The corridors of the castle had grown quieter since the arrival of Frost Fire.
Killan found Aya in their bedchamber, sitting before the hearth, a half-unrolled map of the Northern Reach spread across the low table before her. Her gloves lay beside a pewter cup, forgotten, and one of her braids had come loose from its knot, trailing dark against her shoulder.
She didn't look up when he entered, though she knew he was there. She always knew.
"Your guests, my Lady," he said softly, approaching. "They wear Northern colors."
Aya's fingers paused on the edge of the parchment. Slowly, she looked up.
"They do," she said. Her voice was quiet, steady—but not cold.
Killan took the seat across from her, studying her face. "I don't know the story," he said carefully. "But I'd like to."
There was a long pause.
Then, with a quiet breath, Aya began.
Years ago, before the madness of the late King, there was an independent house in the North, House Medea. The house had a quiet strength, with Lord Darnel, Lady Sora, and a son nearly grown when my father rode into Afleu with his entourage.
Afleu and her people had resisted the crown's call for tribute. It was too far north, too independent. So the King came himself.
My father did not leave the city empty-handed.
He took gold, he took horses—and he took Lady Sora.
By force.
He threatened to kill her husband and son if she didn't go with him. And so, to save them, she went. She left her city, draped in a cloak of grief.
In Vetasta, she became his favorite. His possession.
He paraded her through the court as a prize. But behind the walls, she suffered nightly. Bruises hidden beneath silk. Silence worn like armor. I had once overheard my own mother whisper that Lady Sora's strength was the kind that survived without striking back.
But even kindness has limits.
One day, Lord Darnel—Lady Sora's husband—traveled to Vetasta alone, risking snow and sword to find her. He stood before the mad King and begged for her freedom.
The King instead had him executed. In front of the entire court.
We were young, but we all remembered that moment. My siblings and I. We remembered how Lady Sora collapsed. How she screamed. How for days, she didn't speak, didn't eat. Then, one night, she tried to throw herself from the ramparts.
Elex had stopped her. Carried her back inside in the snow, cradled her as if she were our own mother. My sisters had helped dress her wounds. They had kept her warm. They had sat with her while she wept and wept until her voice gave out.
Something changed in Lady Sora when my own mother died giving birth to our youngest brother.
Something shifted in her.
Grief had shattered her once—but this grief gave her purpose. She stepped into my brother's nursery, into the halls, and took care of the youngest children in the Keep. She tended to my bruises and cuts and held Juno in her arms, humming lullabies from the North. She helped Elex take care of all of us. She protected us when the King raged.
She became our quiet salvation in a home without peace.
When King Ive finally fell—by steel and rebellion—Elex had gone himself to Lady Sora's chambers.
He took her hand and said, "You are free."
Then I rode with her, all the way to Afleu, to return her to what was left of her house.
I do not remember her son's face, maybe because of guilt. I do not know. I had apologized as a daughter, as a woman, as a member of the family who caused them pain.
"I cannot erase what he did, but I can see to it that no one forgets who paid the price."
From what I heard, Lady Sora never truly recovered. But her people welcomed her back with care. Her House stood tall. Quiet. Bitter. But unbroken.
And when peace came to the North, I made a decision.
I did not call House Medea to court. We do not deserve loyalty from them.
I gave them space. Out of mercy. Out of guilt. Because I knew: forgiveness is something I can never expect from them.
Back in the present, Killan sat still.
He looked at her with something heavier than sympathy—understanding.
"And now her son is here," he murmured.
Aya nodded.
"He says he comes to serve," she said. "But I don't think he's decided what that means. Not yet."
Killan leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"And you?" he asked softly. "What do you want of him?"
Aya's gaze dropped to the map, to the lines that marked Afleu and all the spaces between.
"I don't know," she said. "But I owe him more than suspicion. And less than trust."
She looked back up at him.
"What remains of blood," she said, voice steady, "is not easily buried."
The stone walls of the barracks Athax had were humbler than those of their castle, but no less enduring. It suited Seth and his company far better than the polished halls of a royal court.
They moved in silence as they were led through the guest wing—a newer extension built near the barracks for the Northern armies. They'd been given rooms with thick walls, comfortable bedding, a hearth to keep them warm, and a wide courtyard to train in. No grand luxury, no frills. But it was a space, warm and distant from the stares of the Athax guards who still viewed them with unease.
It was more than any of them had expected.
Seth paused at the doorway of his chamber, one gloved hand on the weathered stone. The scent of pine smoke and worn leather clung to the air. It reminded him somewhat of Afleu. Of the last time he saw his mother alive.
His lieutenants began settling in. Bela, her hair tied in a thick braid, rolled out a worn map on a table. Thorne, the scarred giant, had already begun sharpening his axes on a whetstone with rhythmic strokes. The others moved with the ease of a company used to making a home out of nothing.
"Cozy," Bela murmured, glancing around. "Think they'll lock the doors behind us tonight?"
"If they do, we've broken out of worse," Thorne said without looking up.
"Let them watch," Bela added under her breath. "We're not here to charm them."
"No," Seth said quietly. "We're here because she allowed it."
"You mean the tiny ice lady?" Thorne looked up.
"I bet she can put you down on the ground easily if she wants to," Bela scoffed.
"Impossible," Thorne laughed. "Wait. Is that true?"
He turned to their brooding leader.
"From what I heard," Seth nodded. "She fights well."
He walked to the narrow window. From here, he could just see the courtyard where Aya had stood—tall, alone, every inch a ruler. She hadn't flinched when she saw them. She hadn't hidden behind guards. She'd stepped forward, not back.
He still didn't know what to make of her.
His mother's last words clung to him like frost in his lungs: "Find her, my son. Find Aya. Serve her… it is your destiny."
He hadn't understood what she meant. He still didn't. But he had seen the scars his mother carried, the hollow way she once spoke of House Svedana, the sudden warmth in her when she spoke of the children of the mad King. The pain, the silence, the madness.
And still—Lady Sora, his mother, had made him promise.
So here he was.
Seth's gaze flicked to the banner hanging above the gatehouse.
"I'll watch," he said finally, turning away from the window. "Not just her—but everything. If there's a reason we're here, I'll find it."
"And if there isn't?" Thorne asked, blunt as ever.
Seth didn't answer. He didn't need to.
The room grew quiet again, save for the whetstone's scrape and the soft rustle of weapons being unpacked.
Frost Fire had come to Athax not to conquer, not to beg—but to see what remained of blood and oaths.