Azariah stood at the edge of the massive port, the snow crunching beneath his fur-lined boots.
The cold did not bite him as it did outsiders — he was Winter incarnate, Patriarch of the last great stronghold of ice.
Yet for the first time in decades, a warmth that had nothing to do with fire or hearth flickered inside his chest.
His son.
He could see it in the young man who stood next to his guard, his presence was undeniably strong.
Azariah's sharp eyes narrowed.
Yes, the boy had grown — beyond what he had expected, beyond what he had dared hope.
The last time he had seen Azel, he had been a frail child with snowflakes tangled in his lashes, a boy carried away under the guise of fate.
And now? Now he radiated strength, not merely the raw power of Winter's bloodline, and his hands… They looked like they wielded the sword.
Azariah stretched his senses toward him instinctively, seeking to grasp the boy's core, to see what path he had chosen.
