The reply from the North came faster than expected.
It arrived at dusk, when the sea winds howled against Sareen's towers and the light in the throne room turned the marble floors the colour of blood.
King Malek sat propped on his chair, wrapped in furs despite the warmth. His eldest daughter, Maria, stood beside him, silent and unblinking. The messenger knelt before them, holding a sealed letter marked with a black sigil: the crowned wolf of Eldrath.
"Read it," Malek ordered, his voice brittle.
The herald's hands trembled as he broke the seal and began to speak:
To His Majesty Malek al-Rahim of Sareen,
I, Aedric Veyne of Eldrath, acknowledge your offer and the terms of alliance you propose.
The North has no need of another war, nor do I seek a crown built on another king's bones. Yet, I recognize the worth of peace when it is honest and of loyalty when it is costly.
If your eldest daughter is indeed as you claim: learnt, steadfast, and unafraid of duty, then I will receive her as queen of Eldrath.
Send her north before the next moon wanes.
May our gods, though different, witness our accord.
The herald lowered the parchment. Silence filled the hall.
Maria's heartbeat roared in her ears. The words felt final, sharp, cold, and inevitable.
Her father's hand reached for hers, papery and trembling. "He agreed, my child. You've secured Sareen's future."
"Secured," she echoed softly. It sounded like a curse.
That night, the sea's whisper wouldn't leave her. She stood in her tower again, her white hair unbound, drifting like fog over her shoulders. The air was damp and electric. the way it gets before something breaks.
On her desk lay the letter, the ink still smelling of iron and ash. She ran her fingers over his signature.
Aedric Veyne of Eldrath. The name itself felt heavy, distant, and dangerous. She tried to imagine his face and failed.
Fear crept in like a shadow behind her ribs.
For years she had kept her magic hidden, her light dimmed beneath silk and obedience. Her father knew she carried a kind of magic the North feared most, Sareen's old power, but he had spent her whole life warning her to hide it. They burn women like you in the North, he had told her once. They drown them in rivers and call it justice.
And yet here she was, bound for a kingdom that hunted her kind.
She could have accepted it. She could have folded herself into her fate like a sacrificial lamb. But Maria had never been meek. She had the kind of stillness that made people forget still water can drown.
So she lit a single candle, its flame trembling in the dark, and drew a circle of salt upon the floor. From a locked chest she took a mirror round, ancient, framed in silver roots. It had belonged to her mother.
The glass shimmered faintly, as if recognizing her touch.
She whispered a prayer only she understood, letting the candlelight dance across her hair, across the white strands that seemed almost to glow in the dark. Her reflection wavered, and she felt the hum of her own blood, the pulse of power kept hidden all these years.
Maria's hands traced the mirror's edges. She could not see the future, but she could feel the storm. And somewhere in the shadows of the room, the familiar figure lingered, always watching, always waiting.
She exhaled slowly. Tonight, she would practise her magic, feel it pulse beneath her skin, and remember: though the North awaited her, she was not yet theirs to claim.
The news of the bride-to-be spread through Eldrath like wildfire. Courtiers whispered in the torch-lit halls, their voices bouncing off stone walls.
"Have you heard? The king takes a southern princess," one murmur floated from corridor to corridor. "They say she is pale as moonlight, her hair white like the first snow."
"White-haired," another whispered, eyes wide. "A creature of beauty and quiet cunning. The southern houses will tremble when she arrives."
In the war hall, Aedric Veyne stood over the map table, arms folded, watching the men scurry like ants around banners and reports. The northern winds rattled the windows, carrying the first hint of winter's frost.
"Send the knights to Sareen," he said, voice low but commanding. "Escort her back. Let the southern lords see that the King of Eldrath does not wait for guests."
Lord Varin, his right hand, inclined his head. "A hundred men, my lord. The eastern garrisons are ready to ride. The roads cleared. The southern kings will know our intent before she departs."
Aedric's grey eyes glinted, hard as iron. "Good. We will welcome her with the cold she cannot imagine."
Varin hesitated. "And the lords?"
"They will watch, they will murmur, they will envy or fear," Aedric said. "Let them. A king's bride is never only a woman. She is a message, a symbol. And I intend for all to understand that Eldrath bends no one."
Outside, the courtyards were already alive with movement: horses being readied, banners hoisted, and soldiers sharpening blades. In every corner, the whisper ran: The North king takes a southern princess. Aedric Veyne claims his queen.
Aedric turned back to the table, tracing a finger along the northern borders, his mind already planning the ceremonies, the halls, and the introductions. She is a southern jewel. Pale. Clever. Untested. And she will quickly learn the cost of living under my roof.
A servant entered, bowing low. "My lord, the heralds from Sareen report the princess is prepared to depart."
Aedric's lips tightened. "Good. Let her cross our lands with nothing but the knowledge that she has no choice. She will learn obedience quickly... or she will learn fear."
Outside, the wind roared through the iron spires, carrying the promise of snow and the coming bride. The court buzzed with curiosity, excitement, and even fear. Yet in the cold heart of the hall, the king remained still, unmoved, watching the horizon as though he could already see the white-haired girl crossing it and the moment she would understand that the North answers only to strength.
The day of departure arrived under a sky that bled gold and crimson. The palace of Sareen was a hive of activity: servants bustling, banners being folded and packed, horses being brushed until their coats shone like polished bronze. The scent of saffron and cardamom hung thick in the air, mingling with dust and horse sweat.
Maria stood in her chamber, white hair braided neatly this time, a silk gown of pale blue clinging to her shoulders. She had not spoken much that morning; every movement felt heavy, as if the walls themselves were pressing her toward the door she did not wish to cross.
Her father, King Malek, entered quietly, furs draped over his thin frame. His eyes were weary, lined with the weight of the choice he had forced upon her. He did not smile.
"You must go," he said softly, voice almost a whisper. "There is no other way."
Maria's hands clenched at her sides. "No other way?" she repeated, anger and desperation rising.
"All my life I have served this palace, obeyed its walls, its customs, its shadows and for what? That a man who knows nothing of me should claim me? That my life is a gift to be bargained for?"
Malek's jaw tightened, the sorrow in his eyes almost breaking his stern mask. "It is not desire that drives this, Maria. It is duty. Sareen survives only because it must. I survive only because I must. And you... you are the last hope of both."
She shook her head, lips trembling. "I am your daughter! Not your soldier, not your bargaining piece! You cannot give me to a man as if I am an object!"
He stepped closer, placing a trembling hand on her shoulder. "I cannot give you anything else. You would have no throne, no future, if we wait for what is fair. Only this path remains."
Maria turned sharply, fury burning in her chest. "Then I will not go willingly! I will not bow to the North, to that tyrant!"
Malek's shoulders slumped. "I would not ask this of you if it were not the only way," he said, voice low, breaking beneath the weight of his heart. "You have strength, Maria, more than most men in these halls. But strength alone cannot keep a kingdom alive. You must go."
Maria rested her hand against the cold glass. "They are sending me to him," she murmured. "The North... the snow, the cold, the man... all of it."
The shadow leaned in, a soft warmth threading through the air. "I cannot stop them," it said, voice low, almost a caress. "But I can watch. I can wait. And when the time comes, you will not face it alone."
She exhaled slowly, the faintest flicker of resolve crossing her features. Not acceptance, not yet. But for now, she would endure. She would hide what must be hidden. She would survive quietly, silently, like a candle in a storm.