Start of the journey

A month. A whole fucking month of cold shoulders, silent mornings, and that look Isolde perfected—one that could freeze soup in a boiling pot.

If you'd asked me on the first day, maybe I'd have told you there was hope; she'd patched me up with hands that were surprisingly gentle and said something almost nice. Almost.

But no. It lasted a single day, as fleeting as a summer storm. After that, it was all back to business as usual: Isolde gliding through her schedule with the precision of a blade, barely speaking to anyone unless it was necessary, and certainly never to me. Not unless she had a complaint, or a list of things I was doing wrong.

It suited me, mostly. I'd learned years ago not to expect warmth from the world, least of all from a princess with a crown of ice.

Besides, there were worse things than a quiet assignment—no assassins, no idiot recruits swinging swords, no need to bleed or save the day.

Still, after four weeks, I was itching for action. Or at least for someone to yell at me so I could yell back.

Now, at last, we were on the move. The Southern Islands—hot, lawless, crawling with trouble. I'd expected chaos.

Instead, I got a carriage ride so long I lost feeling in my ass, and an entourage of soldiers who alternated between bored silence and the kind of banter only people headed for danger could muster.

The port city reeked of salt and fish and old dreams. The sky was a patchwork of gulls and clouds, the wind sharp with the promise of a storm.

We didn't have the luxury of waiting for perfect weather.

The ship—the Wind Chaser—was a big bastard, all white sails and gleaming wood, the royal banner flying at the mast. Soldiers and porters hustled back and forth, loading crates and bags, barking orders in four languages.

I carried the heavy shit myself—old habits died hard. It was easier to haul three chests at once than listen to Isolde complain if her luggage was mishandled. Not that she would, of course. She'd just glare, and I'd get the message.

She moved through the crowd like a vision out of a fever dream: perfect posture, sapphire-blue travel dress, white hair braided back with ruthless precision, purple eyes set on some distant horizon that had nothing to do with me.

She didn't look at the sailors. She didn't look at me. She barely looked at the damn ship, and when the captain came to introduce himself—big man, bushy beard, missing three fingers—she nodded like he was furniture.

I took care of the last trunk, nodding to the soldiers as they heaved the rest of the supplies aboard.

The deck was a maze of ropes, barrels, salt-crusted cannons. The captain barked out his orders, and the anchor was already being hauled up.

"Princess looks a little…tense," one of the younger soldiers muttered, trying not to stare.

I snorted. "She's always tense."

But when the boat lurched, catching the first proper swell, I saw it: Isolde's face went paler than usual, and she pressed one elegant hand to her lips.

She looked like she'd rather die than let anyone see her about to lose her breakfast, but the nausea was winning.

She made for the stairs below deck, skirts belling, spine straight as a rod, pride holding her together when her stomach clearly wanted mutiny.

I followed, not too close—just close enough to step in if she fainted, but not so near that she'd accuse me of coddling her.

When she felt my presence behind her, she turned, eyes blazing despite the green tinge to her skin. "Stay. Away," she hissed. "If you follow me, I swear I'll throw you overboard myself."

"Suit yourself," I said, backing off, hands raised in mock surrender. "Don't blame me if you drown in your own pride."

She disappeared down the corridor, leaving me alone with the laughter and curses of sailors and soldiers. Fine by me.

There was nothing heroic in holding a princess's hair back while she puked. Let her be the queen of the bucket for a while.

The rest of the soldiers were gathered by the bow, out of the way of the real crew. Some were watching the waves, others playing at cards, a few just staring at the horizon, wondering which way home was. I stowed my own gear, then wandered over, slouching against a barrel.

It didn't take long before the conversation turned from boredom to banter. The captain Commander Veylan, big man, all jaw and attitude—was teaching three recruits a card game that involved more swearing than strategy.

"Come on, Skyblade!" one of the women called out. "You playing or just brooding?"

I grinned, dropping to the deck. "I'm not brooding. I'm plotting. There's a difference."

A ripple of laughter went around. Someone handed me a battered deck of cards, and the game began—fast, loud, and full of the kind of cheating you could only get away with when you were all headed into something uncertain.

There was a lot of talk—about old assignments, palace gossip, rumors about the Southern Islands. Someone—Orran, lean and smart-mouthed—grinned at me across the cards.

"So, Lyra, any juicy stories about the big bad Malvoria?" he asked, waggling his brows. "Heard you trained with her."

"Trained with her?" said another, a red-haired woman with scars on both hands. "I heard you survived her. That's rarer than a virgin in the capital."

I shrugged. "She was tough. Made me stronger. Or at least, harder to kill."

Orran laughed. "Aye, you look hard to kill. Too bad Malvoria didn't teach you how to smile."

"Fuck smiling," I muttered. "Not much use for it on the battlefield."

Someone else, a broad-shouldered woman named Reva, snorted. "What about off the battlefield? Don't tell me you're celibate, Skyblade. You got the look of a woman who could make half the kingdom beg for a night."

A couple others chimed in, all grins and elbows.

"Yeah, Lyra, how many notches on that sword belt, huh?"

"Bet you left a trail of broken hearts from here to the capital—men, women, whatever breathes."

I rolled my eyes, flipping a card. "You want the truth? My love life's as blank as a snowfield in a blizzard."

Reva leaned in, not letting up. "Don't fuck with us. You? Blank? You're the hottest thing on this boat."

A chorus of wolf-whistles and fake swooning. I grinned, flipping another card.

"Seriously," I said, deadpan. "I haven't had a proper fuck in…shit, years. Too busy trying t survive Malvoria training. Not that I'm against a one-night stand, but I'm picky. And palace types? Not worth the trouble."

Orran snickered. "Bet you're picky. Someone like you could ruin a person for life."

Reva grinned, unrepentant. "Or just break 'em in half. I'd risk it."

The banter went on, raunchy and ridiculous, the kind of talk that could get you in trouble if the wrong noble overheard. But here, on the sea, with danger a couple days off and only the stars for witnesses, it felt good to be just another soldier.

I'd missed this—real laughter, real people, no one pretending to be better than anyone else.

Someone else piped up. "Hey, you ever think about shacking up with a noble? Maybe the ice princess herself?"

I almost choked on my own laugh. "Isolde? Please. She'd murder me before I could get my boots off. Besides, I don't fuck people who hate me on principle."

Orran grinned, wicked. "Hate and lust, not so different, some say."

I flipped him the finger, and the whole group cracked up, cards tumbling everywhere.

The hours rolled by. The sun was setting in a blaze of crimson and gold when the bell rang for dinner.

The captain's voice boomed from the quarterdeck, calling the soldiers below. The smell of stewed meat and fresh bread drifted up from the galley. It was the first proper meal since leaving port.

I was gathering my gear when Reva pressed a heavy, covered plate into my hands. "Here's the royalty dinner," she teased, waggling her brows. "Looks nice. Give it to her."

I raised an eyebrow. "What, you want me to hand-feed her too?"

She grinned, unrepentant. "You're the bodyguard. Get guarding."

I snorted, taking the plate. The others watched, some with genuine curiosity, others with barely disguised glee.

As I turned toward the stairs, plate in hand, the noise of the soldiers faded behind me. For a moment, I wondered what kind of hell I was walking into this time—a princess who hated boats, hated me, and probably hated the idea of dinner most of all.

Still, a job was a job. And as much as she'd hate to admit it, she'd have to eat. Even queens needed something to keep the ice running through their veins.

I headed below, ready for another round in the never-ending war of fire and frost.