The clang of steel echoed across the training yard, sharp against the morning air. Frost Fire moved like shadows—coordinated, fast, and without wasted breath. Their formations shifted mid-movement, axes whirling, blades flashing like lightning. Even the youngest among them moved with the calm precision of warriors twice their age.
Killan stood at the edge of the yard, arms folded across his chest, watching the match unfold. Behind him, the quiet murmur of his council carried under the hum of steel on steel. Aya stood nearby, flanked by Shin and Masa, her expression unreadable. But Killan noted the way her eyes tracked Seth—not with mistrust, not with warmth, but with the guarded alertness of someone expecting an answer without yet asking the question.
Seth wasn't sparring himself, but even still, the company bent around him. He stood with arms behind his back, posture disciplined, gaze sharp. When one of his fighters—a tall, hawk-eyed man—flipped a larger knight of Athax onto his back with a brutal efficiency, Seth merely gave a small nod, saying nothing.
He hadn't spoken much since arriving. When addressed, he answered politely, evenly, but never offered more than required. The man had command over his presence the way others did over a blade.
"These aren't soldiers," came the low voice of Lord Verrin, one of the more vocal Southern lords. "They're mercenaries—wolves and bears in the garb of men. You've let them inside the gates?"
Killan kept his eyes on the yard. "Watch how they fight."
"I see how they fight. Like men without loyalty. They bleed for coin, not kin."
Killan's voice came calm, clipped. "These people fight with the strength of an army. If you have twenty more like them tucked under your bed, Lord Verrin, I'll take them gladly."
That shut the lord up, though his lips thinned.
From the side, Asta gave a grunt, his eyes sharp on Seth. "Stay close to her," he muttered to Shin and Masa. "Don't let her be alone with him."
Killan caught the words—low, but not low enough. Asta wasn't just wary. He was watching for something.
Seth continued to say nothing. Killan found that... unsettling. In the space where most men sought to impress or at least establish themselves, Seth simply watched. And when he did, it was Aya he watched—not brazenly, but carefully, as if trying to match the reality of her with a memory he wasn't sure was true.
That observation stuck with Killan as the scene shifted to the long table inside the dining hall.
The hearth was roaring, casting amber light across goblets of wine and platters of roasted venison. The Frost Fire company sat near the edge of the room—not excluded, but clearly set apart. Killan noted how Seth chose a seat where he could see everyone but placed himself slightly apart from the central cluster.
Killan took his place beside Aya. Shin and Masa loomed behind her, ever-present. Seth inclined his head respectfully, gaze briefly touching Killan, then resting again—unwavering—on his wife.
Killan lifted his goblet and nodded across the table. "Your fighters are skilled, Master Seth."
Seth met his gaze calmly. "They are disciplined. That's all I ask of them."
"Discipline is harder to train than swordwork."
Seth gave a slight nod. "Then I am fortunate."
That was it. No boast. No warmth. Polite. Precise.
Killan waited for him to say more—but Seth had already looked away.
Aya was speaking softly to one of the council scribes, and though she never turned to face Seth directly, Killan noticed she was aware of him, the way one notices a shift in wind before a storm.
And Seth? Seth didn't look at Killan again.
The Southern King was not used to being dismissed. But that's what it was. Not aggression. Not challenge. Indifference.
He's not here for me, Killan realized. He's here for her.
There was no jealousy in it—Killan was not the sort to feel threatened. But he catalogued the moment, tucked it alongside all the other things he could not yet read in Seth of House Medea.
As the meal wore on, the tension remained, subtle as a knife beneath velvet.
Killan knew the court felt it too. And somewhere beneath the wine and firelight, the silence of the Frost Fire men said more than words ever could.
The torches lining the yard guttered low, their flames bending against the whispering wind. Most of Athax had gone to sleep, but Seth remained—bare-armed, sweat-slicked, methodically striking at a wooden post carved into the shape of a man. Each blow landed with brutal precision. No flourish, no wasted strength. He fought as he breathed—controlled, quiet, deliberate.
The sound of footsteps drew his gaze.
Asta stepped out from the shadows near the archway, cloak drawn tightly over his frame. The General of the North made no effort to mask his presence. He stood like a mountain wrapped in dusk—broad-shouldered, ever-watchful, every inch a man who'd bled to hold the line.
Seth didn't stop. He delivered one final strike, exhaled, then turned slowly, sword slung over one shoulder.
"I thought Northerners slept well, with peace at their doorstep," Asta said, voice rough as gravel.
Seth looked him over without emotion. "Not always. Peace is fragile, General."
Asta stepped closer. "You keep to the shadows, mercenary. You speak little, but you look too much."
Seth raised a brow, wiping his hands with the towel. "Is that a crime in Athax?"
"No," Asta said, voice lowering. "But I've seen men like you. Quiet. Patient. Waiting for something."
Seth said nothing.
"I don't care what your mother whispered before she died," Asta continued. "You might've ridden under the banner of peace, but make no mistake—you're being watched. Closely. I won't allow anyone near Lady Aya who carries resentment like rot in his chest."
Seth met his eyes fully now, unflinching. "You mistake restraint for resentment. I know what your House did. What your King took. But that's just history. I didn't come here to be liked."
"No," Asta said, stepping closer, the tension between them thick as ice. "But you did come. And you did look at her like a man remembering something stolen."
Seth held Asta's gaze. Calm. Undisturbed.
"I'll serve," he said quietly. "If she lets me."
A beat of silence passed between them. Asta's jaw clenched.
"Good," he muttered, voice hard. "Then you'll serve. But if you give me a reason to raise a blade against you—just one—I won't need the Lady's permission to act."
Seth nodded once, slow and steady. "Then let's hope you never have one."
They stood there a moment longer. Then Asta turned and disappeared into the night.
Seth turned back to the post and resumed his strikes—calm, silent, merciless.
The light of dawn bled through the canvas walls of the Commander's tent. Outside, the cold wind whispered across the foothills, curling like wolves through pine and rock.
Elex sat at the edge of his cot, bare-chested, shoulders tense. His blade leaned against the table beside him, its steel freshly oiled. He had not slept since coming back to Vetasta.
And now, it seemed that he had to travel back to his sister's side immediately.
The missive from Asta lay open in his hands, the seal already cracked. Asta's handwriting was rough but always clear—efficient as his sword arm.
Frost Fire arrived in Athax three nights ago.Seth of House Medea leads them.He seeks service under Aya's banner.His presence is observed.I'll hold until you return. But come. Sooner is better than later.
Elex folded the letter once, then again. His expression was unreadable, but his knuckles were white.
House Medea. Lady Sora's son.
He rose from the cot and pulled his coat over his shoulders, the furs of it brushing the floor. The chill in the air didn't touch him.
He strapped his sword to his side.
"Ready my horse," he told his steward. "We ride within the hour."