The empire called it The Frost March — the sudden descent of the Inquisition from the capital to "cleanse" Elaris of the spreading warmth.
Silver ships drifted through the sky, their hulls of frozen glass gleaming under perpetual twilight. Below, people whispered of rebellion — of a boy who carried dawn in his hands.
And at the head of the fleet, Veyra Selen knelt in her chamber of mirrors, her reflection fractured into a hundred perfect faces.
The warmth on her palm had not faded.
No matter how many prayers she recited, no matter how deep she plunged her hand into the font of crystal water, the heat remained — soft, persistent, alive.
"Executor Selen," came the voice of the High Eclipse through the prism on her table. "Has the aberrant been extinguished?"
Veyra hesitated. The word aberrant echoed in her mind like static.
"…Not yet," she said.
"Then do not return until the light he carries is dead."
The connection severed. The room went silent.
