The wind outside the canvas walls howled like a dying animal, battering the heavy fabric of the command tent with relentless fury. Inside, however, the air was still. It was thick with the scent of burning oil lamps, old parchment, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel.
General Vespera sat alone at the massive oak table that dominated the center of the room. She had removed her gauntlets and pauldrons, placing them neatly on a rack, but she remained in her chainmail and padded gambeson. The weight of it was a familiar comfort, a second skin she had worn for more years than she cared to count.
She rubbed her temples, her fingers brushing against the faint silver scars that disappeared into her hairline. The adrenaline of the sparring match had faded, leaving behind the dull, throbbing ache in her lower back—a reminder that she was forty-two, not twenty-two. The Ember Blood kept her warm, radiating a soft, dry heat that made the tent feel like a bakery in midsummer, but it could not wash away the exhaustion deep in her bones.
She picked up a scout report, squinting in the flickering lamplight. The handwriting was messy, likely scrawled with frozen fingers.
West Ridge compromised. Patrol 4 missing. Strange lights seen near the Grimwood.
"Valdrin," she whispered the name to the empty room.
It had been twenty years since the Kingdom had last spoken the name of the Pale King. He was a necromancer of the Old World, a creature who did not just kill men; he hollowed them out and filled them with ice and malice. Vespera had fought his lieutenants before, but never the King himself.
The tent flap rustled. A gust of freezing air cut through the warmth, causing the oil lamps to sputter.
Vespera didn't look up. "You're late, Captain."
Kaelen Varro stepped inside, quickly lacing the heavy flaps shut behind him to seal out the blizzard. He looked different than he had in the mud of the training yard. He had scrubbed the grime from his skin and changed into a fresh tunic of dark wool and leather breeches. His raven-black hair was wet, slicked back from a face that was sharper and more aristocratic than Vespera had initially given him credit for.
Without the mud and the bloodlust, he was devastatingly handsome. It was an objective fact, Vespera told herself. A tactical observation. Nothing more.
"I had to ensure the perimeter was doubled, as you ordered," Kaelen said, his voice devoid of the earlier arrogance. It was guarded now. Wary. "And I had to convince the Quartermaster to release extra oil for the braziers. The men are freezing."
He walked to the table but stopped a respectful distance away. He was standing at attention, his posture rigid. The boy who had sneered at her in the courtyard was gone; in his place was a soldier who had just realized he was standing in a cage with a lioness.
Vespera finally looked up. She leaned back in her chair, the wood creaking.
"At ease, Kaelen. This is a war council, not a tribunal. Sit."
Kaelen hesitated for a fraction of a second before pulling out a stool opposite her. He sat, but he didn't relax. His grey eyes tracked her movement as she reached for a crystal decanter on the side table.
"Wine?" she offered. "It's from my own vineyard. Southern vintage. It tastes like sunshine."
"I don't drink while on duty, General," he said stiffly.
Vespera poured herself a glass. The deep red liquid swirled, catching the light. "A commander who cannot separate duty from life burns out by thirty, Captain. Drink the wine. That is an order."
Kaelen's jaw tightened, but he took the glass she slid across the map. He took a sip, and his eyes widened slightly. It was rich, sweet, and heavy—a stark contrast to the sour ale the army usually swilled.
"It's... good," he admitted, setting the glass down. "Thank you."
"Now," Vespera leaned forward, her elbows resting on the map. The atmosphere shifted instantly from hospitality to business. "Show me where we are bleeding."
Kaelen stood up and leaned over the map. He pointed to a jagged line of ink marking the Northern River.
"Here," he said, his finger tracing the curve of the water. "Iron Pass is the choke point. If they cross the river, they have a straight shot to the inner farmlands. I've been trying to hold the bridge, but Valdrin's forces... they don't tire. My men do. We repel a wave at dawn, and by dusk, the dead we just killed are standing up again to fight in the second wave."
"You're fighting a war of attrition against an enemy that has infinite recruits," Vespera murmured. "You can't win that way."
"I know," Kaelen said, frustration bleeding into his voice. "That's why I wanted to push out. Take the fight to them. If we can find the Necromancer controlling the battalion—"
"You'll die," Vespera cut him off. "You rush into the Grimwood blindly, you'll be flanked and slaughtered within the hour. Valdrin wants you to attack. He wants you to leave the fortifications."
"So we just sit here?" Kaelen challenged, his voice rising. He looked at her, his grey eyes flashing with that familiar fire. "We sit behind rotting walls and wait for the ice to bury us? That isn't war, Vespera. That's a slow suicide."
"It's patience!" Vespera slammed her hand on the table.
The sound cracked like a whip. Kaelen fell silent.
Vespera stood up and walked around the table. She moved with a predator's grace, the silver scars on her neck shimmering as she passed a lamp. She stopped beside Kaelen. She was close enough that he could feel the unnatural heat radiating from her. It was distinct, like standing next to a hearth fire.
"You think I am cautious because I am old," Vespera said quietly. "You think I have lost my nerve."
Kaelen looked down at her. He was taller than her by a few inches, but in that moment, he felt small. "I think... I think you have something to lose. I don't."
Vespera looked at him, really looked at him. She saw the desperation in his eyes. He was a man who wanted to die a hero because he didn't know how to live as a man.
"That is why you are dangerous, Kaelen," she said, her voice softening. "And that is why you are incomplete."
She reached past him to the map, her arm brushing against his. Kaelen flinched, his breath hitching in his throat. The contact was electric. The contrast between his cold, winter-chilled skin and her fever-hot flesh sent a shockwave through both of them.
Vespera ignored it, though her heart rate spiked. She tapped a location on the map, far to the east of the bridge.
"The Grimwood is a distraction," she explained, tracing a path through a narrow canyon. "Valdrin is loud. He is arrogant. He bangs his shield at the front gate so you don't notice the dagger at your back."
She moved her finger to a small, unmarked ridge. "Blind Man's Hollow. It's a shepherd's path. Too narrow for an army, but wide enough for a specialized strike team."
Kaelen studied the map, his brow furrowing. He was listening now. Really listening. "You think he's flanking us?"
"I know he is. If I were him, it's what I would do." Vespera looked up at Kaelen. "While your men hold the bridge and make noise, a small unit of Frostborn—probably his Elites—will slip through the Hollow tonight. They will circle behind us and burn the supply wagons. Without food, we starve in three days."
Kaelen paled. He saw the logic immediately. "If we lose the wagons..."
"The war is over."
Kaelen looked at her with a new expression. It wasn't fear, and it wasn't anger. It was awe. He was realizing that the stories about the Iron Phoenix weren't just about her sword arm; they were about her mind.
"So," Kaelen said, his voice rough. "What are your orders, General?"
Vespera smiled, a sharp, dangerous curve of her lips.
"We are going to let them enter the Hollow," she said. "And then we are going to collapse the canyon on top of them."
"We?" Kaelen asked.
"I'm not sitting in this tent while my men bleed, Captain," Vespera said, turning to grab her gauntlets from the rack. "You and I are taking the vanguard. Prepare your horse."
Kaelen watched her strap the steel onto her arms. The heat in the tent seemed to intensify, the air shimmering around her. For the first time in six months, Kaelen didn't feel the crushing weight of impending doom. He felt something he hadn't felt since he was a child reading stories of the Phoenix.
He felt hope.
And, looking at the curve of her neck as she adjusted her armor, he felt a hunger that had nothing to do with food.
"Yes, General," he said, his voice low.
He turned to leave, but paused at the tent flap.
"Vespera?"
She paused, looking back at him. It was the first time he had used her name without the rank attached.
"The wine," he said, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It really does taste like sunshine."
He slipped out into the cold night.
Vespera stood alone in the silence for a moment longer. She touched the spot on her arm where his tunic had brushed against her. Her skin was tingling.
"Foolishness," she scolded herself. She grabbed her white shield with the golden bird. "He is a boy. And you are a monument."
But as she walked out into the blizzard, the fire in her blood burned hotter than it had in years.