of those who'd pushed hard. Ronan, a massive, familiar shape at the front. Finn, looking pinched and cold but alert. A Southern scout whose name Lyra didn't know. And behind them, not the armed warriors she'd half-expected, but a cluster of haggard, bundled figures—elders, by their slow, careful movements, and a few younger, wary-eyed escorts. The Ice-Maw and Frost-Scar delegation.

"No weapons drawn," Kael observed, his voice flat. "That's a good sign. Or a very clever trap."

"Ronan would not lead a trap to our door," Nabil said calmly. "He would have sent a warning. Let us receive them."

They walked out into the biting wind. The sight of the newcomers sent a ripple through the camp. Silverfang warriors paused their work, hands drifting toward weapons. Crimson Paw patrols stiffened, their loyalty a volatile, untested thing. Grynn emerged from a shelter, his eyes narrow slits.

Ronan's group reached the perimeter of the camp. He stopped, raising a hand in the universal sign for halt. He looked exhausted, his fur matted with ice, but his posture was that of a Beta returning with a hard-won prize. His eyes found Kael's and gave a short, sharp nod.

The elders from the glacier clans shuffled forward. There were four of them, two from each pack, their faces seamed and leathery from a lifetime of wind and privation. Their clothes were patched furs over thin frames. The Ice-Maw elder, a woman with eyes the color of flint, spoke first, her voice a dry rustle.

"Alpha Draven. Your Beta speaks of miracles. Of food from stone and healing from light. We have come to see with our own eyes. And to… hear your offer." Her gaze flickered past him to the open vault door, and a flicker of superstitious fear crossed her face before being ruthlessly suppressed by need.

The Frost-Scar elder, a man missing an ear to frostbite, grunted. "Our people are hungry. Our sick die in the dark. Your father's wars left us with little. We have nothing to trade but our suspicion. Your Beta says you trade anyway."

It was a blunt, desperate opening position.

Kael stepped forward, not as a conqueror, but as a host. "You have your lives. Your knowledge of the high ice. Your will to survive. That is currency enough. Come. See."

He didn't offer them rest or warmth first. He offered proof. He led them, with Lyra at his side, straight into the Vault, to the medical wing.

Torin, the young Northern hunter, was out of his pod. He was standing, tentatively putting weight on his newly-healed leg, supported by a Silverfang medic. The boy's face was a mixture of terror and awe as he saw the elders of his people. He straightened as much as he could.

"Elder Haska," he said, his voice thin.

The Frost-Scar elder with the missing ear, Haska, stared. "Torin? Your mother said you were dead. Your leg…"

"The machine fixed it," Torin whispered, as if speaking of a god. He took an unsteady, but firm, step. "It doesn't even hurt."

The elders crowded closer, their ancient, knotted hands prodding the smooth, pink skin where compound fractures had been. They smelled no infection, saw no weakness. The Ice-Maw woman, named Elara, looked from Torin to the humming med-pod, then to Lyra.

"This… is the power you offer?"

"It is the power we use," Lyra corrected gently. "It is for healing. Not for war. We would extend its use to your people. For a price."

"What price?" Haska demanded, suspicion warring with a desperate, hungry hope.

"An oath," Kael said. "Not of fealty to Silverfang. But of non-aggression towards this mountain and all who seek its sanctuary. Your people may come here, in limited numbers, for healing. In return, you share your knowledge of the glacier—safe routes, weather patterns, hidden springs. And you send a representative to the convocation in four days' time, to speak for the high clans, to help shape the Compact."

It was a offer of inclusion, not subjugation. It asked for their unique strength—knowledge of a harsh land—and gave them a seat at a table they'd never been allowed near.

Elara and Haska exchanged a long, silent look. A lifetime of rivalry and mutual struggle passed between them in that glance. Then Elara turned back. "The food your Beta spoke of?"

Lyra led them next to the agricultural bay. The sight of the vast, humming chambers, the rows of glowing grey fungal growth, the sheer abundance of potential food in this sterile place, struck the glacier elders dumb. Their poverty was of calories, of sustenance. This was a vision of salvation.

Elias offered them a taste of a cooked sample. They ate it slowly, savoring the bland, filling substance as if it were ambrosia.

"You can teach us to grow this?" Haska asked, his voice rough.

"We can give you the spores, the nutrient base, and the designs for simple growth chambers that can use geothermal heat," Elias said. "It won't be on this scale, but it will supplement your hunts. Keep your children from starving in a bad winter."

It was the clincher. The elders didn't care about grand history or unifying choruses. They cared about the empty bellies in their dens. Lyra and Kael had offered them a way to fill them.

Elara bowed her head, a gesture of profound respect from a proud, broken people. "The Ice-Maw swears the oath. We will keep your mountain's peace. We will share our knowledge of the ice."

Haska nodded his agreement, the movement stiff. "The Frost-Scar as well. But know this, Draven. Our trust is thin as new ice. Betray us, use us as cannon fodder in your new wars, and that oath shatters."

"Understood," Kael said, extending his hand, not in the Silverfang grip of wrists, but in the high-clan way, palm open. Haska stared at it for a moment, then placed his own calloused palm against Kael's. The pact was sealed.

As the elders were taken to get warm food and rest, Ronan gave his full report to Kael and Lyra in the command center. "It was close," the Beta growled, accepting a mug of hot broth. "Varek's agents had already made contact. They were offering modern rifles, powered sleds, promises of restored territory. They were painting you as hoarders, as new Purists keeping the 'real power' for yourselves."

"What changed their minds?" Lyra asked.

"The med-pod," Finn chimed in, huddled by a heating vent. "We got to a Frost-Scar outpost first. A child was dying of lung-rot. We used the pod. She was breathing easy in an hour. The elders saw it. They talked. The Citadel offers guns to kill their enemies. We offered a machine to save their children. It wasn't a hard choice for them, in the end."

It was the same principle as with Torin. A single, tangible act of mercy outweighed a mountain of promises from a distant, cynical power.

"Varek's agents withdrew when they saw the elders were coming with us," Ronan finished. "They won't give up. But their proxy war is stillborn. The high clans are neutralized, maybe even leaning our way."

It was a victory. A quiet, diplomatic victory that had just secured their northern flank and added two voices of harsh, pragmatic experience to their nascent coalition.

That evening, the mood in the camp was subtly shifted. The arrival of the glacier elders, their obvious awe and subsequent solemn pact, was a ripple of validation. The "grey mush" wasn't just sustenance; it was a currency that had just bought an alliance.

As dusk fell, Lyra and Kael stood once more at their holographic window. "One obstacle down," she murmured. "A hundred to go."

"But the pattern holds," Kael said, pulling her back against his chest, his chin resting on her head. "We offer what they truly need, not what they think they want. Healing for the wounded. Food for the hungry. A voice for the ignored. It's a slower weapon than a claw, but it cuts deeper."

"And tomorrow night," she said, thinking of the plan, "we show the sharp edge."

The following day was a frenzy of preparation for the convocation. The public areas of the Vault were marked and cleaned. Security protocols were rehearsed. The Southern lore-keepers, working with Elias, prepared a stunning holographic presentation of the Schism's history, stripped of bias, full of haunting imagery of the Unified cities and the tragic, fracturing violence.

And as the sun dipped below the glacier's rim on the eve of the arrivals, Lyra gave the order.

Deep within the mountain, systems engaged that had not been used since the Vault was sealed. A low, subsonic hum vibrated through the stone, felt in the teeth of everyone in the camp. Then, from a series of emitter nodes disguised as rock formations around the mountain's upper third, light erupted.

It was not a beam or a blast. It was a curtain. A shimmering, semi-transparent veil of blue-white energy, like the aurora given geometric form, that rose hundreds of feet into the darkening sky. It curved in a gentle arc over the mountain and the immediate approach to the Vault door. It cast no heat, blocked no wind, but it was undeniably there—a visible, humming testament to power. It lit the camp in an eerie, beautiful twilight, making every face turn upward in wonder and fear.

Grynn stared, his mouth slightly open, his earlier bluster forgotten. The Southerners watched with knowing, appreciative eyes. The glacier elders, emerging from their shelter, gazed with superstitious terror that slowly melted into a kind of grim reassurance. Their new allies had teeth hidden in the mountain.

The curtain held for exactly ten minutes, then faded, leaving the afterimage seared on the retina and the low hum fading into the vast, cold silence of the night.

The message was sent.

Across the ice, in observation posts miles away, agents of the Iron Citadel, of Timber-Fang, of a dozen other powers, saw it. They recorded it. They sent frantic, revised reports.

The Mountain of the Vault was not just open. It was awake. And it was not to be trifled with.

Lyra stood with Kael in the sudden dark, the cold rushing back in. The display had drained a significant portion of their reserve power. It was a gamble.

"Will it scare them off?" she asked quietly.

"It will scare off the cowards and the blindly greedy," Kael said, his arm around her. "It will make the serious ones… more serious. They will come not to steal from a weakling, but to treat with a power. That's what we need."

He was right. As the true night engulfed the glacier, the first of the envoy parties began to arrive, ahead of schedule, drawn by the beacon of light and the rumors flying ahead of them. They came under flags of truce, their numbers limited by the agreements Finn had transmitted. They were housed in the new prefab shelters, fed the fungal stew, kept under polite but firm watch.

The convocation of the new dawn was no longer an idea. It was a gathering reality, camped on their doorstep, waiting for sunrise. Lyra looked at the collection of strange banners, heard the mix of languages and accents, felt the weight of expectation and suspicion in the air.

The foundation was laid. The walls were hinted at. Now, they had to build the roof under which all these wolves could sit, without tearing each other apart. The real work began at first light.

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