The morning sun rose like a bleeding wound over Oceris Palace, its crimson light spilling across the land. Heavy clouds smothered the sky, burning red and low, casting a strange, ominous glow upon the ruins. The storm from the night before had left a thin crust of ash over the snow, turning the once-beautiful palace grounds into a graveyard of soot and silence.
Commander Zand rode through the desolation with fury twisting in his gut. He had been sent to invite the General—now the so-called Princess—to the main palace for an audience with the King. The very thought made bile rise in his throat. To imagine her, the demon of Nuria, welcomed into Solyrian bloodlines felt like an insult to every soldier who'd died defending the kingdom. If it were up to him, he would rather meet his end on the battlefield than bow to such disgrace.
The Nurian troops stationed at the ruined gates halted his approach.
"Why do Solyrian soldiers trespass here?" one barked, his voice rough and booming. "These grounds are not yours to enter."
Zand's jaw flexed as he fought to keep his tone level. "I am here under royal command. I must meet with the General—or the Princess, as she is now called. I carry a message from the King."
The guard's eyes hardened, but he turned and signaled another to deliver the message inside. The wait was long enough for the cold to bite through Zand's patience, but at last the guard returned.
"The General will see you," he said, leading Zand through the camp.
The instant Zand crossed into the encampment's boundary, warmth spread through his body. The bitter air lost its edge, replaced by a subtle, unnatural heat. He tugged at his collar, unsettled. Even the snow beneath his boots seemed to melt faster here.
When they reached the grand tent at the center, the guards swept aside its heavy curtains. The air inside was thick with quiet warmth. The chamber was simple but dignified—a single hearth glowed at its center, light spilling across furs and weathered furniture. To one side, a partition hid the sleeping quarters, where the pelt of some great beast draped across a bed.
Zand's scowl deepened. Whatever warmth filled the air here wasn't from firewood.
Then the inner curtain stirred, and Noori stepped out.
Her red hair fell loose, catching the firelight like strands of flame. A golden circlet rested on her brow, and she wore a gown of slate-gray velvet threaded with gold, each stitch catching light like a faint constellation. A wide leather belt clasped around her waist, the metal fastenings glinting as she moved. Her sleeves brushed her fingertips, the golden edges gleaming as she lifted her hands.
For a moment, she could have passed for a noblewoman hosting court—calm, soft-spoken, entirely harmless. Only her eyes betrayed something else, a glint of restrained power that made Zand's throat tighten.
"Commander Zand of the Western Hound Battalion," she greeted, her voice low and steady, yet faintly rough from weariness. "Welcome to my camp."
"Princess," Zand said stiffly, his tone strained by the word.
"Please, sit," Noori offered, motioning toward a low table near the hearth. "My attendants can bring food if you wish."
"There's no need," he said quickly. "I come only with His Majesty's message. The King summons you to the palace immediately."
For a heartbeat, she was silent. Then she inclined her head with quiet grace. "I understand," she said. "Tell His Majesty I shall answer his summons."
Her tone was calm, almost too calm, as if she had been expecting this all along.
Zand bowed slightly, concealing the bitter taste on his tongue. The flames flickered between them, and for an instant he thought her shadow moved—alive, watching him back.
Zand had expected confrontation—shouts, threats, perhaps even the infamous temper the General was known for. Instead, her civility unsettled him more than fury ever could. After delivering the King's summons, he took his leave, though unease gnawed at him long after he stepped out of her tent.
Noori lingered behind for only a moment before striding purposefully toward a smaller tent a short distance away. The guards stationed there stiffened at the sight of her. It was rare—unheard of, even—for the General to visit a subordinate's quarters. They straightened instantly, pressing fists to their chests in salute.
"General!" they greeted in unison.
Noori returned a curt nod and swept aside the heavy red curtain.
Inside, Commander Bishop sat on a rough wooden stool, shirtless, a thin trickle of blood trailing down his chest. He jolted upright the moment she entered, the cloth he'd been using to clean his wound slipping from his grasp. In a flustered motion, he snatched up a piece of fabric and pressed it to his torso, his face flushing crimson.
"General! You should have summoned me," Bishop stammered, his voice edged with surprise.
Noori's gaze never wavered from his face. "Did you dispatch the letter to the Emperor?" she asked, her tone brisk and low.
"Yes, General. It's done," Bishop answered, his loyalty firm though his voice carried a tremor.
Noori exhaled slowly, her shoulders sagging as if the weight of the world pressed upon them. Bishop watched her closely, concern creasing his brow.
"Is something wrong?" he asked quietly.
Her eyes flicked to him, tired and sharp all at once. "The King of Solyria demands my presence," she said. "He wants answers for what happened here answers I do not yet have."
Before Bishop could reply, the tent's curtain rustled open once more. A soldier entered, his armor glinting with frost, snow melting against the dark leather. Upon seeing Noori, he dropped to one knee instantly.
"General! Forgive me. I did not know you were here," he said breathlessly.
Noori's hand eased open. "Rise. Speak," she commanded.
"General, a pyrotechnic scroll has appeared atop the frozen lake. The Pyromage confirmed it—it bears the Emperor's seal."
At his words, the faint color drained from Noori's face. "Are you certain?" she asked, her voice tightening.
"Yes, General," the soldier, Ember replied, bowing his head. "It is genuine."
Noori stood silent for a moment, the firelight flickering over her unreadable expression. Then she gave a single, decisive nod.
"Very well. I'll retrieve it myself. While I'm gone, prepare the men for departure—we leave for the palace as soon as I return," she ordered.
Her tone was firm, final. Without waiting for a response, she turned and stepped out into the cold once more, her crimson hair catching the morning light like a warning flame.