The king's chamber was wrapped in a heavy stillness. Candlelight swayed against the gilded walls, making the gold shimmer like fire beneath water. The air smelled faintly of incense and something bitter—old medicine perhaps.
On the vast bed lay the Prince. His silver hair spilled over the pillow like poured moonlight, his skin pale but no longer ghostly. Each breath he took seemed borrowed from a miracle.
Queen Fleur sat beside him, her fingers locked around his hand as if to keep him from drifting away again. She didn't cry loudly—her tears slid down her face soundless and stubborn, soaking into the silk.
Azorius stood at the foot of the bed, every inch a king but with a father's dread clinging beneath his posture. "Tell me," he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of command. "Is he truly recovering? Has any harm remained?"
The Imperial Physician lowered himself to one knee. "Your Majesty, the Prince's pulse is strong again. His breath is steady. The signs are—" he hesitated, glancing toward the Queen "hopeful. He may wake soon."
Azorius's jaw tightened. "You speak with such ease. I'll not have false comfort."
The physician bowed his head. "I dare not lie before my King. Yet… there is no clear cause for this change. Only one explanation fits what the old prophecies warned."
Fleur's eyes lifted sharply. "What explanation?"
The man hesitated, then said softly, "His betrothed, my Queen. It may be her doing."
Azorius's expression shifted, unreadable, but a quiet understanding flickered in his gaze. "Then we shall see for ourselves," he said, each word careful, measured like a decision that could change the course of a kingdom.
At the foot of the burned palace, a military camp sprawled across the snow. Rows of tents and watchtowers glowed faintly under the pale dawn, their fires crackling against the biting wind. The air reeked of smoke and iron; every breath carried the ghost of what the palace once was.
Commander Bishop moved through the camp with his usual purpose, though a thin trail of dried blood marked the side of his neck—a wound earned holding Commander Zand back from storming into the inferno hours earlier. He hadn't stopped to rest or bandage it. There were more pressing matters.
A soldier straightened when he saw him. "Commander Bishop!"
Bishop nodded once. "Where is the General?"
"Outside the palace grounds, sir. Toward the cliffs." The soldier hesitated. "Commander, your injury—"
"It's nothing," Bishop cut him off, already walking. "I'll see the General first."
The ruins loomed behind him, blackened stone buried beneath a clean layer of snow. The servants had fled at the first blaze, leaving the Nurian troops to sift through what remained of the Solyrian stronghold. Ash clung stubbornly to the drifts, staining them gray like old scars that refused to heal.
Bishop trudged up the slope, the wind clawing at his cloak. He scanned the ridge until a flicker of red caught his eye—a cape flaring in the storm. Even from a distance, he recognized her stance: still, composed, watching the horizon like she meant to command it too.
Noori stood at the cliff's edge, her back to him, hair whipping wild in the wind. Bishop slowed his steps, stopping a few paces behind her, not daring to interrupt the strange calm that surrounded her.
The silence stretched, broken only by the hiss of snow under his boots. Then her voice carried back to him, clear and cold as the air itself.
"What brings you here, Commander Bishop?"
He drew in a steady breath, folding his arms across his chest, trying to hide the way the cold bit through his armor. "To check on you, General," he said. "After the fire… I thought perhaps—" He stopped himself, eyes lowering briefly. "I was concerned."
Noori nodded in acknowledgment, but her expression soon tightened. Her gaze flicked to the crimson line along Bishop's neck. "How can you worry about me when you're bleeding?" she chided, her voice calm but edged with reproach.
Bishop blinked, caught off guard as she stepped closer, her presence commanding despite her stillness.
"A sword wound?" she murmured, her hand hovering near his skin as if testing the air for residual energy.
"It was from the Solyrian troop commander," Bishop said, his jaw locking as the memory flashed across his face. The cold gnawed at his muscles, biting through the layers of his armor.
"Wrap it up before it festers," Noori said curtly. "Pray it heals cleanly. You're no good to me half-frozen."
"I will," Bishop replied. "But General… what truly happened? How did it come to this?"
Noori closed her eyes briefly, her lashes trembling against her cheeks. When she opened them again, something had shifted in her gaze — darker, heavier. She stared down at her hand, then said quietly, "Send word to my father. Demand his account of this."
Bishop hesitated, his breath misting in the air. "Yes, General."
She exhaled, unclenching her fist. "Return to camp. The storm's coming."
"Then come with me," he urged. "It's freezing out here."
"No," she said simply. "The snowfall will worsen. Tell the men to brace for it."
Before he could answer, Noori pressed her hand against his vest. A wave of heat surged through him, coursing down to his fingertips. "General—" he gasped, startled by the warmth flooding his body and the faint red glint in her eyes.
Noori said nothing, her expression unreadable. She merely lowered her hand and gestured for him to leave.
Bishop bowed his head slightly, unsure whether to thank her or obey in silence. He chose the latter and turned back toward the encampment, the snow crunching under his boots. The warmth she had given him lingered — not just against the cold, but somewhere deeper, like a spell that refused to fade.
He tried to channel his own mana to match it, but it was useless. No one could rival Noori's affinity with her element. Even as a child, she had been called a prodigy a name the Empire spoke with both pride and fear.
By the time Bishop reached the charred palace, the fires had burned low. The same soldier from before rushed to meet him. "Commander! Did you find the General?"
"Yes," Bishop replied shortly.
"Where is she? What did she say?" the soldier pressed.
Bishop paused, snowflakes melting in his hair. "She wants a message sent to the Emperor."
The soldier's eyes widened. "The Emperor himself?"
"Yes," Bishop said quietly. "She means to demand answers. Whatever this is, even she doesn't fully grasp it yet."
The soldier nodded slowly, unease tightening his features.
"See to the troops," Bishop ordered. "They'll need strength to survive the night."
As the soldier hurried off, Bishop turned toward his tent, the wind rising behind him. The warmth in his chest pulsed faintly — a silent reminder of the General's power, and the growing storm that waited just beyond the horizon.