Chapter 13: Footprints in the Mist

The morning mist had yet to lift when the first rider reached the capital gates.

His horse was caked in blood and dust, and his cloak bore the torn crest of House Elvanthir—a minor noble family loyal to the Vaelthorn line. His eyes were wild, skin pale, and breath ragged.

"They're coming," he gasped, collapsing to the cobblestones. "From the northwest. They have marked us."

By midday, the palace halls buzzed with whispers of raiders. Some claimed they were northern rebels. Others feared they were remnants of the cursed exiles from the Silver Valley.

But Aurelia knew better.

Standing in the War Council room, her armor glinting black-violet under the skylight, she traced a trembling hand over the old war map.

"They've breached the western watchposts," she said, voice cold. "And no one moved until now."

Lord Thalien Corven stood beside her, calm as ever. "Because the Council thought it was your problem. And because they'd rather lose ten watchmen than owe you credit."

Aurelia exhaled slowly, her eyes sharp as flint. "Then I will solve this problem my way. And they will watch as I do."

Behind her, Caelum remained still, observing the discussion in silence. But his eyes followed Aurelia, alert, protective.

"Will you ride?" he asked.

Aurelia turned. "I'll ride. Not because I must, but because I need them to remember who I am."

That evening, as the sun bled across the horizon, Aurelia mounted her black mare. With her rode Caelum, Lady Caliste, Sir Alaric, and a handful of loyal scouts. No banners, no trumpets. Only steel, dust, and purpose.

They rode into the mist.

The Outpost — Two Days Later

The ruins of the watchpost still smoked when they arrived. Bodies, both friend and foe, lay scattered like broken dolls. The stench of blood was thick.

Aurelia dismounted slowly, eyes scanning the field. "This wasn't a raid," she murmured. "It was a message."

Caelum knelt beside a fallen scout, retrieving a shard of a strange sigil—a twisted serpent in a ring of fire.

"We've seen this before," he said, low. "In the Blacklands. They shouldn't be this close."

"They shouldn't even exist," Aurelia whispered.

Suddenly, a groan. One soldier still breathed.

Aurelia knelt by him. His eyes fluttered open. "They… they knew your name, Lady Vaelthorn. They said you were the key."

She stiffened. "The key to what?"

But he was gone before he could answer.

Midnight — Forest Encampment

Aurelia stood alone at the edge of the woods, eyes on the firelight flickering in the distance. The camp slept, but she couldn't.

Caelum approached silently, wrapping a cloak around her shoulders. "You're freezing."

"I'm thinking," she replied. "These attacks… they're too precise. They're not bandits. They're hunting something. Or someone."

Caelum looked at her. "They're hunting you."

She didn't flinch. "Then they'll find more than they bargained for."

He hesitated. "Aurelia… If you asked me to walk into fire for you, I would. But if the fire is already inside you—will you let me carry some of it?"

She turned to him, eyes unreadable. Then slowly, she reached up and rested her hand against his chest. "Don't carry it. Stand with me as it burns."

And he did.

Back at the Palace

News traveled faster than horses.

By the time they returned, the Court already buzzed with talk of Aurelia's counterattack.

Lord Rethvon accused her of provoking a war. Lady Cyrene dismissed her report as "emotional overreach." Verena, as always, smiled sweetly—and whispered poison behind fans of silk.

But Serion stood silent as Aurelia entered the Council chamber, her hair tousled by wind, her cloak stained by ash and frost.

"I don't need your approval," she said, voice like thunder. "I need your eyes open. The real enemy doesn't wear our colors."

Serion rose, his gaze meeting hers with unusual clarity. "Then perhaps it's time we finally fight the same war, Aurelia."

She said nothing, but for the first time, something passed between them—an acknowledgment, not of alliance, but inevitability.

That night, as snow began to fall across the city, Aurelia wrote letters in her private study. Her hand moved steadily, her eyes determined.

The war was no longer coming.

It had arrived.

And Aurelia Vaelthorn would face it—not as a pawn, not even as a queen—but as the fire beneath the throne.