"When Iceese sails break the dawn, even the gulls forget to scream. For they bring gifts with one hand, and winter with the other. Celebrate them, yes—but never turn your back when their smiles begin to thaw."
Dawn rose slow over Caldreth'sBay, carrying with it a hush that should not have belonged to a day of celebration. Even the gulls circled in silence, as though the sea itself held its breath. From the upper terraces of CrestKeep, the first glimmer of masts broke the horizon — pale, gleaming, deliberate. Something cold was coming with the tide, and the realm felt it long before the ships touched wood to dock.
The docks thundered with drums and trumpets as the first of the Iceese envoys disembarked.
Their leather shined like polished bone, their cloaks woven with silver thread. At their head came LordValen ValeofIceese, tall, black-haired, and smiling in the way diplomats do when hiding knives behind their teeth.
Queen Naerya stood beside the King at the steps of the pier, her posture a study in grace.
Behind her, Saphirra stood motionless — a slender ghost draped in soft blue silk.
The crowd parted as the Iceese approached.
"Your Grace," Lord Valen bowed, his voice smooth as thawed honey. "The sea bears gifts from Iceese — and friendship, if the tides allow."
"The tides obey no man," King Daeryn answered. "But the realm welcomes you."
From the gift-barge, chests of gold and carved ivory were unloaded. Then came something stranger — a crystal reliquary, sealed and cold, its surface faintly misting. The air around it felt wrong, as though sound dulled in its presence.
"What is that?" the King asked.
"A relic," Valen said simply. "An offering to your gods, and ours."
The Veilwarden, watching from the steps, tilted her head faintly — as though she recognized something she did not wish to name.
Saphirra, for her part, could not look away. The crystal pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
And for the briefest instant, she thought she heard a voice — deep, distant, like something stirring beneath the sea.
She blinked, and it was gone.
⸻
That night, the hall of Crest Keep was firelit and fever-bright.
Music filled the vaults, courtiers laughed too loudly, and goblets flashed in every hand. Yet beneath the gold and cheer, unease ran like a vein of ice.
The Iceese envoys spoke in low tones, trading riddles and compliments.
Akimbo kept to the shadows near the dais, watching the King and Naerya share strained smiles.
Cyrayne drifted among the lords like perfume — whispering, smiling, collecting.
Saphirra sat beside her mother, untouched food before her.
She stared past the laughter, toward the great windows that opened onto the dark.
Somewhere beyond the river, a wind was rising — she could hear it in the glass, in the bones of the hall itself.
When the first gust struck, every torch flickered at once.
And for a heartbeat, the air smelled of salt.
——
The Feast of Concord
The hall of Crest Keep glowed like a forge — golden light beating back the dusk.
Musicians played soft strings; wine ran like blood through goblets. Laughter filled the rafters, and for the first time in many moons, the realm seemed at ease.
The Iceese envoys dined beneath the banners of Vermilion, their black-haired lord smiling as though he'd never known the taste of steel. His courtiers spoke of trade, silk, and salt, of opening new harbors and joining tides — words polished smooth by politics.
It was near the evening's end when Lord Valen of Iceese rose, his cup lifted high.
"May the friendship between our thrones stand firm as the frozen seas that bear our name. Yet friendship alone, Your Grace, is a frail bridge without lineage to bind it."
A hush fell over the hall.
Queen Dowager Naerya's gaze flicked toward her brother-in-law, King Daeryn. His brow tightened, but he said nothing.
Valen's smile never wavered.
"My son, prince Theon of Iceese, comes of age at the turn of the moon — strong, wise, and bred for honor. It would please my people, and perhaps your realm, to see his hand joined with the blood of Vermilion. A future sealed in grace."
The music faltered. Cups stilled midair. Every noble leaned forward in breathless silence.
Daeryn's reply came measured and regal.
"A generous offer, Lord Valen. One I shall consider with my council."
But Naerya's eyes said otherwise.
The laughter had thinned into murmurs by the time the feast began to fade. The air smelled of spilled wine and dying candles, and from the high balconies came the echo of song — soft, lingering, half-dream.
Queen Dowager Naerya walked the Moon Corridor alone. The stained glass along its length caught the flicker of torchlight, casting shards of crimson and gold across the stone. She paused when she saw King Daeryn standing at the far end, his crown set aside upon the balustrade, the weight of rule visible even in his stillness.
"You cannot truly be considering it," she said quietly.
He did not turn at once. "I consider what keeps the peace."
"Peace?" she echoed, her voice low but edged. "Or fear of war? The Iceese do not seek friendship — they seek to own the South. To own her."
King Daeryn exhaled, the sound weary. "And yet we have no coin, no strong hold on our lands, and half a council willing to sell their daughters for Iceese gold."
"She is not theirs to sell," Naerya said.
"She is the realm's hope," he replied.
"She is my daughter."
The torches hissed softly in their sconces. From the distant hall came a faint strain of laughter — the sound of politics wearing a festive mask.
King Daeryn's eyes met hers at last, weary but unwavering. "I will not send her across the sea, Naerya. Not yet. But you know how the council circles. Sooner or later, they will choose for us. Better she chooses first."
Naerya turned toward the tall window, the night wind stirring her hair. Below, the river shimmered under the moonlight — a mirror of white flame winding toward the distant dark.
And from somewhere far down the valley, the faint call of a horn drifted through the fog — soft, hollow, almost like a warning.
———
Before the moon climbed its height, King Daeryn found Saphirra in the high garden.
She sat beside the fountain, the reflection of stars rippling at her feet.
"You should be asleep," he said.
"So should you."
He sat beside her, the air between them heavy with the day's music bleeding from the halls below. For a long moment they listened to the night — the far murmur of revelry, the hum of insects in the dew.
"They spoke of marriage tonight," Saphirra said. "Of ships and sons of Iceese."
King Daeryn's face did not soften at the name. He had the look of a man who has learned how to hide the shape of his wants. "They did."
"Will you send me away?" Her voice was even, but there was steel beneath it.
He watched her — really looked, the way a man might when guilt and calculation sit on his shoulders together. The silver of her hair caught the torchlight; her eyes held something older than her years.
"When the day comes," he said slowly, "I will not be the one to send you across the water. But you will have to go—to someone. To somewhere."
Her jaw tightened. "And if I refuse?"
"Then others will choose for you." He swallowed. "The realm believes the seal of Vermilion must be bound by match. I cannot change that with a crown alone."
She turned to the fountain, watching moonlight break on it. "They think I am ink and parchment, a signature to be signed. They forget I bleed."
He reached out, laying a hand on her shoulder — neither a father's touch nor wholly a king's, but both. "Then remind them," he said.
⸻
The celebration roared until dawn.
Wine poured, deals were whispered. Lords of the southern houses clustered beneath the banners, weighing words heavier than steel.
Lady Cyrayne laughed softly with an Iceese lord, her fan hiding her smile. Others pledged favors — promises wrapped in flattery, lies dressed as alliances.
By the time the sun rose, the air in the hall was thick with the perfume of deceit.
The corridors of Crest Keep slept uneasily that night.
The laughter of the feast had long faded, but its echoes still clung to the stone like ghosts. Servants moved in hushed pairs, carrying empty goblets and silver trays, their whispers thin as silk. Behind closed doors, lords of the realm murmured in wine-soaked tones — promises made, alliances bartered, oaths already bent.
The maids knew more than most.
They gathered what the wind carried — secrets folded in laughter, vows whispered behind veils. One girl, young and sharp-eyed, overheard the Veilwarden speaking softly with Lord Varis near the gallery arch. "If the Iceese gain her hand, the South is theirs by blood," he said. "The King is weary; the Queen too proud. The council will turn him before the moon wanes."
The girl said nothing. But the tale would run by morning — through kitchens, barracks, and laundry rooms — until even the pages whispered it beneath their breath.
Outside, the mists had returned. The Nareth glimmered faintly beyond the walls, swollen with tide and moonlight. The banners hung heavy, unmoving, as though the air itself waited.
Somewhere in the far distance, a bell chimed once from the city docks — a slow, hollow note that rolled up through the sleeping streets and into the Keep's heart.
⸻
While the Keep dimmed to whispers and the royal torches guttered low, the city beneath it had not learned sleep.
The feast had spilled beyond the castle gates — down marble stairs and across the winding lanes of Caldreth's Quarter, where the brothels and taverns of the lower ward took up the celebration as though the gods themselves had decreed it.
Lanterns swung from every archway, painting the wet cobbles in gold and crimson.
Sailors from the Iceese ship walked arm in arm with courtiers, their laughter thick with wine and strange tongues. Musicians struck wild chords on lutes gone out of tune; dancers whirled barefoot through the rain-slick streets, skirts flashing like banners.
The House of Mirrors burned brightest of all — the grandest of the pleasure halls, its windows fogged with heat and song. Inside, nobles mingled with merchants, soldiers with strangers; every man pretended to be richer than he was, and every woman pretended to believe him.
From the upper gallery, a courtesan in white silk watched the crowd and smiled faintly. "Even kings can't buy sleep on a night like this," she murmured.
Down in the harbor quarter, the Iceese envoys' lesser retinue drank by the docks. One of them — young, fine-boned, and already lost to his cups — stared out at the dark water where the great ship Frostmere floated, its masts pale against the moonlight.
"Strange," he slurred to his companion. "It feels as if the sea's watching."
His friend only laughed and poured more wine.
The city was a furnace of sound — laughter, music, the hiss of rain on hot lanterns. But behind the noise, something deeper lingered — the low hum of a world that had forgotten to rest.
By the time the first pale streak of dawn brushed the Nareth, half the city was still awake. The last songs died not from silence, but from exhaustion.
Above it all, Crest Keep stood shrouded in mist, its banners unmoving, its halls dim — the heart of the realm asleep while its veins still pulsed with fire.