THE KING COMES NORTH

Chapter One – The King Comes North

Frosthall, Year 976 AE, Late Autumn

The wind off the Icegrove Crags howled low and steady, a voice older than names. Snow dusted the ramparts of Frosthall, clinging to its black stone towers like ash on burnt bone.

Kaelen Vaylen stood at the edge of the battlements, a fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, the wind combing through his dark hair. His eyes—cool steel-gray, with hints of glacier-blue—watched the winding road below. The snow had begun to fall again, soft and fine, catching in his lashes like frost-thread.

He stood still, as always. Silent, like the Shadowmane at his side.

The beast sat tall beside him, black as a starless sky, its silver-streaked eyes scanning the world with eerie calm. Thorne, they called him. Not a pet, not a hound—a guardian. The fourth of a sacred litter, bonded by instinct and ice-blood.

Kaelen reached down, fingers brushing the thick fur behind Thorne's neck. The wolf didn't move.

Down the mountain path, a long line of gold-and-crimson banners flickered through the falling snow. Riders on armored horses, carriages crowned with polished iron, southern steel flashing like fire against the pale world.

The king comes north.

He hadn't been summoned to the gate.

He hadn't expected to be.

Prince Alric Marran rode ahead of the column, flanked by two golden-cloaked knights. The heir to the realm sat astride a white destrier that looked carved from marble, its barding etched with falcons and flame.

Alric himself gleamed with beauty—shoulders broad in red-dyed mail, gold-threaded cloak billowing behind him. His hair was like honey-silk, brushed back and tied with a dragonbone clasp. His smile—crafted and polished—sat easy on his face, as if he were born with it.

Behind him came the Queen, Anys of House Rellanor, seated in a glass-windowed carriage rimmed with jeweled steel. She was regal and severe, with snow-pale skin and lips like garnet stone. Her hair, black as storm-tide, was twisted into braids studded with sapphires.

More lords followed—banners flying, servants trudging, trumpets singing. The colors of Virelia cut through the white world like fresh blood.

Kaelen watched them all from above, unblinking.

"Watching from above again?"

The voice was warm, amused. Torren Vaylen, firstborn of Frosthall, climbed the stairs in full ceremonial armor—steel brushed with frost-runes and a dark blue cloak trimmed in wolf-fur. His face was strong-jawed and proud, with his father's high cheekbones and his mother's cold beauty. The lightest trace of a beard touched his chin, neatly trimmed.

At his side walked Frostjaw, his own bonded Shadowmane—silver-furred, golden-eyed, and nearly as tall as the man beside him.

"I wasn't summoned," Kaelen said without looking.

Torren gave a soft laugh. "You don't need to be summoned to greet the king. But if you wait long enough, someone will always notice you haven't bowed."

Kaelen's gaze dropped back to the road. "You seem eager."

"Of course. It's a rare thing, the crown coming north. And besides…" His voice lowered. "You know why he's here."

Kaelen said nothing.

At the great gates of Frosthall, Lord Ceyric Vaylen stood tall in his long fur-trimmed cloak, hands folded before him, snow catching in his dark beard. He was broad-shouldered, weathered, and proud—carved of the same stone as the fortress he ruled. His armor, though ceremonial, bore old scars. His face was unreadable.

Beside him stood his wife, Lady Myra, the Ice Rose of Tessarien. She was graceful and still, beautiful in a way that chilled rather than warmed. Her eyes—pale as frostglass—swept the oncoming royals with quiet calculation. Every braid of her silver-blonde hair was precise, pinned beneath a circlet of polished bone.

She did not glance upward.

She never did.

Standing slightly behind them was Ysra Vaylen, their elder daughter, wrapped in a snow-white gown trimmed in pearl lace. Her hair was golden and soft, falling in waves past her shoulders. Her beauty was striking in the southern style—rosy cheeks, bright eyes, lips like painted rose petals. She looked like she belonged in a palace ballroom, not a northern keep.

She smiled when she saw the prince.

Kaelen saw it too.

Further back stood Alenra, the youngest, barely past ten, already fidgeting with the hilt of a carved wooden sword strapped over her dress.

She looked nothing like Ysra. Her hair was the color of burned honey, eyes storm-gray, jaw already stubborn. Her wolf pup, Ruin, smaller but fiercer than the others, gnawed on a frozen branch nearby.

"She brought her sword to a royal greeting," Torren muttered.

"She's smarter than most," Kaelen replied.

As the gates opened and the king passed through, Kaelen's thoughts drifted—not to the present, but to the moment that tied them all together.

Years ago, in a storm-thick night, they had found the den—a hollow in the crags, shielded by snow and bone. The mother Shadowmane lay still, breath shallow, her body curled around four living pups.

The father, massive and black, had stood watch—scarred, ancient, and silent. He did not snarl. He did not run. He watched, as if weighing their worth.

Torren had stepped forward first. One pup had come to him, bold and sure.

Ysra's pup had curled around her feet.

Alenra's had growled, bared teeth, and finally allowed itself to be carried.

Kaelen had stood apart, silent. Waiting.

And the great Shadowmane had walked to him—not the pups, but the father—and pressed its cold nose to his brow.

Then vanished into the snow.

You were not chosen, he remembered thinking. You were claimed.