The frost came early that year, sweeping down from the North in a whisper that turned fields to silver and breath to smoke. Winter was never kind to the Iron Hold, but this was no natural chill. It carried something deeper. Something older.
Kael Valari stood at the edge of the training yard, the last of the snow clinging stubbornly to his dark curls. His breath came in white plumes as he watched the squires clash swords in the muck below the castle's walls. He gripped the hilt of his training blade tightly, knuckles pale. The steel was cold and dull — a practice weapon, unworthy of real death.
So, like him.
"Again," he muttered, stepping into the yard, his boots crunching over frozen soil.
The young knight opposite him was Ryneth, son of a noble from the Southern Coast. Golden-haired, loud, and vain, he was everything Kael wasn't — legitimate, praised, and welcomed at court. The other boys stepped back as Kael raised his blade.
"Still trying to prove yourself, snow-born?" Ryneth smirked. "I'm not the one who'll make you a trueblood."
Kael didn't reply. Words were easy. Pain was honest.
Their blades met with a ringing crack.
Kael moved like a shadow — measured, silent, and hard. Ryneth was quicker, flashier, but left himself open. On the fifth pass, Kael slipped past a parry and slammed the pommel of his sword into Ryneth's ribs. The other boy wheezed, staggered, and fell into the slush.
No one cheered.
A few boys looked away. One spat in the dirt.
"Enough," came a voice like gravel.
Ser Jareth descended the stone steps of the barracks. Clad in leather and mail, the old knight looked every inch the battle-scarred veteran he was. His beard was grey, his eyes like flint.
Kael turned to face him, but did not lower his sword.
"You beat him, Kael," Ser Jareth said. "Now sheathe the damn blade before I make you eat it."
Kael obeyed. The cold metal slid home.
Jareth looked to the others. "Any boy here who mocks a man for where he was born — rather than what he can do with a blade — can report to the kitchens."
The silence was long. No one moved.
"Thought not," Jareth growled.
That evening, Kael sat alone atop the outer wall of Draganholt Keep, the wind biting through his cloak. Below, the torches of the city flickered like stars trapped beneath the earth. Beyond the outer gates, the plains stretched empty and pale beneath the moonlight. A storm was coming. He felt it.
He always did.
He reached into his tunic and pulled free the worn leather string around his neck. At its end hung a broken signet — a piece of silver, jagged, the mark faded. He had no name for the symbol, only the dying whisper of a woman's voice etched into memory.
"Run, Kael. Live. One day, they will know."
But who were they?
The wind shifted, bringing with it the scent of pine... and something else.
Burning wood.
He turned sharply toward the western ridge.
A glow rose on the horizon.
By the time Kael rode out with the Blackguard patrol, the hamlet of Brime's Hollow was ash and silence.
Smoke curled like spirits through charred ruins. The air stank of blood and scorched flesh. Kael dismounted slowly, sword drawn, scanning the blackened bones of once-standing cottages. No signs of survivors.
Only silence.
Until he heard it.
A scrape.
Then — a whisper.
The sergeant beside him gestured to the chapel. The door hung half-open.
Kael pushed it gently.
Inside, the altar was shattered. The stained-glass windows melted into jagged shards. And lying against the far wall was a girl — barely ten winters, blood smeared across her cheeks.
He dropped to one knee.
"You're safe now," he said softly.
Her lips trembled. "He... he came from the dark… He walked through the fire."
"Who?"
Her eyes were too old for her face. "He had no face. Only... only bones. And his eyes were blue. So blue."
Kael felt the hairs rise along his arms.
The child fell limp in his arms.
Behind him, the sergeant muttered a curse. "What kind of demon does this?"
Kael stood slowly. His heart thundered. That chill he'd felt before — it wasn't the wind.
It was something far worse.
The next morning, Kael returned to the keep and found Ser Jareth waiting.
"You're summoned," the knight said gruffly. "The High King wants words."
Kael blinked. "With me?"
"Now."
The royal court of Draganholt was a chamber of fire and marble. Long braziers lined the walls, crackling to life in the cold gloom. Pillars carved with ancient runes held up a ceiling lost in shadow.
Kael knelt as the High King entered.
Varric Dragan, ruler of the Five Kingdoms, was a man of silver and steel. His beard trimmed short, eyes sharp like the edge of a dagger. Robes of deep crimson spilled behind him like blood on stone.
"Rise," Varric said.
Kael did.
"You were at Brime's Hollow?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Tell me."
Kael recounted everything — the fire, the girl, the blue eyes.
The king's expression never changed.
When Kael finished, silence settled like a blade.
"And you... felt it, didn't you?" Varric said at last.
Kael frowned. "Felt what?"
The king studied him. "You don't dream of fire anymore, do you?"
Kael went still.
"How do you—?"
"I knew your mother," Varric said quietly.
Kael's heart skipped.
Varric stepped forward. "She was no servant, Kael. Nor was she some peasant girl taken by pity."
He reached into his robe and drew forth a scroll sealed in wax older than Kael had ever seen.
"She was of fire. Of flame. Her blood was not meant for this world."
Kael stared.
"You are more than a bastard," the king said. "You are a weapon. One forged by prophecy — and hidden for fear of what you might become."
Varric placed the scroll in his hands.
"Read this. Then decide who you truly are."
That night, Kael sat in the dark of his chamber. Candlelight danced over the parchment as he unrolled it.
The symbols were old. Elven? No — older still. But as he stared, they seemed to shift, to shimmer, until he could read them.
When the ash returns to the wind...When the flame is born in shadow...The Chosen shall rise.He shall be of the old blood, hidden beneath steel and sorrow.He shall wield the fire that undoes death.
Kael let the scroll fall.
Outside, thunder cracked.
And far beyond the walls of Draganholt, in a dead valley filled with frost and bones, something ancient stirred.
The cold laughed.
And Varethul the Hollow opened his eyes.