The stars hung cold and sharp over Athax, pale fire piercing the inky sky. Aya stood on the battlements, her cloak drawn close, boots silent on the old stone. The wind was gentler here than in Vetasta, but still carried the bite of lingering cold. Below, the courtyard lights flickered; above, the South breathed in silence.
She traced the line of distant hills with her gaze, where the roads twisted beyond the border and disappeared into the mountains. Her fingers tightened around the worn stone of the battlement, and her memory came unbidden.
The gates of Afleu opened.
She remembered the silence that met her, the wary eyes from the walls, and the wind that tore at her House's banner as it fluttered from the carriage. She could have sent servants. Even her brother offered to do this for her. She didn't agree. Aya had led the convoy herself, unarmed, cloaked in mourning black, with Lady Sora seated beside her.
Lday Sora had not spoken the entire journey. Only when the gates loomed did she stir.
"I will walk," the older woman had said, voice hoarse from long disuse. "If I still can."
Aya pulled up her hood, descended the carriage first, and held out her hand.
Lady Sora took it.
She was thin, her steps careful, her body slow—but her chin lifted high. She wore no fine silks, only a plain black dress, and yet her presence drew a hush over the watching crowd. Her kin stood at the foot of the stairs: sharp-eyed warriors, cautious elders, and a tall figure cloaked in dark leathers.
Seth.
"Lady Sora of House Medea returns."
He stood beside his kin like a blade sheathed in quiet anger. A young man then, but his eyes burned—grief held behind clenched jaw and narrowed gaze. He didn't speak. Didn't bow.
Aya stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"My father's legacy," she said, voice cracking against the weight of the moment, "is not mine to defend. Only to answer for."
Lady Sora looked down at her for a long, breathless moment. Then, softly, she bent and touched Aya's face.
"You're only a girl," she said. "And yet… now you carry a kingdom on your shoulders."
They embraced, brief and formal. Aya turned to leave, but Lady Sora whispered just before parting.
"One day, your kindness may be tested by your father's shadow. I hope you pass."
Now, standing alone on the battlements, Aya let the wind sting her eyes. The weight of those words had never left her.
Not since she'd seen Seth again.
The clang of steel rang across the courtyard as boots kicked up dust. Frost Fire and Northern soldiers trained side by side under the rising sun, sweat darkening tunics, fists wrapped in cloth, blades dulled for sparring. The air was loud with shouting, laughing, and the hard rhythm of iron meeting iron.
Among the gathered, a ring had formed around a particularly spirited match—Masa squaring off against Thorne, one of Frost Fire's more brutal men. Thorne was thick in the chest and arms, his jaw twisted with an old scar that tugged his sneer into something more permanent. He fought like a man who enjoyed it too much.
Masa, ever grinning despite the heat, adjusted his stance. His movements were quick, clever—nimble where Thorne was brute strength. Several guards from Athax and Vetasta stood at the edge of the circle, tossing bets and jeering good-naturedly.
But Thorne wasn't laughing.
He parried a strike with a grunt and muttered, "They say you're some kind of mauler now." Another swing—Masa ducked it. "Don't look it."
Masa just flashed a grin. "Want me to draw a picture instead?"
The crowd laughed, but Thorne's mouth curled.
"You fight like a boy from the farmstead. What was it—Stuenia?" Thorne said loudly, circling. "Backwoods mud and cowshit. Must've chased more pigs than blades before she scooped you up."
Masa's grin faltered.
Still, he answered evenly. "Still enough to knock you on your arse."
"Oh, I'm terrified," Thorne sneered. "Only soft men end up under the Ice Queen's favor. Too soft for real work."
The laughter quieted.
Masa's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward—and that was all Thorne needed.
He slammed forward with his shoulder, catching Masa off balance and knocking him to the dirt hard enough for dust to billow. Before the crowd could react, Thorne raised his axe again—not for a finishing tap, but for a full downward strike.
There was a sharp intake of breath from the gathered soldiers.
"Enough!"
Aya's voice cut the air like a whip as she stormed from the stairs, but Thorne didn't hear—or didn't care.
The blade came down.
Aya moved. Seth was faster.
He caught her arm before she stepped too close—and something strange happened.
The second his fingers touched her skin, a crack rippled through the space between them. Power, raw and sudden, flared—a pulse of invisible force that shoved Seth back as if struck. He stumbled, body arching as pain seared through him. No time to think.
Aya stepped in front of Masa.
Thorne's blade came within inches of her face—and stopped.
Not by his will.
The air around her shuddered. Like glass straining. Like wind caught in a bottle.
Thorne's body flew back violently, hurled by an unseen force, his weapon clattering against the stone. He hit the dirt, dazed.
Silence. Total and absolute.
Masa slowly rose behind her, blood dripping from a shallow cut at his cheek, but his eyes were locked on Aya.
And so was everyone else's.
Silence held the courtyard like frost.
Aya stood still, the wind catching at her cloak, dust curling around her boots. Her breathing was shallow, her chest rising and falling as though she had just run a great distance. The air around her still shimmered faintly, as though the world hadn't yet caught up to what had just happened.
For a moment, she couldn't hear anything—not the clatter of weapons, not the shifting of boots, not the breathless onlookers. Only the steady thrum beneath her skin.
Her power. Long-buried. Long-quiet. Stirred.
Not since the uprising in Vetasta, when she'd unleashed it to shatter her father's mad reign, had she felt it rise like this—not since she lost control. She'd buried it with her father's shadow. Locked it down with chains of will and silence. It had stayed still for years.
Until now.
Her eyes flicked—not to Thorne, who still groaned in the dirt—but to Seth, where he knelt a few paces away, one hand gripping his ribs.
Their eyes met.
He wasn't staring at her in fear or awe—but in recognition.
And Aya…felt something flicker. Not warmth. Not fear. But connection. The surge hadn't begun until he'd touched her.
Her arm still tingled where his hand had gripped it. She didn't understand what it meant, not yet. But the power hadn't misfired. It had been called.
Her voice, when it came, was low and ice-edged.
She stepped forward, sweeping her gaze over the gathered mercenaries of Frost Fire, who had already begun forming ranks. Shin and Masa stood behind her now, tense, ready. Guards from Athax had surrounded the yard, hands near weapons but eyes waiting on her.
There was a call for General Asta, but she ignored all the noise and addressed the mercenary band directly.
"Let this be clear."
Her tone rang out across the stone.
"You are here by my grace, not by blood or favor. If one or any of my men or an Athax's soldier dies under your hand—accident or not—then I will collect. And you will find no shadow to hide in."
Thorne, still reeling from the force he received, sat up and flinched at the sight of her.
No one moved. Frost Fire said nothing, but their heads bowed as one.
Even Seth. He stood slowly with Bela's help, pain in his side, but his expression was neutral—guarded. Only his faint nod acknowledged her words. Respectful, but unreadable.
Aya turned without another word, her cloak billowing as she did.
The crowd parted like cloth.
The echo of boots and murmured voices spilled from the war room as the heavy doors creaked open.
Killan stepped into the corridor first, his brow drawn tight in thought, a cloak still resting over one shoulder. Behind him came Asta, arms crossed and stone-faced, followed by Lord Verrin, muttering something about the West's silence, and two of Killan's other council members, Vignir and Harlan, still deep in a debate.
They were rounding the curve toward the main staircase when a sharp sound caught Killan's ear—footsteps. Unsteady, too fast.
"Killan—"
His head snapped up.
Aya.
She appeared at the far end of the corridor, half-lost in the dim lamplight, a blur of dark cloak and pale skin. Her braid had come half-loose; her breath came in shallow bursts. One hand pressed to her chest, the other reaching toward him.
"Aya?" Killan took a step forward, his voice now edged with alarm. "What happened?"
She didn't answer. Her gaze was locked onto his, wide with something between fear and confusion—and then, like a flame snuffed too fast, her legs gave out beneath her.
"Aya!"
Killan surged forward, catching her just as she crumpled. Her body was warm, too warm, and her fingers twitched faintly as he cradled her to his chest. Her cloak fell open, revealing the faint shimmer of sweat on her person.
Asta was instantly at his side, kneeling, his eyes sharp and scanning her face. "Is she hurt?"
"She's burning," Killan muttered, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. Her eyelids fluttered but didn't open.
Lord Verrin stepped back, uneasy. "What happened to her? Is this sorcery?"
"Silence," Killan snapped, sharper than he meant.
Harlan rushed off to summon the healer.
But Killan barely heard them.
Because the air near Aya's skin—it pulsed, warm and faintly electric. Not heat from fever. Not a wound.
Power.
Old and quiet, but now awake.
Killan looked to Asta, who met his gaze with a silent understanding. This wasn't an illness. This wasn't a wound.
This was something else.
He gathered her in his arms, holding her as if she might shatter.
"I've got you," he whispered as he gathered her in his arms. "You're alright. You're safe."
And behind them, the flames in the corridor's torches flickered—once—against no wind at all.