In the far North, where mountains tear the sky and the wind screams like a dying beast, lies the kingdom of Eldrath, a land of iron and frost. Its people are shaped by coldness and obedience, its lords bound by fear more than loyalty. In Eldrath, kindness is weakness, and mercy is a tale mothers whisper to children before the wolves come.
Its king, Aedric Veyne, rules with a hand that does not tremble. They call him the Iron Wolf, for where he walks, rebellion dies, and where his banner rises, mercy burns. He took the throne in blood: his uncle's, his rivals', and any lord who hesitated when he spoke. He is young, but his eyes are old, hollowed by war and ghosts.
Since his coronation, the drums of conquest have never stilled. The borders of Eldrath are stitched with corpses, and the snow hides more graves than stones. Those who have seen his wrath whisper that his heart is colder than the ice he rules, that his voice bends even men to stone."
Aedric has no queen. Love is a fool's distraction. Marriage is a chain for weak men. Peace, in his tongue, is a word spoken before the axe falls.
Far beyond the North lies Sareen, a kingdom of gold dust and red deserts, where the air smells of myrrh and secrets. Its ruler, King Malek al-Rahim, is old, his body failing, his bloodline crumbling like sand through his fingers. He has no son, only daughters. One of them, born beneath a blood moon, carries power long thought extinct. Maria.
When news of Aedric's victories reached Sareen, Malek saw not a tyrant, but a weapon. A shield against rebellions clawing at his gates. He sent a falcon across desert and frozen sea, carrying a letter sealed in gold.
It was a proposal, Not a plea of love, but a bargain for survival.
His daughter, Princess Maria of Sareen, for King Aedric of Eldrath.
In return, Malek offered what no northern king could easily refuse: a thousand ships of cedar and gold, an alliance of southern legions to bolster the thinning ranks of the North, and total control over the spice routes that fuelled the world's wealth. It was a dowry that could buy a dozen empires.
But behind the promise, Malek's hand trembled. Not from age but from guilt.
For he knew what Aedric would one day learn: that his daughter was born beneath a blood moon, carrying within her veins the old magic of Sareen's first queens, the very power Eldrath had spent centuries hunting to extinction.
Aedric's own brother had been one of their victims, cursed by a witch until madness claimed him. Some say Aedric burnt an entire village to find her. Others say he found her and made her beg for death.
When the falcon reached the North, Aedric read the letter by the light of a single torch. The tent around him was silent except for the wind clawing at the canvas.
"A southern king offers me his daughter," he said softly. His generals dared not breathe. "What does a dying man want that much?"
He folded the parchment with careful hands and set it beside his sword, the same blade that had ended his uncle's reign.
Outside, the blizzard howled as if the gods themselves feared to enter.
And far away, in the perfumed palace of Sareen, Princess Maria woke from a dream of snow, smoke and distant screams. The scent of cardamom and myrrh clung to the air, but the night around her was heavy, almost alive.
The silken curtains stirred without wind. One by one, the lanterns dimmed until only the moon remained, spilling through the carved window in a soft, silver glow. She rose from her bed, her breath trembling, and crossed the room barefoot, her anklets whispering against the marble like distant rain. The moonlight poured through the lattice, washing over the mosaics and her shaking hands.
Outside, the gardens of Sareen slept beneath a haze of incense and heat. Somewhere, a peacock cried, sharp and mournful, as though echoing her dread.
Maria pressed her palm to the cool glass. Beyond the horizon, the north glimmered faintly: a blade of ice that could one day pierce her heart.
"They say he kills for pleasure," she whispered. "That his crown drips with blood. That even the snow will not touch his grave when he dies."
Behind her, the shadows shifted. Slowly, the corner of the room deepened until it gathered shape: tall, cloaked, threaded with smoke and faint light. The air trembled around him, bending the moonlight, carrying both threat and something she could not name.
"Rumours," he said, his voice low, smooth as obsidian. "Men fear what they cannot command."
Maria turned, her pulse steady but her eyes wide. She didn't scream, she never did. She had known this shadow all her life, and yet it made her pulse quicken in ways she did not understand.
"And what if the rumours are true?" she asked softly. "What if I am being sent to my death?"
He moved closer. His outline sharpened not solid, but unmistakably present. Beneath the haze of his form, faint sparks glowed where his heart should be, dim and red like dying stars.
"You will not die," he said.
Her throat tightened. "You sound certain."
His hand, or what passed for one, rose toward her. The air between them shimmered, warm and alive. When his fingers brushed her hair, her white strands flared like molten silver, light rippling down their length. Her breath caught, not in fear, but in recognition she could not name.
"I have watched you since the cradle," he murmured. "Since the blood moon burnt your name into the stars. You are not meant to break, little flame."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence between them thrummed an old, unspoken thing.
Maria's voice fell to a whisper. "Then protect me. From him. From the cold."
The figure leaned closer. The scent of spice and dessert faded, replaced by rain and stone, the scent of a storm waiting to be born.
"I will," he said, his voice softer now, almost human. "As I always have."
The lanterns flared once, then went out. Moonlight bathed them both, her face pale, her eyes wet with fear, his form flickering like smoke caught between worlds.
Outside, the wind shifted. Far to the north, a king paused in his war tent, as if some unseen thread had tightened across the dark.
And so began a bargain written in frost and sealed in fire
the story of a tyrant haunted by a ghost he cannot kill,
and a girl born from the very magic he has sworn to destroy.
A tale of two kingdoms: one of ice, one of flame.