Chapter Nine – Daughters of Flame and Frost
The Moon Garden glittered with polished glass lanterns and vines strung with orange blossoms. Everything gleamed—too bright, too arranged. It reminded Alenra of a snare dressed as a flowerbed.
Ysra sat beside Queen Anys Marran, her gown silver-threaded, her posture court-perfect. Every movement she made—every glance, every blink—had meaning. She was learning quickly.
Too quickly.
"You look radiant, child," Anys said. "A girl forged in winter, made to melt the cold."
"Your Grace is too kind," Ysra replied.
"Am I?" The Queen smiled softly. "Or simply exact?"
Across the table, Alenra was doing her best not to stab anyone with her fork.
She'd already been asked if wolves really slept with their masters, if northern women hunted shirtless in winter, and if she could read.
The last one had gotten her a glare from Ysra when she snapped, "Better than your cousin, who thinks vowels are decoration."
A quiet rustle stole her attention.
Princess Vaela entered, wearing a dove-gray gown that shimmered when she moved. Calm, silent, and watchful, she made no greetings—just settled beside Alenra like a shadow learning to sit.
"You don't like this," Vaela said softly.
"I'm not supposed to," Alenra muttered.
Vaela smiled faintly. "Good. You'll survive longer that way."
After the meal, the Queen drew Ysra aside beneath a shaded arch draped in velvet vines.
"You carry your court well," she said. "But it's not yet yours."
"I know," Ysra said. "But I want to make it so."
"Then listen carefully," the Queen said, eyes sharp behind her smile.
"A queen does not need to be feared or loved. Only obeyed. If you want their loyalty, do not ask. Demand it. Then smile like they offered it."
Ysra didn't respond right away. Her hands were still.
Anys stepped closer.
"Alric needs a wife, not a rival. A queen beside him, not another sword at his back."
"Then let me be both," Ysra said, quietly.
The Queen studied her.
And for the first time, looked uncertain.
Kaelen and Torren rode through the frostwoods, wolves padding behind them, snow heavy in the air. The sun hadn't broken through in days.
They were following a trail from a trader caravan last seen a week ago—sent south, but never arrived.
With them rode Ser Halden Snow, the bastard of a noble house long since faded.
He respected silence, which made him a good companion.
But when they reached the clearing, nobody spoke.
The snow was burned away in a perfect ring. Trees blackened. No footprints. No signs of struggle.
"Lightning?" Torren guessed.
"No char from above," Halden said. "It started here. Beneath."
Kaelen crouched, touching the scorched ground.
It was cold.
No ash. No heat. But the trees had burned—fast, and clean.
"Magic?" Halden asked.
Kaelen stood slowly. "Not magic. Not yet."
He didn't say what he was thinking:
It feels like something testing its reach.
Later that night, by the hearth, Torren broke the silence.
"If it comes from the South, do we warn Father?"
"He's in Sunspire," Kaelen said. "The Queen hears everything first."
"And does nothing last."
They drank in silence.
Alenra trained again beneath gray skies.
This time, Vaela stood beside her, hair tied back, tunic plain.
"I've never held a blade," she said. "But I want to know what it feels like."
"Feels like power," Alenra said. "Until it breaks your wrist."
Ser Daelen Thorne stood nearby, watching like a hawk.
He corrected Vaela's stance, then Alenra's.
"You're too eager," he told one.
"You're too careful," he told the other.
"A good blade is neither—it simply cuts."
They sparred until their arms ached.
And when they stopped, both girls were smiling.
From a window above, Ceyric watched silently—not interrupting, not smiling, just measuring.
The ruins hummed at night.
Serenya slept on bare stone beneath a flickering torch. Her dreams burned.
She stood atop a hill of ash, a black dragon crouched behind her, silent and waiting. Her mouth opened, and fire poured out—but it did not burn the world.
It burned the names of her enemies.
She awoke gasping.
Beside her, Maerys lit a line of candles.
"I saw the fire again," Serenya said.
Maerys opened the book, flipped to the marked page.
"To wake the flame that sleeps, blood must be given freely. Willingly. The fire only listens to those who do not flinch."
Serenya pulled back her sleeve. The skin beneath was marked by the candlelight, but not seared.
Maerys touched it gently. "It does not hurt?"
Serenya shook her head. "Not anymore."
Maerys closed the book with quiet reverence.
"Then you're ready."