The torches hissed as rain leaked through the cracks above the war hall. Outside, thunder rolled over the mountains like a drum of judgement.
Aedric sat upon the iron dais, his crown thrown carelessly beside him, as two guards dragged a man forward, a noble by the look of his once fine cloak, now soaked and torn. Blood streaked his cheek where the soldiers had struck him.
"Lord Fenrik of Malor," Varin announced, his voice echoing in the cold chamber. "Charged with conspiring with the House of Thane. The letters were found in his steward's hand."
The man fell to his knees, trembling. "Mercy, my king I swear I acted only to spare my people from famine. Thane offered grain—"
"Grain," Aedric interrupted, rising slowly from his throne. "And in return, you offered them my borders. My soldiers' lives. My name."
The man's voice cracked. "I would never—"
Aedric's sword flashed. The steel bit into the marble between Fenrik's hands, close enough to draw a gasp. The king leaned forward, his voice low and measured.
"You wrote to Thane's court. You promised your loyalty should they rise against me. You signed your name beneath the seal of Eldrath."
"I—I was desperate—"
"And so am I," Aedric said softly. "Desperate for loyalty that does not wilt in the shadow of another man's coin."
He pulled the blade free, turning it slowly in the torchlight. "Tell me, Fenrik. When you whispered my name to them, did you imagine what it would sound like when you begged for your tongue?"
Varin flinched just slightly.
Aedric didn't wait for an answer. With an almost lazy motion, he brought the sword down. The man's scream was short; the sound that followed was quieter: the thud of something soft on stone.
The hall was silent except for the storm outside.
Aedric wiped his blade with the man's cloak, eyes cold as winter. "Hang him by the gate," he said to the guards. "Let the rain wash his loyalty clean."
He turned to Varin then, as though nothing had happened. "Now," he said calmly, "you mentioned a letter from the South?"
Aedric didn't look up. "Read it."
Varin broke the wax and began:
To King Aedric Veyne of Eldrath,
When Varin finished, the hall was quiet but for the low hum of thunder.
Aedric finally straightened, his joints popping like dry wood. He looked at the letter as if it were a serpent.
"A father's desperation makes him generous," he said flatly. "Armies, ships, and the wealth of the sun... all laid at my feet, as if gold and soldiers could buy my caution."
He stepped toward the fire, the orange light dancing in his old, hollowed eyes. "Malek is a dying man. He knows my banners are moving south. He isn't offering a marriage; he is buying a guard dog."
Varin nodded slowly. "Desperation, yes. But Sareen's ports and trade routes are valuable. Their fields feed the southern realms. Protecting them would open the sea to our merchants and close it to our enemies. With their gold, your soldiers would never go hungry again. The winter would lose its teeth."
The king's hand tightened on the armrest. "I have no time for a wife, Varin. No need for heirs yet. My court is filled with jackals who'd rather see me buried than married."
"Which is why an alliance is exactly what you need," Varin countered. "You've had too many wars and too few allies. And this offer comes wrapped in gold."
Aedric's gaze drifted to a small, charred locket he kept at his belt, a reminder of the brother he lost to magic. "And the Princess? What of her?"
Varin hesitated, the parchment of the report crinkling in his damp hands. "The elder princess... there is little record of her. She has never been presented at any court, no portraits, and no suitors of note. Her younger sister, Lysara, is the one the world sees paraded at festivals, the jewel of every royal gala. But the eldest, Maria..."
"Hidden?" Aedric asked quietly.
Varin shrugged. "Perhaps sickly. Perhaps strange. Or perhaps the old king simply keeps his best piece off the board."
Aedric rose and walked toward the window slit, rain streaking across the cold glass. "Kings don't hide their best pieces. They hide their shame."
Varin said nothing.
After a long silence, Aedric spoke again softly, like someone making peace with an old wound.
"A southern king offers me his daughter," he said softly. His generals dared not breathe. "What does a dying man want that much?"
"Draft a reply. Tell King Malek I will consider his offer. I'll not be shackled by his dying plea, but I'll not refuse the chance to strengthen my borders."
He turned then, his expression unreadable.
"And Varin," he added, "find out what sort of woman stays hidden in the shadows while her sister is groomed for the sun"
In the upper tower, where the walls were painted with faded suns, Princess Maria sat before a mirror carved from obsidian. Her reflection stared back pale as moonlight, the faintest dusting of freckles across her sharp, delicate nose. Her hair fell loose and wild, white that caught the lamplight like fire under snow.
Her eyes were green that strange, quiet green of moss after rain but in certain light, they seemed almost golden. People used to whisper about them in the markets. Eyes like that, they said, meant a touch of witchfire in the blood.
Those whispers had stopped years ago. Whispers had a way of dying when you ruled by fear and silence.
Maria brushed her hair slowly, not out of vanity but habit one, two, three strokes, while her maid, little more than a frightened shadow in the doorway, wrung her hands, finally murmuring, "Your father... a letter, Your Grace..."
Maria stumbled into the hall, the letters from the North still smoldering in her mind, scorching her with their promise.
"Father!" Her voice cracked, raw and jagged like ice breaking.
The weight of her plea hung in the air. Her hands trembled, gripping the edges of the polished table as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.
"Please... don't send me. I beg you!" Her knees threatened to buckle, and she had to take a shuddering step forward.
Her words poured out in a flood, jagged and desperate.
"Let me stay! We can rule together just you and me! I need nothing more! I do not need a husband! I do not need a throne beyond what we have!"
King Malek rose slowly, each movement deliberate, his face pale in the flickering lamplight. Lines of grief and fatigue carved deep into his skin. His hands hovered over the gold-sealed letters, trembling slightly, betraying the calm he tried to wear.
"Maria..." His voice was soft, almost fragile, as though the sound of her name could shatter him.
She stepped closer, desperate for his gaze, desperate for a thread of understanding. "You cannot see what I see. You cannot bear what I must bear. This... this is not for my desire. It is for Sareen."
Her words rang hollow even to her own ears. She wanted him to see her, not the princess, not the pawn, but her: the daughter who carried fire and storms alike.
"I don't care for alliances! I don't care for politics!" Her chest heaved, shoulders trembling under the weight of her rage. "I am yours, Father! Let me stay! Let me rule with you!"
Tears threatened to spill. Her fingers gripped his robes, the soft silk cutting into her palms. "I can do what no man can! Protect you! Protect our people! Why must I be sent away? Why must a man decide my fate just because I am a woman?!"
King Malek remained still, his jaw tight, eyes distant. He wanted to argue, to soothe her, to tell her that in another world, he would grant her wish. But he knew the truth, heavy and bitter: Sareen could not survive without allies.
"You'd give me to a man who hunts witches," she whispered, voice barely audible, yet sharp enough to pierce the silence.
His hands shook on the throne's arms. "He does not know what you are... and he must never. I do this not to harm you, Maria, but to save us all. The lords are restless. The borders bleed. I cannot hold Sareen alone."
A jagged pang of grief cut through her. "You've never held it alone," she said softly, almost reverently. "You had me."
He looked at her, his daughter, fierce, unbroken, who had terrified his court yet comforted his heart. The love in his eyes clashed violently with the resignation etched in his face.
Her hands tightened on his robes. "Let me stay! Let me hide what I must, but at least here I am safe! Don't force me to go!"
"You are my curse and my salvation, child," he whispered, voice breaking. "The North is your destiny now."
Her chest tightened so severely she thought she might collapse. Tears burned down her cheeks, her heart thrummed in her ears. Anger, despair, and helplessness twisted into a tight knot.
She opened her mouth to argue, to strike back, but words failed her. The letters lay on the table like suns marking her fate, impossibly bright, impossibly unyielding. And in that suffocating silence, she yielded.
Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her head in a motion that felt almost like mockery of her own surrender.
"As you command, Father."
But as she turned to leave, her reflection in the tall mirror shimmered. Her green eyes flared gold for a heartbeat, burning with the raw magic in her blood before returning to calm green.
The witch within her stirred.
And far to the north, the storm was already moving.
Later that night, long after the storm of tears had passed, Princess Maria woke from a dream of snow and smoke. 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.
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 against the world's dark throat.
"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 aside.
"Rumours," he said, voice low, smooth as obsidian. "Men fear what they cannot command."
Maria turned, her pulse steady but her eyes wide. She did not scream, she never did. She had known this shadow all her life, as one might know a dream that keeps returning.
"And what if the rumours are true?" she asked softly. "What if I am being sent to my death?"
He moved closer, his outline sharpening 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 with 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, a storm waiting to be born.
"I will," he said, his voice softer now, almost human. "As I always have."