SMOKE UPON THE SNOW.

Dawn broke over Eldhaven with a sky the color of steel.

Smoke curled from the gates, the rooftops, the shattered southern towers. The river ran dark with soot and blood. Bodies lay frozen in contorted silence—Vikings and Flame Guard alike.

But the gate still stood.

Uthred limped through the ash-choked courtyard, flanked by Maera and Halric. His sword arm trembled. His side was wrapped in bloodied linen. But he was alive.

And the city had not fallen.

Yet.

The smell of scorched wood and death hung heavy. Crows gathered at the walls. Soldiers dragged corpses into piles. The snow was no longer white.

"Casualties?" Uthred asked, voice hoarse.

"Over two hundred," Maera replied. "Half of them from the Flame Guard. They hit us hard through the lower tunnels."

Halric spat. "And if your spy hadn't warned us, they'd have slit our throats in our beds."

Uthred looked at the river, now thick with shattered longboats. "They'll come again."

Maera nodded. "They always do."

Inside the palace, the council gathered in silence.

Lord Vaedric, face bruised from the siege, was the first to speak.

"Where is Kairon?"

"In the southern wing," Uthred said. "Alive."

"You should've put him to the sword when you had the chance."

"I put an end to his rebellion," Uthred growled. "That was enough."

"Was it?" Vaedric challenged. "Or did sparing him show these Viking bastards that your flame is just for show?"

Eamon cut in. "Enough. We stand because Uthred chose strategy over slaughter. That's why the gate held."

But the damage was done. The room rippled with doubt.

And Uthred felt it.

In his chamber, Uthred peeled the linen from his side. The wound was deeper than he'd admitted. Crimson soaked the bandage, pulsing with every breath.

Vale entered, silent. She had not slept. Her gown was still dusted with soot.

"You should be resting," she said softly.

"So should you."

She helped him sit, then took the salve from the basin and began redressing the wound. Her fingers were gentle. Her face unreadable.

"There's something you're not telling me," he said.

She didn't answer right away.

"I saw the fire again," she whispered. "In the flames. Three shadows. One crown. One cradle. One blade."

Uthred tensed. "And?"

"Only one survives the dawn."

He exhaled. "And you think it's Elion?"

"I think... something's coming for him. Something older than any kingdom."

Later that day, word reached them: a group of noble houses—three sigils flown at half-mast—were calling for an emergency vote of power. Not to remove Uthred, but to appoint a regent "should he fall in battle."

Maera slammed the parchment onto the table.

"It's a slow coup," she said. "They won't take your crown, but they'll split it."

Uthred leaned over the map of Eldhame.

"They're afraid."

"They're opportunists," Maera snapped. "They smell blood in your bandages."

"Let them meet me in court," Uthred said. "Let them look into my eyes and try to steal what they didn't earn."

That night, Vale slipped away from the royal wing.

She walked alone to the crypt below the old Flame Temple.

There, beneath broken statues and faded sigils, Morlana waited.

"You saw it again," the old priestess said. "The cradle. The blade. The crown."

"Yes."

"And have you made your choice?"

Vale stepped forward. "If the fire must take one to save the others, then it won't be him."

She knelt before the pyre. "I offer myself."

Morlana placed a hand on her head.

"The gods remember sacrifice. And they never forget promises."

The flames flared.

And something ancient stirred in the dark.