TO BIND THE BLOOD

Chapter Two – To Bind the Blood

The high windows of Frosthall shimmered with torchlight and rising frost. The hall was dressed in banners—silver wolves for House Vaylen, crowned falcons for the crown of Vaerenth—and filled with music too warm for the cold that lingered in the stone.

Long tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, mountain root stew, and southern wines thick with honey and spice. The servants wore furs, not silks. Even at a feast, the North remembered the cold.

At the high table sat King Halric Marran, regal in crimson and gold. The years had lined his face but had not dulled the storm in his eyes. On his right, Queen Anys, pale as the moon, sat in quiet authority. Her black hair coiled like a crown of snakes, her dress stitched with fire-colored jewels that glittered like embers. She did not smile. She did not need to.

Prince Alric, radiant in tailored velvet and dragonbone clasps, sat beside Ysra Vaylen, and it was she who glowed brightest tonight.

Ysra had never looked more like the queen she dreamed of becoming. Her golden hair was curled and woven with silver snow-lilies. Her gown was of northern silk, white as frost, but edged in southern red. She smiled at every toast, held her cup with grace, and laughed softly when the prince leaned close to whisper.

She had never been more beautiful.

Kaelen Vaylen, standing in the shadows near the hearth, said nothing. Thorne rested at his feet, silent as ice. His cloak still held the chill of the night air—he hadn't even changed since the king's arrival.

He watched them—their warmth, their games. Alric smiled like a boy who'd never seen blood. Ysra looked like a girl who hadn't yet shed her last tear.

He wondered which would break first.

At the queen's left, Lady Myra Vaylen lifted a wine cup with a nod of formality. Her expression was unreadable, her poise flawless. Myra did not speak unless she must. She was as still as winter water.

Across from her, Queen Anys met her eyes with a quiet, sharp-lipped smile.

"My lady," Anys said. "Your daughter glows like fire tonight."

Lady Myra inclined her head. "She was born to burn."

Kaelen saw the flicker in the queen's expression—approval? Or warning?

"Does she always look at him like that?" Alenra asked, not bothering to whisper. She sat wedged between Torren and a goblet of cider she was too young to drink.

Torren cleared his throat. "Lower your voice."

"But she does," Alenra insisted. "Like he's a knight from a fairytale. Except thinner."

Torren leaned down. "He is a prince. A future king."

Alenra wrinkled her nose. "So was Aeryn Dravari, and they stuck a spear through his throat."

Kaelen glanced over his shoulder, just enough to catch Torren's quiet, choking laugh.

The music swelled. The courtiers raised cups. King Halric stood.

The room fell to silence.

Halric lifted his goblet high. "We gather not just in friendship, but in binding."

He turned to Ysra, then to Alric. "To unite the North and South, to preserve peace in a realm too often torn, I name Lady Ysra Vaylen and Prince Alric Marran—betrothed."

The cheer that rose was practiced, polite, but not joyous. Not from the North.

Ysra's smile was real—touched with hope and victory, the culmination of a dream spun in embroidery and court songs.

Alric kissed her hand, perfect in timing and grace.

Torren clapped once, slowly.

Lady Myra's hand tightened slightly on her goblet, the only betrayal of emotion.

Kaelen did not move.

Alenra whispered, "I hope she bites him."

Later, when the tables were being cleared and the wine flowed slower, Kaelen slipped out into the corridor. He didn't want to watch her laugh anymore. Or hear Alric's easy voice like honey on polished steel.

He found a corner outside the great hall, leaning against stone, the cold a comfort.

Footsteps approached.

Ysra.

Her gown whispered along the floor, silver trailing red. She didn't speak at first, only stood beside him, the firelight from the hall casting her in gold.

"Do you think I looked the part?" she asked softly.

Kaelen glanced over. Her eyes were bright, uncertain beneath the smile.

"You looked like someone they'd follow," he said.

"That's not what I asked."

"You looked like a queen."

She smiled. Then frowned. "Do you ever wonder if you were born in the wrong skin?"

Kaelen looked away. "All the time."

She reached out, gently touched his arm, then withdrew.

"I was always jealous," she said. "You could walk away from all of it."

"You don't want to walk away, Ysra."

She hesitated.

"No," she said finally. "I want to rise."

She left without looking back.

[POV Shift – Avaren, Far South]

The air shimmered with heat in the forgotten temple of Ashmir, where flame once ruled.

Serenya Dravari, last daughter of the dragon kings, knelt on stone cracked by time and sun. Her copper hair clung to her neck in damp strands, her skin burnished with heat and lineage.

She was beautiful—not in the way of polished princesses, but in the way of ancient fire. Her crimson eyes bore no softness. Her hands bore calluses. Her back still carried scars from the flight.

She was no girl. She was what the flame left behind.

Maerys the Ash-Born circled her in silence. Barefoot, robed in cinders and bone-threaded fabric, the priestess moved like smoke.

"You dreamed again," she said.

Serenya nodded. "The tower was burning. My brother was screaming. My mother's voice cut through it."

Maerys knelt, placing a seared hand on her chest. "The flame doesn't forget."

"They call you cursed," Serenya whispered. "Do you believe it?"

"No." Maerys smiled, a cracked thing. "I believe in fire. It burns what should not be."

Serenya looked down. "They'll come for me soon, won't they?"

"They never stopped."

"What will I do?"

"You will rise. Not as a queen. As the last fire, and the first to return."

Maerys leaned in.

"Let them bring their kings, their cold, their crowns.

Let them come with wolves and blades.

You were not born to kneel.

You were born to burn."