Chapter 28: When Frost Meets Flame
The embers of Aurenhollow had long since died, but tonight, ancient stones remembered.
As Jean Luther descended the broken hill alone, the wind at her back and Whitney padding silently beside her, her thoughts lingered not on the frost—but the future.
Ilyana had tested her. Not with hatred. Not with challenge.
But with warning.
> "You shine too brightly. Light that strong casts a deep shadow."
Jean exhaled, watching the mist of her breath disappear into the cold air.
"Was that a threat… or advice?" she murmured.
Whitney gave a low rumble, neither a growl nor a comfort.
Perhaps both.
---
Back in the North, atop a cliff of whispering snow, Ilyana Veyr watched the southern stars. She sat cross-legged in meditation, frost gathering in her hair like a crown. Thirn loomed behind her, silent sentinel of the Winter God.
She had walked among priests, faced dragons in dreams, and frozen warlords with a glance.
And yet—the girl of light burned hotter than prophecy had foretold.
"She carries more than just Celeste's blessing," Ilyana whispered, eyes narrowing. "She carries fire in her blood. Rage. Purpose."
Thirn stirred.
She carries war, came the beast's ancient voice. And peace. One will live. The other must die.
---
Meanwhile, far to the east, Raven Luther watched both events unfold—not through divine vision or prophecy, but through clever hands and hidden ears.
Seated inside a dark tower lined with glowing glyphs, Raven read from a scroll marked with celestial sigils—intercepted communication from the Argon Sovereignty.
She tapped the table.
"So, the Emissary of Frost walks again. And she didn't kneel to my dear cousin."
Her eyes—black as void—glinted with calculation.
"Perfect."
Behind her, a shadow stirred. The voice of Vaelros the Hollow echoed from a raven-shaped mask resting on a dais.
"You still intend to challenge Jean for the Patriarchy?"
Raven smirked. "No, no. I intend to let the world test her first."
---
In the heart of the Luther capital, Jean returned to her quarters. Her siblings awaited her—Adam, arms folded, back against a pillar; Silvia, watching from the balcony, always silent, always distant.
"Did the Frost Queen freeze your tongue?" Adam taunted.
"She didn't bow," Jean replied, brushing snow from her cloak.
"She won't," Silvia said flatly. "None of them will. Not unless you become more than just an emissary."
Jean met her sister's gaze. "You think I can't?"
"I think you haven't yet," Silvia said—and vanished into the shadow of moonlight.
Adam chuckled. "Good. You'll need that fire when I come for you."
Jean said nothing. But Solstice hummed at her side.
And Whitney, always quiet, growled softly.
---
Above them all, in a tower bathed in divine radiance, the Grand Patriarch Charles Luther watched a crystal projection of the emissaries' clash.
Light and Frost. Celeste and Kareth.
"Two stars are not enough to halt the Dragon Lord," he muttered.
He turned to the sealed chamber behind him—the one none dared speak of.
Three locks. One breath. A name carved into stone.
Martin Luther.
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