Three Weeks Later
The training courtyard had become Lioran's second home.
Each morning before dawn, he met Evelina here, their breath forming clouds in the frigid air. What had begun as combat lessons had evolved into something more complex—a dialogue between fire and ice, between southern passion and northern discipline.
Today, Evelina sat cross-legged on the snow, frost spreading in delicate fractals from where she touched the ground. "Show me the meditation pattern we worked on yesterday."
Lioran settled across from her and reached inward to the ember. It no longer screamed and clawed for dominance. Instead, it pulsed with something almost like contentment, responding to his attention rather than demanding it.
Fire bloomed in his palms—controlled, shaped, holding a form that resembled interlocking gears, each flame distinct yet part of a greater whole. It rotated slowly, casting dancing shadows across the snow.
"Better," Evelina said. "But you're still thinking of it as separate from yourself. The fire isn't something you control. It's something you are."
"I don't understand the difference."
"Watch." She raised her hand, and ice formed—not growing from her palm but seeming to emerge from the air itself, as if it had always been there waiting to be revealed. The ice took the shape of a wolf, perfect in every detail, moving with fluid grace before dissipating back into frost.
"I didn't create that," Evelina explained. "I just invited the cold to express itself. The pattern was already there in the air, in the water vapor, in the structure of crystallization. I merely gave it permission to be seen."
Lioran tried again, this time not shaping fire but inviting it to show him what it wanted to be. The flames shifted, coalescing into a shape he didn't consciously choose—a dragon, small and delicate, made entirely of light and heat.
It looked like Kyrris.
His breath caught, and the fire-dragon flickered.
"Don't fight the emotion," Evelina said softly. "That's part of the fire too. Let it exist."
Lioran breathed through the grief, the loss, the memory of golden eyes going dim. The fire-dragon solidified, spreading tiny wings, tilting its head in a gesture so familiar it brought tears to his eyes.
Then gently, respectfully, he let it fade.
"Good," Evelina said. "You're learning."
...
The Court
That afternoon, Evelina summoned him to attend court—his first time leaving the south tower for something other than training.
The throne room was packed with northern nobles, merchants, and military commanders, all gathered to present grievances, requests, and reports to their queen. Lioran stood to the side, dressed in northern furs that Valdis had provided, trying to be inconspicuous.
It didn't work. Every eye in the room tracked him, whispers following his movement.
"That's the Dragon Lord?"
"He looks younger than expected."
"I heard he burned an entire army..."
Evelina handled each petitioner with efficiency and fairness, listening carefully, asking pointed questions, rendering judgments that seemed to satisfy even those who didn't get what they wanted. She was, Lioran realized, an exceptionally good ruler—not through power alone, but through genuine understanding of her people and their needs.
Finally, an older merchant stepped forward. "Your Majesty, I must raise concern about the southern refugee situation. More arrive weekly at our borders, fleeing Church persecution. They consume resources, create tension with local populations, and some bring disease."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the assembled nobles.
"What do you propose?" Evelina asked calmly.
"Close the borders. Turn them back. We cannot solve the south's problems at the cost of our own stability."
Before Evelina could respond, Lioran found himself speaking. "May I address the court, Your Majesty?"
The room went silent. Evelina's expression was unreadable, but she nodded. "The Dragon Lord wishes to speak. Listen."
Lioran stepped forward, heart pounding. "I was a refugee once. My village burned, my mother and I barely escaped with our lives. If the north had turned us away, I would be dead or enslaved." He paused, looking at the assembled nobles. "Those people at your borders aren't problems to be solved. They're people who've lost everything, seeking only survival. Yes, they consume resources. But they also bring skills, labor, and diversity that enriches rather than diminishes."
"Pretty words," the merchant said. "But resources are finite. We cannot save everyone."
"No," Lioran agreed. "But we can save those we can reach. And in doing so, we prove that there's an alternative to the Church's way. We prove that compassion isn't weakness, that helping others doesn't require domination."
"And when your compassion leaves our own people starving?"
"Then we find more resources," Lioran said. "We trade, we innovate, we adapt. But we don't close our hearts just because opening them is difficult."
The room was quiet. Finally, Evelina spoke. "The Dragon Lord makes valid points. The refugee situation will be addressed, but not through simple rejection. Lord Merchant, work with my advisors to develop integration programs. Use some of the Church supplies we... appropriated last year."
The merchant bowed, though his expression suggested displeasure.
After court, Evelina pulled Lioran aside. "That was risky. Speaking without warning, contradicting a prominent merchant."
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"I didn't say it was wrong," she interrupted. "Just risky. But you spoke with conviction, from experience. That matters here." She smiled slightly. "Though next time, warn me first. It makes me look more in control if I seem to expect your outbursts."
...
The Letter
That evening, a messenger arrived from the south—a young man half-frozen from the journey, bearing a letter sealed with Thornhaven's mark.
Lioran broke it open with trembling hands:
Lioran,
Winter came early. The harvest was smaller than expected, and the blockade is absolute. No merchants will trade with us, even through intermediaries. We're rationing carefully, but we have perhaps six weeks of food remaining.
The settlements beyond Thornhaven have been raided. Bishop Crane's forces, not the full crusade but guerrilla attacks. They burn fields, poison wells, take prisoners they call "corrupted souls." We've lost two villages entirely.
Kaelen does what he can, but his forces are spread thin. The council functions, but leadership is fragmented without you. Some call for aggressive response. Others want to negotiate surrender. Renn holds things together, but barely.
The ember may demand you stay away to protect us from yourself. But we need you more than we need safety from you. Whatever you're finding in the north, we need it soon.
"— Mira"
Lioran read it three times, each word burning into his mind. Six weeks. Raids. Fragmentation.
He found Evelina in her private study, surrounded by maps and reports.
"I need to return south," he said without preamble. "Now. My people are starving, and I've been here playing with ice while they suffer."
Evelina looked up from her papers. "Sit."
"I don't have time to—"
"Sit."
Lioran sat, the letter crumpling in his fist.
"Running back won't solve anything," Evelina said. "You'll arrive exhausted, likely attacked on the road, and with no supplies to help them. Is that what they need?"
"They need something. Anything."
"They need you to succeed here," she corrected. "To secure the trade agreement that will actually save them. Rushing back in panic serves your guilt, not their survival."
"So I'm supposed to just... stay? While they starve?"
"You're supposed to finish what you came here to do." She pulled out a different map, showing trade routes. "Three days from now, I'm holding a formal council with the merchant guilds. If you can convince them that trade with your settlements is profitable and safe, we'll have caravans moving south within a week. Those supplies will reach your people in time."
"And if I can't convince them?"
"Then your people starve, and you'll have wasted weeks you could have spent with them in their final days." She met his eyes. "But you will convince them. Because I'll be helping you, and I don't lose negotiations."
"Why?" Lioran asked. "Why help me this much? You barely know me."
Evelina was quiet for a moment. "Because eight years ago, someone helped me when they didn't have to. Because the world has too many people who choose power over compassion. Because—" she paused, "—because when I watch you work with fire now, when I see you learning to coexist with your power rather than be consumed by it, I see hope that change is possible."
She stood, moving to look out her window at Glaciheart. "And perhaps because loneliness is easier when you find someone who speaks your language."
Lioran stood too, moving to stand beside her. "Thank you. For the training. For the patience. For not giving up on someone who probably deserved it."
"I haven't given up yet," Evelina said. "Don't make me regret that."
.....
The Preparation
The next three days were intense.
Evelina coached Lioran on northern merchant culture—what they valued, how they negotiated, what arguments would resonate. They practiced presentations, anticipated objections, developed contingency plans.
But they also trained, pushing his fire control further. By the third day, Lioran could maintain complex flame structures for hours, could shape fire into useful forms—light without heat, warmth without flame, precision without waste.
"You're ready," Evelina said on the evening before the council. "The merchants will be skeptical, but you'll win them over."
"How can you be sure?"
"Because," she said, and there was something in her expression—warmth breaking through ice, "I believe in you. Even if you don't believe in yourself yet."
That night, Lioran couldn't sleep. He stood at his window, watching snow fall over Glaciheart, thinking about Thornhaven, about Mira's letter, about the people depending on him.
The ember pulsed in his chest—not demanding, just present. A reminder that he carried both destruction and creation within him. That the choice of which to express was his own.
Tomorrow would determine whether Thornhaven survived the winter.
Tomorrow, fire and ice would negotiate together.
And perhaps, in the process, Lioran would finally prove that he could be more than just the sum of his power.
Outside, dawn approached.
The final test was coming.