The sky was still a bruised shade of grey when Aya stepped into the courtyard, leather gloves tugged tight and her sword belted at her side. Chill clung to the stone walls, delicate as lace and just as brittle. The wind whispered through the narrow corridors between the keep and the barracks, sharp and clean—the kind of cold that cleared the lungs and kept one's senses sharp.
She took in the line of soldiers already assembling:
On her left, the Frost Fire contingent, led by Seth, stood in perfect formation—gritty, iron-eyed warriors. They wore House Svedana's sigil sewn into black leathers—silent proof of their allegiance to the Lady of the North. Seth stood at their front, adjusting the clasp of his riding cloak, sword at his side.
Aya nodded to him once. He returned it, calm and unreadable, yet already commanding the kind of loyalty few outside her house had ever earned.
To the right, her own garrison soldiers waited. Masa, tall and ever-watchful, double-checked the saddle straps of the new scout horses, while Thorne lingered nearby, clearly still nursing both pride and bruises from their last encounter. His conversation with Masa had stalled three awkward times already, and Aya smothered a smile as she watched from the corner of her eye.
"Will it always be like this?" Bela asked lightly beside her, her dark hair tied back, face wind-chapped but grinning.
"Like what, Mistress Bela?"
"Like watching two deer try to headbutt each other and apologize at the same time."
Aya chuckled. "Yes. Pretty much."
Bela leaned closer, lowering her voice slightly but keeping her tone respectful.
"Thank you for giving us a chance to help you, Lady Aya." She paused, then added with quiet reverence, "Tihna Vehr."
Aya turned, brow raised.
She Who Holds the North.
The words hung in the air like a quiet oath, brushing against something old in her bones.
"You know the old tongue?" Aya asked.
Bela gave a nod, her eyes still following Masa and Thorne as they awkwardly fumbled with saddle gear, though her tone had grown more serious.
"Like our Captain, my family served your House too, my Lady—before the war scattered what we were." She paused, then turned fully to Aya. "Tihna Vehr. That's what our line called the Lady of Svedana of her time."
Aya blinked, taken off guard by the reverence in Bela's tone.
"I didn't know you're a Silvan," Aya said slowly, acknowledging Bela's lineage.
Bela chuckled dryly. "Half, maybe. Less, depending on who's counting blood." Her smile faded into something more thoughtful.
The Silvans were one of the most respected lineages in the North, their name synonymous with quiet loyalty and influence. Though they held no great keeps or armies, they wielded influence in subtler, lasting ways—through service and the stewardship of tradition. They were known as the "Hands of Vetasta," ever-present in the court of House Svedana, guiding its halls through storms both political and natural.
Years ago, when the western wars crept north and whispers of King Ive's madness surrounded the capital, Lady Jun—knowing the value of the Silvan line—its children—and the danger they would face if the King turned his eyes on them—sent them away.
She did it quietly, risking her own life. She trusted no one but her handmaidens and a few loyal soldiers to smuggle the children from Svedana's inner court. The Silvans were scattered, hidden in northern hamlets, mountain cloisters, and, in Bela's case, a Frost Fire garrison where an old ally had once sworn to protect anything of Jun's blood.
Bela was only seven winters old when they fled. Her memories of Vetasta are fragmented—a marble hallway, her mother's voice at twilight, the smell of parchment and snow. She remembers Lady Jun, not as a queen or ruler, but as the one who wrapped a warm cloak around her shoulders as she bid them safe travels with her loyal soldiers.
For years, Bela hid who she was, although Seth always knew. She became a mercenary, fought for Frost Fire, and rose through the ranks. She learned to wield a blade better than she spoke courtly words.
"And your real name, Mistress Bela?" Aya asked.
"Belara," Bela smiled at her. "At your service, Tihna Vehr."
Aya let the silence sit between them for a breath, a strange kind of warmth settling in her chest. "Thank you," she said softly. "And welcome back to service."
Before anything else could be said, the inner gate opened.
Killan stepped out, wrapped in his traveling coat, though not preparing to ride. His boots crunched softly against the frost-dusted stone as he approached. His eyes flicked first to the formation, then to Aya—and lingered on Seth.
"You're leaving without a final spar?" Killan asked with a faint smirk.
Aya smiled faintly. "Didn't want to embarrass you before breakfast."
Killan's gaze drifted to Seth again, taking in the Frost Fire formation at his back and Bela standing near his wife.
"I see you're riding with new company." His tone was light, but the undercurrent wasn't lost on anyone with ears.
"Master Seth and Frost Fire have been added to my Queensguard now," Aya replied. "Having them near should help ease your worries."
That landed heavier than her tone suggested. Killan's brow ticked upward, but he nodded, jaw tight.
"Ride safe," he said, stepping closer and fixing her riding cloak carefully, his voice quiet for her alone. "And don't do anything reckless, my Lady."
Aya met his eyes. "I will, Your Grace."
Behind them, Shin approached with a satchel in hand, interrupting the tension.
"Your Grace," he bowed to Killan and then turned to Aya. "Lady Aya," he said, offering the rolled parchment. "Patrol route, as discussed. We'll pass through the southern ridges, double back near the Myrran lookout. Still no reports from the outpost there."
Aya unrolled it briefly, scanning the marks before tucking it into her saddle case. "Thank you, Shin. Make sure the messengers know to send word to my husband, the King, and Commander Elex if we don't return by the fourth night."
Shin nodded and stepped back.
Aya turned, her voice rising enough for her soldiers to hear.
"Form up. We ride west, then curve south. Frost Fire takes rear and flanks. Riders, move."
Her people mounted swiftly, practiced. Bela swung up beside Masa. Thorne grumbled something about saddle alignment, and Seth gave his men a single nod before falling in behind Aya.
Killan remained at the gate as she mounted, watching with something unreadable in his expression.
When she looked back, he gave her a final nod—and was gone.
The morning sun cast long shadows through the spires of the keep, its light slanting like spears across the stone.
Eir stood alone on the high balcony above the main gate, arms crossed tightly beneath her fur-lined mantle. Below, the courtyard was near-empty now—Aya's patrol had ridden out at dawn, their banners trimmed in a mix of their colors stitching catching the light. Frost Fire rode at the head with her. Seth, among them, no longer just a foreign guest but the newest name in the Queensguard.
Eir's lips pressed thin.
She watched until the last rider disappeared into the mountain pass. Not because she cared where they were headed—but because it was Aya who led them. Not Killan. Not even her brother, that rogueish Commander. Her.
"She moves like she's worn that mantle all her life," said a voice behind her.
Eir didn't turn. She didn't need to.
"You're up early," she said curtly.
Santi stepped into view, hands clasped behind his back, his coat buttoned neatly up the front. The golden trim along his collar was a little wrinkled, like he'd dressed in a hurry.
"I was curious," he said. "You never miss a departure, but I thought you didn't care much for our Queen."
"I don't," Eir answered too quickly.
Santi hummed thoughtfully. "Pity. I rather like her."
Eir turned to glare at him. "You like her?"
Santi smiled, not unkindly. "She keeps up with Killan. Gods know no one else has the spine for that."
Eir looked away again, jaw tight.
"No, she doesn't," she said coldly. "Not with that temper."
"Killan's temper is twice as terrible," Santi noted, resting his elbows on the stone railing beside her. "And she seems to match it without flinching. That's something."
Eir said nothing. The light shifted again, illuminating the sharp lines of her cheekbone, the cool grey in her eyes.
"He trusts her too easily," she said at last. "Not just him. All of them. The people. The soldiers. Even some of the councilmen. They forget how fragile power is when it's left unguarded."
Santi arched a brow. "She's dangerous, that's true."
"She's unpredictable," Eir replied. "And surrounded by people who think that's strength."
Santi watched her carefully, the smile fading just a little. "Eir, don't mistake wariness for disloyalty. You've always had an eye for balance, but Killan made his choice. And this alliance with the North may be the only thing keeping the West from tearing us apart."
Eir stiffened.
"I don't doubt her power," she said. "Only how it'll be used."
There was a pause. Then, Santi said more softly, "You're not alone in wanting to protect the realm. I just don't think she's the threat you've made her out to be."
He turned to go, his boots quiet on the stone.
But before he passed fully out of sight, he added over his shoulder, "Take care of yourself, Eir. You don't need to fight battles that don't exist yet."
Eir didn't answer. She remained by the railing long after he'd gone, eyes scanning the road, long gone quiet.
Beneath her composed exterior, something churned. A silent knowledge she hadn't spoken aloud—not even to herself.
There was someone riding with Aya now. Someone who answered to another. A quiet thread in the tapestry, unnoticed. But not for long.
She would not act. Not yet.
But she was watching.