The sky above Ravenhold cracked with white lightning.
Not thunder.
Not storm.
But magic.
Ancient. Unforgiving. Alive.
It raked across the heavens like a claw across glass, casting brief flashes of silver across the keep's broken battlements. The old stones trembled as if remembering a name once whispered in terror. From the eastern gate to the Blackreach cliffs, a cold wind poured in like a flood, rippling cloaks and extinguishing torches.
The frost had returned.
And it came for blood.
Seraphina
She stood at the heart of the ritual circle, encased in runes that pulsed like veins carved from ice. Her breath came in short, visible bursts, crystallizing before her lips. The sigils had been drawn in a mixture of powdered bone and ash, with silver filings sprinkled like stardust across their lines. The dagger she held was old—too old. Its handle was wrapped in dragonhide, and its blade whispered things no living tongue should speak aloud.
Across from her, the Frostspeaker chanted.
He wore no crown, but power curled around him like a shroud. His eyes were white, rimmed in glacier-blue, and his voice sounded like cracking lakes and the groan of mountains in winter. "Do you accept the oath of frost?"
Seraphina raised the dagger and cut her palm.
The blood that spilled froze midair, dropping as rubies that shattered into snowflakes.
"I accept."
The runes ignited.
Not with flame.
With cold.
The entire circle lit in a brilliant, icy glow, the light spreading like wildfire made of moonlight. Seraphina's knees buckled as the magic surged through her bones, burrowing into her soul. The frost did not simply mark her. It merged with her, claimed her.
And in doing so, it gave her a weapon.
The Frost Pact.
One word from her lips could now still a man's heart in his chest. A glance could freeze rivers. And in her silence, the cold would only grow more potent.
She staggered upright.
The Frostspeaker watched her with something between reverence and fear. "You wear winter now, Fireborn. Are you prepared to destroy the summer?"
Seraphina's voice was low. "I was born of flame. But it was the cold that gave me purpose."
She turned from the circle.
War would follow.
But first—vengeance.
Valen
He stood at the threshold of the Black Labyrinth, sword unsheathed, cloak dripping with sweat and mist. He had not spoken Seraphina's name in hours, but she burned behind his eyes like a sun he couldn't look at. He had severed their bond. He had stepped into shadow for her sake.
And now?
He could feel something wrong in the air. A shift. A chill that did not belong.
A raven landed on his shoulder. Its eyes were frostbitten white.
"She has made her choice," it croaked.
Valen's grip tightened on his sword.
If Seraphina had chosen the path of frost, it meant only one thing: she no longer intended to rule with mercy. She would unmake the world if it stood in her way.
And he might have to stop her.
Mira
The war table was littered with broken sigils and half-written decrees.
Mira read the message left in Seraphina's chamber once again.
"When they come, I will meet them in the north. Let them bring fire. I will bring the storm."
She exhaled.
The crown sat upon the war table—Seraphina's crown. Frozen to the surface.
Mira touched it, only for a spark of frost to bite her skin. She yanked her hand back, heart pounding. There was no warmth left in the steel. No gold. Just frost-rimed iron, cold as the woman who had worn it.
The realm would not survive this war intact.
But Mira could still follow.
Because where Seraphina went—no matter the cost—Mira would always be one step behind, blade drawn.