The barracks were still. Mid-morning light leaked in through the high windows, a cold silver that painted the stone floor in stripes. Thorne blinked slowly into it, head pounding, ribs sore. The bed beneath him groaned as he shifted, but the ache in his spine reminded him he wasn't dead. Just bruised. Thoroughly.
He groaned, muttering a curse under his breath.
A shadow moved beside the bed. Seth. Arms folded, his expression unreadable, though the faint tension in his jaw suggested he'd been sitting there a while.
"Welcome back," Seth said coolly.
"Feels like I got kicked by a warhorse," Thorne rasped, dragging a hand down his face.
"You did," came Bela's voice from a nearby bench. She tossed an apple up and down in her hand. "Only the horse had a pretty face and didn't need hooves."
Thorne winced, then scowled. "She didn't even hit me. I just—" He stopped, staring at the ceiling, memory creeping in around the pain.
"It was like… something punched through me from the inside. A damn wall. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. One second I was on my feet, and the next—flat."
Bela snorted. "You mean when you picked a fight with the Lady's guard—in front of half the garrison?"
Thorne groaned louder, dragging a hand over his eyes. "Heaven's sake. I didn't think she'd do anything."
"Oh, you thought she'd sip tea and blink at you like a court flower?" Bela's grin widened. "She's North-born, you idiot. Svedana's blood runs colder than the rivers in Afleu."
"I figured she would be more... sheltered," he muttered. "All that silk and titles—she looked like someone who'd faint after hearing an insult."
"She didn't faint," Seth said evenly. "You did."
Thorne winced. "Yeah. Got that."
Seth didn't laugh. He stepped forward, eyes hard.
"That wasn't just an accident. You were reckless, and worse—you were disrespectful."
Thorne shifted again, trying to sit up. "I didn't mean to start something, alright? I just—my mouth ran faster than my brain."
Seth's voice dropped low. "You owe the Lady an apology. Not just for the insult. For the damage. Lady Aya could have lost control in front of the soldiers. That kind of flare—raw and unchecked—it's dangerous for her. And for everyone else."
Bela glanced at Seth, weighing her words carefully, "Seems like the rumors we heard about her and House Svedana are true."
Thorne rubbed the back of his neck, guilt bleeding through the bravado. "She's really that strong, huh?"
"You felt it and you've lain unconscious in here for days," Seth said. "That wasn't her fighting. That was her protecting. Imagine what it would feel like when she does mean to hurt you."
Thorne grimaced.
"And you'll apologize to her guard, too," Seth added.
"Yeah…" Thorne exhaled. "Didn't handle that well either."
Bela tossed the apple at him—he caught it with a grunt and a wince.
"Next time," she said, grinning, "make sure you pick a fight with someone who won't knock your soul loose."
"I'll apologize," Thorne muttered. "To both of them. Promise."
Seth gave a curt nod. "Good. Do it soon."
Thorne leaned back against the wall with a groan, the apple in his hand, his pride bruised more than his body.
"Never thought I'd be afraid of a girl that barely reaches my collarbone," he mumbled.
Bela smirked. "You should be. That 'tiny ice lady' could level half the barracks if she sneezes angry."
Thorne didn't argue.
The courtyard was quiet, the night cloaking the stones in silver shadow. Lanterns had long since burned low, leaving only the pale light of the moon to pour across the flagstones. A soft breeze stirred the trees at the edge of the walls, rustling the last of the winter leaves.
Aya stood in the center of the training grounds, her blade drawn. Alone.
Her breath came steady, fogging in the cool night air. Sweat clung to the back of her neck, dampening the loose collar of her dress. Her hair had long since fallen from its braid, strands sticking to her cheeks. But her hands—those remained firm on the hilt.
She moved through the forms again.
Step. Turn. Strike. Spin. Parry.
The blade hissed as it cut through the empty air, catching moonlight on its edge like frost. Each motion was deliberate. Each one tethered to memory—lessons drilled into her since childhood by Elex and Asta, then refined through necessity.
But now, her sword was not the only thing she wielded.
That flicker of power stirred again—just beneath her skin, coiling like heat and blood. Since that day at the training grounds, it had never fully settled. She could feel it now, ghosting up her spine, humming faintly through her limbs like the distant pull of a storm.
She paused, blade lowered.
Her eyes closed. The silence was thick, broken only by the wind brushing across the stones.
Then it came again.
Not a sound, not a thought—but a presence.
Her power pulsed beneath her ribs, as if something had shifted again. Her heartbeat quickened. She inhaled slowly, trying to ground herself.
Her eyes opened, sharp and bright in the moonlight.
The sword slipped back into motion. Again. Harder. Faster.
She turned into the next form—and froze.
A figure stood at the edge of the courtyard, just beyond the broken light of the moon.
Seth stood near the archway, arms at his sides, not armored this time. Just a tunic, a cloak, and a guarded expression.
"Forgive the intrusion," Seth said, stopping a few paces away. His voice was low, steady, touched by the coolness of the hour. "I saw the light from the upper walkway. Didn't realize anyone was still awake."
Aya studied him for a moment, her breath still coming in faint huffs from the exertion. Then she turned, sword in hand, and walked to the nearby rack where training blades and cloaks rested. She set the blade down with a soft clink.
"You're not intruding," she said quietly, not facing him just yet. "The courtyard's open to anyone who can't sleep."
Seth nodded. "I'm glad to see you well. After what happened."
Aya gave a short nod, still not looking at him. "I'm fine."
There was a silence that stretched—neither awkward nor warm, simply suspended in the space between them.
Then Seth stepped closer, his expression gentling. "Thorne… acted out of turn," he said. "He can be reckless. And a fool. But he's not cruel, my Lady. Still, I apologize for him."
That made her turn.
Her eyes met his—gray to obsidian. She was silent for a beat, then:
"You think I need an apology?"
"No," Seth said. "But I owed you one anyway. I am Frost Fire's Captain."
Aya nodded and fell quiet, but the silence that followed wasn't entirely comfortable.
Then, softly: "Master Seth, please help me understand."
Seth tilted his head slightly.
Aya looked away again. "...Why you're here."
Seth's shoulders stiffened, but he didn't avert his gaze.
"I don't understand," she continued. "You must still be angry at my family. Your mother was taken from her home. To her death, she stood by a crown I helped bury."
Seth's face didn't shift. He looked at her—truly looked—and said, "My mother's loyalties ran deeper than crowns, my Lady."
Aya held his gaze this time, still and guarded. "How did she die?"
"She died in her bed," Seth said quietly. "Her mind slipping in and out of memory, calling for the husband she lost, for children that weren't hers. But on the last night, when I thought she'd forgotten even me… she spoke your name."
That stopped Aya.
"She told me to find you. That I needed to stand at your side. No reason, no prophecy—just a truth she believed in, even as everything else fell away."
Aya swallowed, unsure of what to say.
Seth took a step closer, his voice lower now. "I'm not here because I want revenge. Or justice. I'm not even sure if I'm here because of her. All I know is... something called me here. I'm determined to find out who or what that is."
Aya looked up at him and nodded, the moonlight casting pale silver across her cheekbones. The wind tugged at a strand of hair near her temple. Her voice was soft, not weak.
"Do you want to see Lady Sora as she was when she lived in Svedana?" she asked.
Seth's eyes widened a fraction, surprised. "How?"
Aya stepped closer, her eyes steady and calm, yet carrying something deeper—older. "I know what I am, Master Seth. As a Blood Summoner, I don't just call spirits. I can summon truth. Memory. Echoes of what was."
Seth blinked, uncertain. "Memories?"
She nodded. "If I've touched the moment. If I've lived it deeply enough... I can bring it back. Not just words. Not just pictures. But presence. The feeling. The warmth in the air. The way the fire crackled in the hearth. The sound of her laughter."
Seth's throat moved in a silent swallow.
Aya added softly, "I was young, but I remember her. How she spoke to my father without fear. How she took care of my mother. How she stood taller than the guards, even when she was sitting. She braided my hair… mended my clothes so many times I've lost count." A faint smile ghosted across her lips.
Seth's expression shifted, something behind his eyes faltering—some carefully guarded grief loosening.
"If you let me," Aya said, raising a hand slowly, "I can show you."
He hesitated—just a moment. Then he stepped forward. "Yes," he said, voice low. "Please."
Aya's fingers rose, gently brushing the hair from his forehead. Her hand was warm. Steady.
"Close your eyes," she whispered.
Seth did.
Her fingers pressed lightly to his skin, and for a breath, all was still.
Then the world tilted.
It came not as fire or wind—but like falling through water made of light. A rush of color. Emotion. Scent. The feel of old stone and hearth smoke, the soft cadence of Svedanan song rising faintly in the halls.
And then—
Lady Sora.
Wearing a thick Northern cloak, her hair braided over one shoulder as she watched a younger Aya hold a blade upright in the training yard.
Another flash—Sora scolding Elex with the ease of a woman who feared no title. Feeding a weakened Queen as she lay down in her room after childbirth.
Then: a quiet room. Young Aya curled beside her in a chair, Sora brushing out her hair by the firelight, humming an old Afleun lullaby.
You are steel, little princess, the memory whispered. You'll melt in no one's hand.
Last: Lady Sora telling a young Aya about her strong and obedient son.
If things are not difficult as they are and a chance had been given, I think you'll find a good friend in my son.
The memory slipped gently away.
Seth inhaled sharply as the vision faded. He opened his eyes.
Aya had already stepped back, giving him space.
"She wasn't just a shadow for us," Aya said softly. "She lived. And we loved her. Your mother and father suffered under my father's banner. Your lives were torn to shreds, and for that, I ask for your forgiveness on behalf of my House."
Seth stood silent, breathing deep—as if the very air still carried the scent of that lost time.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Aya didn't smile, but the light in her eyes softened. "Now you know she never truly left you and your father."
The silence between them stretched—gentle, not awkward. The kind that only came after something sacred had passed between two people. The night air held a hush, as if even the wind dared not intrude.
Seth finally broke the stillness, his voice quieter than before. "She used to hum that song when I was small. I hadn't heard it for a long time."
Aya nodded. "She sang it often. Said it reminded her of home."
"She always spoke in riddles," Seth said, almost smiling. "But there was always a warning, or a lesson behind the words."
Aya tilted her head, studying him. "Is that what you see now? Warnings and lessons in everything?"
Seth looked at her for a long moment. "I see someone who understands grief… and how it shapes people."
She didn't look away. "I know of your grief and our part in causing it."
He sighed. "Old wounds don't heal clean. I don't know who made what decisions during the war, or who betrayed whom first. I was a child when she was taken from Afleu. But I remember how she stopped smiling when she went."
Aya's brows drew slightly. "She was kind enough to smile for me and my siblings."
"Then maybe she found peace before the end," Seth said. "I just… didn't get to see it."
A silence returned. This time, heavier.
Aya's voice was softer now. "You've been carrying that alone for a long time."
Seth gave a slight nod.
She looked back toward the empty courtyard, toward the training dummies now bathed in moonlight.
"I'm not afraid of the past," Aya said. "And I don't want to inherit someone else's hatred. If we're to face what's coming, we can't be on opposite sides, Master Seth. Do you really intend to serve me and my House?"
That surprised him. The conviction. The clarity.
Seth let out a slow breath, and when he finally spoke, his voice held something gentler. "Yes, my Lady."
Aya gave a small nod, then turned slightly, glancing toward the inner halls of the keep.
"You should rest," she said. "Tomorrow, I have to begin reviewing the outer watch schedules. And you…" she gave him a glance with a hint of teasing, "still owe one of my men an apology."
Seth chuckled under his breath. "That I can give tonight."
Aya turned to walk toward the keep's inner stairwell. Seth hesitated, then followed a few paces behind—no longer the stranger on the edge of the walls, but something slowly shifting into place beside her.