The first arrow sang.
It cut the air like a shriek, silver fletching spinning as it hurtled toward her chest.
Aria froze. There wasn't time to think, not even time to breathe—
The Frostlands King moved. His blade flashed upward, and steel met wood with a sharp crack. The arrow split in half, falling harmlessly into the snow.
But that was only the beginning.
The rooftop shadows came alive.
Dozens of figures leapt down at once, the snow shuddering beneath the impact of their boots. Their eyes glowed faintly beneath their black masks, as though lit by something unholy.
The Verdant King stepped in front of her, his green-bladed sword igniting with a sudden flare of light. It painted the snow in emerald fire, a beacon against the darkness.
"Stay close," he barked. "If you stray, you die."
Aria's throat locked tight, but she nodded. Her fingers still clutched the bent candleholder, utterly useless in the face of this army.
The Frostlands King took position on her other side, ice crackling along the edge of his blade. Together, the two kings looked like forces of nature standing at her flanks.
For a heartbeat, she believed they might hold the courtyard.
Then the assassins charged.
The clash was thunder.
Swords screamed against each other, steel shrieking as sparks lit the snowy night. The assassins moved like water, one replacing another as soon as they fell. Their blades were fast, wickedly curved, made for killing in tight spaces.
The Frostlands King carved through them with terrifying efficiency, each swing of his sword leaving trails of frost across the stones. The Verdant King moved differently—faster, unpredictable, every strike blooming with flashes of green fire.
Aria tried to stay between them, but the assassins weren't fools. They pressed from every side, forcing her backward, step by step.
Her heel struck something—
A body.
She stumbled over the fallen assassin, the blood-stained snow soaking into her dress.
The moment of distraction was all it took.
A masked figure slipped past the Frostlands King, blade arcing straight toward her throat.
Aria swung the candleholder, desperation lending her strength. The iron bar connected with a crack, knocking the assassin sideways—
But their dagger still sliced across her arm.
She gasped, hot blood spilling down her sleeve.
The assassin lunged again, eyes gleaming with hatred—
And then the Verdant King was there, his blade driving straight through their chest.
He yanked the sword free and shoved the dying body aside, his hand closing around her injured arm.
"You bleed, you slow. Don't slow." His voice was rough, almost panicked.
Aria tried to answer, but her voice caught. His hand was hot against her cold skin, the glow of his blade reflecting in his eyes.
She had no time to process the heat in her chest before another wave descended.
The Frostlands King roared—a sound she hadn't thought possible from him. Frost erupted across the ground, ice shards exploding upward like jagged spears. Three assassins froze where they stood, their bodies crystallizing before shattering into pieces.
The sight stole her breath.
But it also cost him.
The effort drained him visibly, his shoulders sagging for a split second. That was all the assassins needed.
Two blades slashed toward his unguarded side—
"NO!" Aria screamed, stepping forward.
But the Verdant King was faster. He threw himself sideways, blocking both strikes with his own sword. The impact rang out like a bell, sparks spraying into the night.
For a heartbeat, the two kings locked eyes over the clash of steel. Not allies. Not enemies. Something sharper, hungrier, binding them both to her fate.
Then the moment broke.
Blood painted the snow.
The Frostlands King's jaw tightened. He had been cut. A long, deep slice across his side where the armor had already been dented.
He staggered, clutching his ribs.
Aria's heart lurched into her throat.
For the first time, she saw him falter.
The assassins saw it too.
They surged toward him like wolves sensing blood.
"Go!" the Verdant King barked at her, shoving her backward. "Get inside! Now!"
But she couldn't move.
The Frostlands King dropped to one knee, his sword still clutched tight, frost bleeding from the blade but fading too quickly.
Aria's body refused to obey logic. She wanted to run. She wanted to survive. But the sight of him—the proud, untouchable king brought low—rooted her in place.
The assassins raised their blades, descending as one.
She chose.
Her body moved before her mind did.
Aria darted forward, scooping a fallen sword from the snow. The hilt was slick with blood, but her hands clenched tight.
She swung wildly, the blade colliding with an assassin's arm. Pain screamed up her wrist, but the figure stumbled, buying a heartbeat of space.
The Frostlands King's icy eyes widened, not with anger, but something startlingly close to… awe.
"Foolish girl," he rasped, his breath clouding white in the night air.
But his sword rose again, cutting down another foe.
Together, they stood back to back—king and mortal, ice and fire in her chest.
The assassins didn't stop.
Aria's arms ached, her wound burning. Every swing felt weaker than the last. But each time she thought her strength would break, she felt the cold brush of his shoulder against hers. A reminder: he was still fighting. And so she had to as well.
On her other side, the Verdant King fought like a storm unleashed. His blade blurred in arcs of emerald fire, cutting through enemies with almost reckless fury.
His gaze flicked to her often—too often—checking, watching, burning with something unsaid.
And every time his eyes met hers, she felt the weight of choice pressing harder.
At last, silence began to fall.
The assassins lay broken in the snow, their black masks cracked, their bodies twisted. The survivors retreated into the shadows, vanishing across the rooftops as quickly as they had come.
The courtyard was a graveyard now, stained red and black beneath the moon.
Aria's chest heaved. The sword slipped from her grip, clattering against the stones.
The Verdant King stood tall still, but his blade dripped endlessly, and his breathing was ragged.
The Frostlands King… wasn't standing at all.
He collapsed into the snow, his armor clanging as his body fell sideways. His hand pressed desperately to his side, crimson seeping through his fingers.
"Frost—!"
Aria dropped to her knees beside him, her hands trembling. The wound was deep, deeper than she had thought. Blood poured too fast, staining the ice beneath him.
His icy eyes met hers, sharp even in pain. "Don't… waste your tears."
"Quiet," she snapped, panic roughening her voice. "Just stay quiet."
The Verdant King was there an instant later, dropping to his other side. His face was hard, but his hand pressed against the Frostlands King's wound with force that made him grunt in pain.
"He won't last if we stay here," the Verdant King growled. "We need to move him."
"Then move him!" Aria begged.
But the Frostlands King shook his head. "No. Not… safe."
His gaze flicked upward, toward the palace rooftops.
And in that instant, Aria realized the worst truth of all.
The attack wasn't over.
The horn sounded again.
Deeper. Louder. A different tone.
Not warning. Not alarm.
A signal.
From the shadows above, more shapes emerged—archers, dozens of them, their bows drawn and aimed straight at the courtyard.
The assassins had only been the first wave.
This was the execution.
Aria's blood turned to ice.
The Verdant King rose slowly, positioning himself between her and the archers, his sword raised though his strength faltered. The Frostlands King lay bleeding in the snow, still clutching his weapon though his hand trembled.
She stood between them, torn.
One king broken, one king burning, both bound to her fate.
The arrows drew back in unison, the night filling with the hiss of tensioned strings.
And Aria understood—
Whoever had ordered her death wasn't finished until she was gone.
The archers released. A black rain of arrows fell toward her.