They found it in the morning, after the fires had died down.
A burned patch of earth near the eastern gate, blackened beyond recognition. The salt lines had scorched into the stone, leaving strange sigils beneath the frost.
At first, no one noticed. But Silen, the quiet stableboy with an eye for patterns, saw something the others didn't.
He called for Zareena.
And when she looked, her blood turned cold.
In the center of the scorched ground, scratched into the stone as if by claw:
"Z. V. I. R."
Zareena Valeska ibn Rashanov.
Her full initials. Written by something that shouldn't know how to write.
Not in her language. Not in her world.
Beneath it was another mark. A circle of thorns, curling inward. The same emblem that had sealed the crimson letter.
"It didn't die," she murmured. "It remembers."
That same day, a raven left Fort Vireloch with a sealed report. But it wasn't the only one.
Servants whispered. Messengers rode fast.
Within three days, the name "Zareena" was on the lips of nobles across the kingdom—spoken with curiosity, with suspicion… and with fear.
A girl cast off to the frozen edge of nowhere had survived the impossible. And that kind of miracle?
It always drew dangerous attention.