Kael
Kael hated emotional entanglements almost as much as he hated magic—and yet, somehow, the Ashthorn girl had managed to become both.
He dismounted outside the Frostborne encampment, ignoring the salutes from his soldiers. His armor was still dusted with road dirt, his gloves stiff with dried blood—not from Elric Ashthorn, but from the border skirmish two nights ago that had left two villages smoldering.
Magic. Always magic.
He yanked off his gloves and strode into his tent, the flap snapping shut behind him. The silence was a small comfort.
She had called him a dog. To his face. In front of an entire crowd.
And worse: he had let her.
He poured a measure of darkroot brandy into a tin cup and sat down, staring at the flame of the lantern as it flickered, soft and orange and utterly indifferent to his thoughts.
He'd seen her kind before—reckless, defiant, dangerous. But Elira Ashthorn wasn't just loud and stubborn. She was clever. Controlled. She had magic in her blood. He had sensed it.
And still, he had given her seven days.
A mistake.
A challenge.
Or maybe… an excuse.
He told himself it was tactical. Let her chase shadows for a week, fail, then return willingly to Frostborne for trial. Simpler. Cleaner.
But a voice deep within him whispered otherwise.
You want her to prove you wrong.
Because something about the fire in her eyes had shaken the frost in his veins.