Interlude: Flames, Frost, and Wind
Seris – The Flame That Must Not Flicker
The ballroom still stank of fear.
Seris watched the blood being mopped from the marble, her fingers twitching with restrained fire. The nobles whispered louder now—about the assassination, about the scroll, and, most of all, about the returned prince who stood unmasked and unafraid amidst it all.
Kaelen.
She clenched her jaw.
He fights like a feral dog, not a prince. Trains like he's used to bleeding, not commanding.
And yet... the storm answered him.
She remembered the first time she saw him light the training circle—lightning, wild and beautiful, flashing in runes older than language. Her fire recognized the power in him. That terrified her more than any threat from Cierath.
If the court ever turned to him… if Father ever changed the line of succession…
She would burn for nothing.
Still, she would not let him see her doubt. Not the brother she'd lost. Not the threat he had become.
"I'll break him," she murmured to herself. "Before he breaks us all."
Aedric – The Quiet Cold of Legacy
From the high gallery, Aedric stared down at the feast hall turned crime scene. His goblet remained untouched.
He didn't mourn Lady Mavra. She had always been more loyal to coin than crown. But her death—violent, public, and precise—sent a chilling message.
Cierath had struck the palace itself.
And Kaelen had been at the center.
The timing wasn't coincidence.
Aedric's breath frosted faintly in the air. He'd mastered discipline, learned to keep his emotions sheathed in ice. But tonight… he could feel it cracking.
He'd been the dutiful son. The heir-in-training. The blade shaped to lead.
Then Kaelen arrived.
Stormborn. Wild. Charismatic in a reckless way.
And worst of all… genuine.
He saw the way the king's gaze lingered on Kaelen. How the queen watched him like a chess piece newly returned to the board.
Aedric tightened his grip on the banister.
"He will not take my crown," he whispered.
Then, to no one but the ice in his heart: "Even if I have to freeze the storm myself."
Zevien – The Wind Between the Blades
Zevien walked the outer gardens alone, his long coat fluttering like the dusk wind around him. The moon was full, casting silver through the trees.
He laughed to himself.
Not at Kaelen—no, he admired the boy. A thief-turned-prince? That was a story.
No, he laughed at the court.
They're all spinning—Seris sharpening her fire, Aedric icing over with jealousy, and Mother maneuvering like always.
And in the center: the thunderchild, unsure of who he really was.
That made him dangerous. But also… vulnerable.
Zevien had always been the third son. The whisper behind the throne. The one people underestimated.
He liked it that way.
And now, Kaelen's return gave him a new opportunity.
Not to destroy.
But to shape the storm.
He paused beneath a wind-blown statue of their great-grandfather, staring up at the carved eyes.
"Let them clash, old man," he said. "Let fire burn and ice crack. When the storm clears…"
A grin touched his lips.
"…I'll be the one standing where the crown falls."