Ash and Ice

The sun did not rise that day.

It burned its way over the horizon—twisted, swollen, and red as a wounded god's eye. Light bled across the battleplain outside Aetherhold, but there was no warmth in it. Only omen.

The banners of ice and flame rippled in the wind, caught between worlds. The ground trembled beneath booted feet. Ward-stones flared across the ridgelines, and the citadel's battlements bristled with archers, mages, and the silent stillness of soldiers who knew that not all of them would survive the day.

Selena stood at the front.

Her cloak—half silk, half frostwoven hide—rippled behind her like a warbanner. Her silver-blue eyes reflected the sky's unease, and her face bore the strain of power newly earned and trust irreparably lost. She gripped Whispersunder in one hand. The other rested loosely at her side, fingers trembling not with fear, but with the weight of the Frostqueen's presence curling inside her veins like cold fire.