The candlelight flickered softly against the cold stone walls, casting shifting shadows across the war table now buried beneath maps, letters, and coded reports.
Arasha sat, straight-backed in a fur-lined chair, a fine tremble in her hands as she carefully penned a letter in her graceful but firm hand.
Her ink scrawled onto parchment—words not of formality, but of hard-won respect.
To His Majesty, King Alight,
Your Majesty, I have received news of the changes you have enacted. From the cries of the cities to the sighs of the weary, your choices ripple far.
In dark times, it is easy to forget the strength of those who choose to walk in the light. I commend your courage. A better kingdom is not a dream, but a road—one now walked, because you dared to take the first step.
May the road never end,
—Arasha of the Scion Order
She signed it and sealed it with the mark of the Scion—three lightning strikes struck a dragon head.
****
Later that day, Arasha combed through parchments scattered across a side table, each one filled with cryptic updates from information brokers, wandering scouts, and foreign contacts.
The Rift cult—a name spoken in hushed tones, always half-believed, always half-feared—wasn't just a whisper in the woods anymore.
Their tendrils crept across the continent: smuggling routes, tainted relics, missing scholars, vanished villages.
They're everywhere… like rot behind stone, she thought grimly.
Her focus was broken as a sudden, sharp flare of pain tore through her ribs—white-hot and sudden. The chair tipped back as she nearly collapsed, one hand catching the table for balance, the other pressed tightly to her side.
Her breath hitched.
Sweat beaded at her brow.
The same agony that haunted her since Lord Vexen's blade struck home.
For a moment, she squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth until the pain passed—but this time it left a lingering coldness in her chest, a phantom frost she had grown familiar with.
****
Moments later, with her cloak clutched tightly and steps careful but firm, Arasha entered the stone infirmary wing of the Hold.
The air was thick with herbal tinctures, candle smoke, and silence.
Leta, still pale but no longer feverish, sat upright by the window, wrapped in a woolen shawl. Across the room, Sir Roen, sleeves rolled up and gloves stained with potion-residue, leaned over a table littered with arcane vials and diagnostic crystals.
When Arasha entered, both looked up—and both frowned.
"The pain's getting worse, isn't it?" Leta asked gently, her voice still hoarse.
Arasha didn't answer immediately. Instead, she crossed the room and sat across from them, her usual calm unshaken, but her eyes betraying her fatigue.
"It… lingered longer this time," she finally said. "The wound has not healed. Not fully."
Sir Roen stepped forward, holding up a slender glass vial of faintly glowing blue liquid.
"It's the corruption, Commander. Vexen's weapon wasn't ordinary. It carried something unnatural. Whatever shadow he channeled—it didn't leave quietly."
Leta leaned forward, brow furrowed.
"Holy magic can't cleanse it. Not entirely. It's like it's buried in your essence, not just your body."
"So what's next?" Arasha asked.
Roen and Leta exchanged a look before Roen answered.
"We're seeking other means—ancient rites, forgotten purging rituals. Even talking with the druid circles. There's a chance we might synthesize something that could expel it safely."
"But it will take time," Leta added. "And until then, Commander… you need to stop pushing yourself. Please."
Arasha met Leta's worried gaze, and for a brief moment, something softened in her steel expression.
"I will try," she said.
It wasn't a promise—but it was more than her usual silence.
Roen placed the vial on the bedside table. "We'll keep you updated. Just… don't die before we fix you."
Arasha gave a small, tired smile. "Not planning to."
****
That night, Arasha returned to her quarters. She stood by her window, gazing out over Scion Hold—the banners fluttering, the walls still stained from battle, but standing strong.
She placed a hand on her ribs and exhaled, feeling the thrum of corruption still lodged deep, like a shard of winter ice.
"One fight ends," she murmured to the dark, "and another begins."
The Rift cult was not gone. And something told her… they were only just beginning to move.
****
The lanterns burned low in Arasha's study. The once-tidy desk now bore the sprawl of unfinished work—ledgers left half-open, missives with wax seals still unbroken, and notes jotted in her tight, efficient script.
But amidst the quiet clutter, Arasha herself had slumped forward, her arm draped over a report detailing troop logistics, head resting near the inkpot.
Her breath was soft, the weariness finally overtaking her.
John, ever precise in his silence, entered with a stack of sorted correspondence only to pause as he caught sight of her sleeping form. He blinked, surprised—then sighed.
"...You never rest unless forced to," he murmured softly, not unkindly.
With practiced care, John approached and gently lifted the parchment from under her hand, sorting it onto a separate stack. He extinguished the main lamp, leaving only a warm side glow to keep the chill away.
"Sleep, Commander. The rest can wait until dawn."
He turned, pausing briefly before leaving the study, his footsteps like whispers down the hall.
****
Arasha stood amidst a field of white flowers swaying gently in a wind that didn't touch her skin.
The sky above was pale gold, a hue she remembered from a childhood long blurred by time.
A figure approached—a tall man, his presence cloaked in warmth and memory. His face was familiar, but shrouded just enough in the haze of dream to remain elusive. His arms wrapped around her as if they had done so a thousand times before.
"You don't always have to carry everything," he whispered against her hair. "Lean on me, Arasha. Just this once."
She tried to speak, but no sound came. Only the sensation of comfort, of peace.
Then—
The dream changed.
She was falling.
The white flowers vanished, the wind howled, and the sky darkened.
But before she hit the ground, the same man caught her, his arms strong, desperate.
He held her close, face streaked with tears, mouth moving frantically.
But she couldn't hear his words.
And then—she was gone.
Arasha jolted awake, her breath caught in her throat, one hand flying to her side as the stabbing pain in her ribs flared with cruel timing. She hissed softly, teeth gritting as she steadied herself against the desk.
The lantern flickered gently in the corner, illuminating the room with a quiet hush.
She sat there in silence, hand resting on her ribs, the pain pulsing like a memory refusing to be buried.
"...Who was he?" she murmured to the room, her voice rough with sleep. "Why do I keep seeing him?"
Her gaze drifted to the ceiling, to the place where the dream sky had shimmered with gold.
"It felt… real."
The moment passed. The ache in her side dulled to a throb.
Arasha sighed and rubbed her face. As her fingers lowered, her eyes caught the neatly arranged stack of paperwork at the far end of her desk. Her expression softened.
"John," she muttered with quiet amusement. "Always cleaning up after me."
With effort, she stood, drawing in a steady breath.
"Alright. Back to work."
But the dream lingered—in the curve of her brow, in the weight of her chest. A mystery yet unanswered. A memory that might not be just a dream.
****
The sunlight filtered through the stained glass of the upper windows, scattering colored light across the floor as Arasha read through the parchment in her hand—a personal letter sealed with the northern stag sigil of Duke Lionel.
The message was warm, even light-hearted in tone:
"My dearest friend Arasha, the Duchess is glowing brighter than the northern snows as she holds our second son. She has often spoken of you, wondering when our house might again be graced with your presence. I know you have much upon your shoulders, but should time allow… we would be honored by your visit. I dare say the Duchess may become cross with me if I don't at least send the invitation."
But Arasha's eyes narrowed as she reread it.
The phrasing, the subtle shifts in tone—the repeated mentions of her presence, not simply her company, the oddly deliberate way the Duke placed "should time allow" twice—they weren't just pleasantries.
"He's hinting," Arasha murmured, placing the parchment down. "There's more behind this."
The door knocked twice and opened.
Sir Garran entered, his cloak dusted with travel from a morning inspection. He held a thick scroll under one arm and a freshly brewed flask of darkroot tea in the other.
"Commander. Reports from the outer patrols, and the merchant guild's latest supply routes."
He paused when he saw her expression. "What's troubling you?"
Arasha wordlessly handed him the Duke's letter. Garran read it with the same deliberate calm that had earned him the trust of kings. After a long pause, he handed it back.
"This… isn't just a friendly invitation."
"That's what I thought."
"Lionel isn't the type to wrap things in lace unless the thorns beneath are sharp," Garran muttered. "He's cautious by nature, but never cagey. If he's wrapping a message this carefully, it's something serious. Something he doesn't trust to parchment."
Arasha leaned against the edge of her desk, arms crossed.
"The Duchess did ask me to visit when their second child was born. I'd hate to break that promise. And if Lionel is trying to sound an alarm—softly—it's better I hear it with my own ears."
Garran frowned. "Then go. But not lightly. If the north is stirring, and Lionel is reaching out quietly rather than through the King's court, we can assume he suspects more than just internal unrest."
Arasha nodded. "I'll take a small escort. Knights I trust. Keep Scion Hold ready. If this turns into something larger... we need to move fast."
Garran straightened. "As always. And Commander—be careful. The last time the North stirred, half the continent burned."
A soft, grim smile touched her lips. "Then let's keep it from happening again."
She turned to the window, eyes scanning the road that would soon lead her to Frosthaven, where snow-crowned mountains and freezing winds howl ancient secrets.
Far beyond, Duke Lionel waited with secrets, and a Duchess eager for a friend's presence in troubled times.
****
The bitter chill of the northern wind howled across the stone ramparts, but within the towering halls of the northern fortress, warmth lived in fire-lit tapestries and the lingering scent of pine.
Arasha, clad in her dark travel cloak and flanked by a compact retinue of her elite knights, dismounted her mare with silent precision.
Duke Lionel stood at the steps of the keep. Though snow dusted his silver-streaked hair, his expression was calm and welcoming—eyes sharp, but tired.
"Commander Arasha," he greeted, extending his arms. "The North is honored."
Arasha removed her glove and clasped his forearm in greeting. "The honor is mine, Duke Lionel. Congratulations… on your son."
"He's strong," Lionel replied, voice carefully light. "Though it seems… he was born into more than just nobility." His eyes, unreadable, flickered for a moment before he turned toward the inner halls. "Come. The Duchess is eager to see you."
****
The soft murmur of a lullaby hummed through the chamber. The room smelled of lavender and hearthwood.
The Duchess, pale and radiant, sat near a sun-dappled window, her newborn son swaddled in her arms.
Her gown was simple, her hair tied back loosely, fatigue hidden behind a mother's pride.
As Arasha stepped in, Duke Lionel gently touched his wife's shoulder.
"I'll leave you both to speak," he murmured, and with a silent nod to Arasha, he left, closing the heavy oak door behind him.
Arasha approached cautiously.
She paused, reaching into the satchel at her waist and removing a small vial of sanitizing potion.
A brief shimmer washed over her hands as she rubbed the tincture into her skin—a gift from Leta and Roen, a necessary ritual in these uncertain days.
"You may come closer," the Duchess said softly. "Levi's been waiting to meet his Big Sister Arasha."
A smile tugged at the corners of Arasha's lips. She stepped closer.
And then—she saw it.
As she leaned in to look upon the infant's serene face, her eyes flicked to his brow—there it was, faint and ethereal, invisible to the ordinary eye: a crest, the same twisted sigil that only manifested under temple light… or in moments where fate's pull was undeniable.
Arasha froze.
Her own hand trembled, and with it, beneath the glove, her own mark surged—a painful burn across the skin of her forearm, the same twisted crest. A fate-bound brand.
"No…" Arasha whispered. "It cannot be… He is the son of the North. He is blessed by the ancient spirit. This mark… it should not—"
The Duchess watched her with a quiet, luminous sorrow. There were tears in her eyes, but no fear—only resolve.
"He is blessed by the spirit," she said firmly. "The ancient one of the snow answered our call… and in doing so, tempered what fate had tried to write." She looked down at her son, cradling him. "Levi carries two truths. One of light… and one of shadow."
"He carries a twisted fate," Arasha said hollowly, her gaze distant. "Like I do…"
"But you are here," the Duchess said gently. "You carved a path from blood and ash. Levi too will have to carve his. But he will not do it alone."
The mark on Arasha's arm pulsed again, and she bit her lip, eyes stinging as her own memories rose—her parents, gone in fire and betrayal… the cold stone of the orphanage chapel… the oath she swore beneath temple light.
"I only pray," Arasha said hoarsely, "that his crest never seeks blood and sacrifices as mine has."
The Duchess reached out and gently placed her hand on Arasha's wrist.
"He has us. And he will have you, too. I believe destiny chose you both for a reason."
Arasha looked at the sleeping child again. His breath soft, his presence serene—yet touched by a fate far greater than he could ever know.
"I hope you're right," she murmured. "For his sake. And for the future."
Outside the chamber, a snowstorm began to gather.
And far in the distance, something stirred, deep beneath the veil of ice and prophecy.
****
A fire crackled gently in the hearth as dusk crept across the high windows.
The warmth did little to thaw the tension sitting between Arasha and Duke Lionel, seated across from each other in a room steeped in the scent of pine oil and parchment.
A silence lingered, respectful and weighty, until Arasha broke it.
"What do you think the crest means, truly?" she asked, voice quiet. "What future do you believe awaits your son?"
The Duke's jaw tightened. He looked older in the candlelight.
"I've asked myself that question every night since Levi was born," he said slowly. "I've stood on battlefields, made deals behind closed doors, defied kings and monsters alike. But nothing—nothing—has ever unnerved me like seeing that mark."
"The crest of twisted fate… it has made your life harsher than it is supposed to be, and even now it tempers you with dangerous paths. And now my son bears it."
Arasha's eyes darkened, but she said nothing.
"I don't know what trials await him," Lionel continued. "But if he must carry a fate heavier than any child deserves… then I must prepare him. I must forge him into someone who can bear the weight and not lose himself to it."
Arasha leaned forward.
"There may be another way. I want to meet the ancient spirit of the North."
Lionel blinked. "Rhagis Valnor… the Frost Sovereign?"
"If anyone knows the origin of the crest—its meaning, its end—it would be a spirit that old. If Levi's fate… and mine… are entangled, then I need to know the truth it carries for us and our future."
The Duke exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.
"Rhagis only awakens when a child of our bloodline is born. The last time… was when Levi came into the world. The spirit is elusive, prideful, and ancient. You may wander for weeks and find nothing but wind."
Arasha stood. "Then I'll test my luck."
Lionel gave her a long look, a man weighed down by worry, duty, and love.
"Then take the eastern pass," he said at last. "Enter the wolf's howl cave through the Vale of Whispers and seek its deepest part. If Rhagis stirs… it will be there."
Arasha nodded and made her resolve.
****
Arasha's steed treaded slowly across the snow-covered path as the wind howled in sharp arcs, biting at her cloak and hair.
A few of her elite knights remained at the lower ridge. This part of the journey… she would take alone.
As she approached the stone stairs leading to the upper terraces of the fortress, a voice called out, cracked and desperate:
"Commander Arasha—wait!"
Arasha turned.
Lucian, Duke Lionel's eldest son, no older than 10, came rushing through the snow, breath clouding the air, a look of fear—and determination—etched into his young face.
"Lucian?" Arasha frowned, dismounting as he stumbled to her side. "You shouldn't be here."
"I had to ask," Lucian said, panting. "Will he be… will Levi be alright?"
His voice broke, full of something more than a brother's worry—it was the cry of someone already shouldering a burden too large for his years.
"I'm his big brother… I should protect him. But if this fate is… if it's more than we can fight…"
Arasha knelt before him, hand resting gently on his shoulder.
"He'll be alright," she said quietly. "I'll make sure of it."
Lucian's eyes welled with unshed tears, and Arasha, for just a fleeting second, felt the cold echo of 'déjà vu'.
A memory, half-buried: another boy, another winter, asking the same question with the same eyes.
She gave his shoulder a light squeeze.
"You'll be a good brother, Lucian. Just stay by his side. That's more powerful than you know."
He nodded, swallowing hard.
Arasha mounted her steed once more, snow beginning to fall heavier now.
"Tell your parents not to worry," she said. "I'll return… with answers."
And then, with the snow at her heels and the howl of distant wolves echoing in the vale, Arasha rode forward into the white silence, seeking the spirit that slumbers beyond frost and time, toward the whispers of ancient fate.