The man's voice was like a crackling flame in the cold night air, and his presence a force that seemed to scorch the very snow beneath his boots.
Serenya's eyes never left his amber gaze, molten and unyielding, as if he were a living ember forged from the fires of the southern Ashen lands. Her breath came out in ragged puffs, fogging the air between them, yet she refused to back down.
"I was never meant to be caught," she said quietly, steadying her voice despite the storm raging inside her.
He stepped down from the rim of the gully with a grace that betrayed his immense strength, the great sword at his side humming faintly, an extension of his burning magic. The air around him shimmered with heat, and every step he took seemed to draw the warmth from the ground, melting small patches of ice that hissed and steamed.
"Clearly," he replied, voice low and amused, "but fate has other plans."
Serenya's pulse quickened, but she forced herself to stand, clutching the pendant hidden beneath her cloak. It was the only connection she had left to her mother and perhaps to her people's lost power.
The soldiers were closing fast. The crunch of their boots against snow echoed sharply off the trees, a relentless drumbeat.
Before she could decide what to do next, the man raised a hand, and a wave of heat surged forward like a living thing. It struck the nearest soldiers with such force that they staggered back, their armor scorching, flames licking at the edges of their cloaks.
"Fall back!" one shouted, retreating hastily.
Serenya's eyes widened. This man wasn't just any soldier, he was a warrior of immense power.
He turned back to her, eyes narrowing.
"Why do you run, frostborn princess?" he asked. "What are you hiding from?"
Her jaw clenched, the fire of defiance burning brighter than the cold that bit at her skin.
"I hide from those who would see me dead."
His gaze softened—just a fraction—as if he understood the weight she carried.
"I am Kaelen Draven, heir to the Ashen Throne," he said, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her.
Serenya's breath hitched. The Ashen Prince himself.
"And you," Kaelen continued, "are the last princess of the Frostborn North."
She stared at him, disbelief warring with fear.
"How do you know that?"
Kaelen's eyes flicked to the pendant at her side.
"Because," he said, "it belonged to my mother once. Before war tore us apart."
The revelation stunned her. A shared past she had never imagined.
But before she could respond, the sound of more soldiers approaching shattered the moment.
Kaelen's expression hardened. "You will come with me."
She wanted to resist, to fight but exhaustion and the futility of escape weighed heavy.
She nodded, surrendering to the fate that had caught up with her.
Together, they moved through the forest, the oppressive heat of his magic mingling uneasily with the biting frost that clung to her like a second skin.
When they reached the gates of the Ashen Palace, Seranya's heart pounded with dread.
The palace was a towering fortress of black stone and molten gold, its walls alive with flickering runes and the hum of ancient magic.
Inside, the air was thick with heat and power—a constant reminder that this was the heart of the enemy.
Kaelen led her through grand halls adorned with banners bearing the phoenix crest, his steps sure and commanding.
At last, they reached the throne room, where the Ashen King awaited.
Kaelen turned to her, amber eyes fierce. "Remember this moment, frostborn. Your fate and mine are bound by more than war."
Serenya swallowed hard, feeling the weight of prophecy settle upon her like a shroud.
The doors opened, and they stepped inside.