Chapter 25 – A Queen in Waiting
The mountains were silent except for the hiss of the wind funneling through the jagged peaks. Snow whispered under Elias's boots as he followed Isabella into the clearing, his breath steaming in the cold night. Ahead, the orange pulse of a campfire glowed against the darkness, a small defiance against the winter.
A figure stepped into the firelight.
She was taller than he had expected—regal in bearing, wrapped in white furs that gleamed like frost in the glow. A hood shadowed her face, but the air around her carried the weight of command, the kind that made soldiers straighten and made courtiers watch their words.
"You've been following us," Elias said, his voice rough from the cold.
"No," the figure replied, the word cutting through the air like a drawn blade. "I have been waiting."
The hood slipped back.
Pale hair spilled free, catching the firelight in strands of gold and silver. Her eyes were not the gentle blue of court portraits, but a steely gray—sharp, assessing, dangerous. Elias felt the weight of her gaze like a hand pressing against his chest.
Isabella gave a shallow bow. "Your Highness."
The Princess's eyes moved from Isabella to Elias. "You've done well to bring him here."
Something inside Elias froze harder than the snow beneath his boots. "Bring me here?" His voice was low, but there was a blade's edge in it.
Isabella didn't flinch. "Yes."
The Princess stepped forward, boots crunching in the snow. The fire painted her in flickering gold and shadow.
"You are not a prisoner," she said. "You are a weapon."
Elias let out a bitter laugh. "I've been hunted for weeks, seen my friends die, walked through half a frozen continent—and now you tell me I'm a weapon? For what?"
"For the only war that matters," she said, her tone not rising but carrying an unshakable certainty. "One that will be decided not by armies, but by bloodlines."
Her gaze held his. "Your bloodline."
Elias's fists clenched. "What do you think you know about me?"
"That you are Elias of the House of Vael," the Princess said. "The last living heir of a line the Order tried to erase from history. You carry a claim as strong as my own. Stronger, perhaps, in the eyes of those who remember the old oaths."
Isabella's expression was unreadable. She neither confirmed nor denied it.
"Why tell me this now?" Elias asked, heat rising in his chest despite the freezing air.
"Because the window is closing," the Princess said. "The Order moves on Blackstone Keep. If they hold it, they will cut the heart from the realm. I will take it first. But to do so, I need you."
"You need my sword?" Elias asked.
"I need your name," she corrected. "And the truth it carries."
Elias shook his head. "You think the people will rally just because of a name? They'll rally to whoever keeps them fed and safe."
"They will rally to the rightful blood," she said. "And in you, they will see the return of the old gods' favor."
Her voice lowered, almost conspiratorial. "The priests whisper of omens—ravens at dawn, frozen rivers breaking in midwinter. The signs point to a new ruler rising. You are part of that prophecy."
He wanted to scoff, to turn his back and leave them both in the snow. But a treacherous part of him—the part that had dreamed as a child of justice restored—listened.
"What do you get out of this?" he asked.
The Princess smiled without warmth. "Survival."
Isabella finally spoke. "And if he refuses?"
"Then the realm falls," the Princess said simply. "And we die with it."
They sat around the fire that night, the cold gnawing at the edges of its heat. The Princess told him of Blackstone: a fortress carved into the cliffs, built to guard the only pass through the northern mountains. Whoever controlled it would control the next phase of the war.
As she spoke, Elias studied her face—the unyielding jaw, the eyes that never looked away. She was beautiful, yes, but in the way of a drawn sword: dangerous to touch.
Across the flames, Isabella's gaze met his for a heartbeat. Her eyes were calm, but there was something else there—warning, or maybe plea.
When the fire burned low, Elias lay in his bedroll, unable to sleep. The Princess rested a few paces away, her breathing steady. Isabella lay between them, as if she were a bridge—or a barrier.
Snow began to fall, each flake catching the faint firelight before vanishing into darkness. Elias stared up at the stars, wondering how many people had looked at them before dying for a crown.
Somewhere in the night, a raven called.
At dawn, they broke camp. The Princess led, her pace unrelenting. The world was white and endless, the wind carving lines in the snow like runes.
By midday, the mountains opened into a valley. Far ahead, Blackstone Keep rose from the cliffs, its black towers jagged against the pale sky.
"That is where it begins," the Princess said.
Elias felt the truth of it in his bones—and the weight of the choice it demanded.