The wind in the Ice Vale did not howl; it screamed.
It tore through the narrow passes and jagged cliffs like a wounded beast, carving its agony into the frozen stone. Snow fell in sheets, not gentle or soft, but sharp-edged like glass. The sky above was a bruised gray, heavy with judgment. Beneath it, the world stretched cold and endless, a prison of frost.
Seraphina stood at the edge of the frozen lake, her boots cracking the ice with each step. She was wrapped in furs the color of mourning and shadow, her braid stiff with ice. She had not slept since the crossing. She had not spoken since Mira fell behind in the mountain pass, wounded but alive.
Alone now, she waited.
Not for rescue.
Not for Valen.
But for the creature that haunted this place.
A relic of old wars and broken bargains, the Ice Warden had been bound here centuries ago, tasked with guarding the last fragment of a fallen god's soul. No one came to the Vale willingly. No one except her.
She drew a sigil in the air with her gloved fingers, crimson sparks trailing her motions. The ice beneath her feet hissed and cracked, responding to the magic in her blood.
"I am Seraphina Vale," she said into the silence, her voice steady. "Heir of fire. Breaker of prophecy. I come for the shard."
Nothing moved.
Then a crack—a sharp, bone-deep sound.
The ice groaned beneath her.
And rose.
A hand, skeletal and sheathed in ice, burst through the lake, followed by a body towering with frost and fury. The Ice Warden's eyes glowed blue, hollow with ancient rage.
"Another child of war," it rasped, voice like glaciers grinding. "You come seeking power."
"No," she said. "I come to end it."
The Warden lunged, and the lake shattered around her. Seraphina leapt back, flames roaring from her palms, meeting ice with fury. Steam hissed into the air. Fire met frost in a battle as old as the gods.
She moved with purpose, dancing between blows, her body a blur of heat and defiance. Her heart no longer bore the bond to Valen, but it burned with something older: rage, purpose, freedom. The Warden struck with an axe of crystal, but she melted it mid-swing. Her scream was fire given voice.
She didn't just fight.
She hunted.
Each strike was precise. Each flame a challenge. The Warden reeled, weakened by her magic, and staggered as she summoned a spear of molten light and drove it deep into its chest.
The ice split beneath them.
And the Warden crumbled, screaming into the void, leaving only a shard of brilliant white crystal in his wake.
She fell to her knees beside it, breathing hard. The shard pulsed with light, alive with memory.
She took it.
The moment her fingers closed around it, visions crashed into her mind: a throne room of stars, a god weeping blood, Valen's hand reaching for hers across a void.
And then darkness.
When she woke, she was no longer alone.
Valen knelt across from her, blood on his cheek, snow melting on his shoulders. His expression was unreadable.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered.
"Neither should you. But we both are."
The silence stretched.
She held up the shard.
"We can't change what we were," she said. "But maybe this is how we decide what we become."
He looked at the shard, then at her.
"Then let's finish it. Together."