The wind howled across the cliffs of Eldergate, tugging at Ais's cloak as she stood at the edge, her silver-white hair whipping around her face like streamers of frost. The sea below churned with a fury that mirrored her thoughts. Behind her, the remnants of her once-mighty kingdom lay cloaked in the silence of mourning. But within that silence, a tempest brewed, one that surged within her, demanding action.
She could still hear the echo of Captain Veyr's words from the council chamber just hours ago.
"The rebellion grows bolder, Your Majesty. The traitor lords have united under a single banner. They march toward the Vale of Tears. We must respond."
Ais had not answered him then. Instead, she had walked away, ignoring the gasps and questioning eyes. What answer could she give, when her heart burned with the ache of betrayal and her soul trembled with the weight of secrets she could not yet reveal?
The Vale of Tears—a cursed place, ancient and lost to the histories of men, but known to her. Known because it was where her mother had whispered to her once, in the quiet hush of night, about the prison beneath the mountains. About the tomb sealed by frost and fire. About the creature that should never be awakened.
And now her enemies were marching toward it.
A gust of wind carried a scent that did not belong to the coast—a faint sweetness, like violets crushed underfoot, and Ais knew she was no longer alone.
"You shouldn't come here uninvited," she said without turning, her voice edged with the chill of command.
A chuckle answered her. "And yet, here I stand."
She turned slowly, already knowing who she would find. Kareth of the Ashen Flame. Assassin. Sorcerer. Her childhood friend turned shadow-bound spy. His black cloak rippled like smoke, and his amber eyes glowed faintly in the dim light.
"You've been spying again," she said.
He gave a mock bow. "Always. But this time, I bring more than whispers."
He handed her a scroll, sealed in black wax. Ais broke it open, her eyes scanning the contents with the speed of instinct. The blood drained from her face.
"They seek the Wyrm," she breathed.
Kareth nodded. "They believe if they awaken it, they can control it."
"Fools."
"Desperate fools," he corrected. "But their desperation is dangerous. If they break the seals, the world will not survive the flame."
Ais folded the scroll, slipping it into the folds of her cloak. Her eyes met Kareth's.
"Then we must get there first."
They rode by moonlight, their horses swift and silent. Kareth led them through the secret paths of the forest, away from the roads where rebels hunted loyalists. Behind them, a small cadre of her most trusted remained: Captain Veyr, Lady Solene of the Frostmark, and Daelen the Quiet, who spoke only in the language of blades.
The journey was treacherous. Twice they were nearly discovered by rebel scouts. Once, they passed through a village where the people wept as they saw her, for their queen was no longer a distant legend but a living reminder of what had been lost. She left behind coins and food, knowing it was not enough, and promising herself she would return.
On the fifth night, as they climbed the narrow trails toward the Vale of Tears, the sky broke open in a storm of snow and wind. They pressed on, for there was no turning back now.
The entrance to the Vale was hidden behind a curtain of vines and ice. Kareth used his fire to melt the way, though it cost him—his breath ragged, his hands shaking with the strain. Ais reached out, steadying him, the contrast of her cold touch against his warmth sparking with shared resolve.
Inside, the air turned still and heavy. The very walls of the mountain seemed to breathe. Ais felt the ancient magic awaken, recognizing her. Her fingers tingled with frost and flame. She remembered the words her mother had spoken:
"If you come here, child, come as queen, not as daughter. The Wyrm knows no love, only power."
The path wound downward, past shattered statues and crumbling murals. History painted in blood and ash. Echoes of the past whispered from the walls, murmurs of the condemned, forgotten and bound in sorrow.
Finally, they reached the great chamber. A dome of obsidian and bone. And at its heart, the prison.
A circle of runes, vast and glowing. Chains forged from the breath of dragons. And in the center, encased in crystal like molten ice, the Wyrm.
Its eyes opened.
And the mountain trembled.
"Leave," Ais commanded her companions. "Seal the path behind you. This must be done alone."
They argued. Of course they did. But in the end, they obeyed. They knew her will, and the strength behind it.
She stepped into the circle.
The Wyrm's voice was a sound without sound, a presence that filled her skull.
Daughter of Ice. Child of Flame. Why do you wake me?
"To save my people," she said. "To stop the traitors from unbinding you."
I will not be bound again.
"Then bind yourself to me."
A pause. A ripple of amusement.
Bold. Like your mother. And doomed, like your father.
Ais did not flinch. "I am not them. I am Queen."
Then prove it.
Pain lanced through her chest. Fire and ice warred in her blood. Visions burst in her mind: of her parents' last moments, of her siblings lost in chains, of the kingdom as it once was—whole, shining, free.
She screamed.
And did not break.
The crystal cracked.
The runes flared.
And the Wyrm spoke again, with a voice that echoed in the soul of the world.
Then rise, Queen of Frost and Flame. Your oath is heard. Your will is law.
The chains shattered.
And Ais, crowned in light and shadow, turned to face the dawn with power burning in her veins.
The traitor lords did not know what storm they had awakened.
But they would learn.
Their queen had returned. And she carried fire in her heart and frost in her soul.
The war for the realm had begun.