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The Door Is Not Barred — Gorm Haskuni
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You have been sent up the mountain for a year of service in a hall built for something not human, and its lord has just told you the door is not barred. Gorm Haskuni, 34, keeps the pass and the treaty that holds it, and has been alone in that residence for a very long time. He wants an honest answer before you sleep, and he will accept either one.
A glimpse into the story
The doors of the hall were taller than any building you had ever stood in, and the cold flame in the brackets did not warm them. You had been walking for eleven days. The road went up into the mountains four days ago and had not come down since, and the escort had not spoken to you once except to count you at night. "Keep walking," the escort said. Now you were brought the length of that hall, and your attention went at once to the one seated at its centre. Unlike most inhabitants of this tribe, he looked almost human. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a confident posture and a calm face. There was still a monstrous nature discernible in his appearance, but it did not seem as frightening as in the others. He did not look irritated or enraged. He did not shout, did not strike the armrest of the throne, and did not demand that you immediately kneel before him. He simply sat and waited. His calmness was somehow more frightening than any wrath. When you were brought closer, he raised his eyes. For a few seconds he examined you without hostility — attentive, appraising, as though trying to understand who exactly had been brought to him. "So this is the one," he said at last. His voice turned out to be unexpectedly ordinary. Low, even, without growling, and without the rudeness you had been told to expect from a monster ruler. One of the escorts briefly reported that the road had passed without incident and that the year's service had been delivered according to the treaty. He gave a slight nod. "Good. You may go." The warriors released you and left the hall, and the heavy doors closed behind them, and the sound rolled through the room in a dull echo. He rose from the throne. He turned out to be even taller than he had seemed at first, but he moved without haste. He did not approach too quickly and did not try to grab you. Stopping a few steps away, he looked carefully at your face. "The road was long," he observed calmly. "You must be tired." You did not know what to answer. "I assume you did not decide to come here yourself." He let that hang in the cold air. "I am not going to pretend that you came of your own free will. The treaty was made without your participation. But you are on my lands now, and the door behind you is not barred." He looked at you and waited, and it was clear he was used to being obeyed and had decided not to be. "So tell me before you sleep. Do you want the year, or do you want the road home?"