Page 25

The great iron gates of Millrath loom before us like the jaws of some ancient beast.

No horns announce our arrival. No guards rush to bar our path. Only silence greets us—a silence thick with waiting, with watching, with the held breath of a city that has forgotten its true rulers.

Arvoren's hand finds mine as we approach his city, fever-hot against my frozen fingers. Through our bond, I feel his mounting tension, his dragon nature prowling beneath his skin like caged lightning. The soldiers of Fjordmarse and Fort Caddell move with practiced precision around us, their unlikely alliance a shield against whatever waits within those walls.

"Ready?" My husband’s voice is low, smoke curling from between his teeth despite the bitter morning air. Gentle, my mind supplies. Despite what’s at stake, he’s being gentle to you now.

I squeeze his hand in response. I hope he understands what I mean by that.

The moat stretches before us, its surface frozen for the first time in living memory. Our boots ring against black ice as we cross—king and queen returning to claim their throne. Above, archers line the walls like carrion birds, their arrows nocked but undrawn. They make no move to stop us. Make no sound at all. Only watch with eyes that gleam in the wan winter light.

We pass beneath the gatehouse arch, and suddenly we're inside—back in the city that was once my prison, that became my escape route, that might now become my true home. The streets look different in morning light, the cobblestones dusted with frost, the buildings hunched against endless winter. Faces peer from windows and doorways as word of our arrival spreads like wildfire through the narrow lanes.

"The king lives," someone whispers.

"The queen returns," breathes another.

"But the storm follows still…"

People begin to line the streets, emerging from shops and homes to watch our procession. Some bow deeply. Others make signs against evil. Most simply stare, unsure what to believe after months of Ulric's lies.

I recognize the fear in their eyes—the same fear I once felt in this place. A part of me still feels it.

I will stop this winter, I wish I could promise them. The moment I’m safe here. I can feel it. The storm will end.

A child darts forward, only to be yanked back by their mother. But not before I catch their wonder-filled gaze, their small hand reaching toward the frost that sparkles in my wake. I realize suddenly that to these people, I am something out of legend—the Witch Queen who fled north, who commands winter itself, who returns now with armies at her back.

"You're trembling," Arvoren murmurs, his thumb stroking my knuckles.

"Last time I walked these streets, I was bound in rope," I remind him, chin held high. "Dragged here in a wagon like chattel to be sold.”

His grip tightens fractionally. "And now you return as queen."

"I do." The words feel different now—not a chain anymore. My gut knows the difference. I’m not sure how it does, but I cling to the feeling.

The castle rises before us, perched above Lake Shale like a crown of black stone. As we approach the final bridge, the great gates begin to open, grinding against ice that has formed on ancient hinges. No guards challenge us. No horns sound. Only that watching silence, that held breath, that sense of destiny balanced on a knife's edge.

Movement catches my eye—a flash of steel, a hand reaching for a blade. One of Ulric's supporters, perhaps, thinking to earn favor through violence. But before the weapon can clear its sheath, the Fjordmarse commander steps forward. Steam rises from his armor as his dragon nature surfaces, scales rippling beneath his skin.

"Choose carefully," he growls, voice carrying clearly in the quiet street. "Your king returns."

The would-be attacker's hand falls away from his weapon. Others like him shrink back into the crowd, their resolve wavering as they realize the strength of our escort. These are not common soldiers, but elite warriors of the north—dragon and human united in common cause.

We ascend the final steps toward the castle proper, toward the throne room where everything began. Where everything will end, one way or another. Arvoren's posture shifts subtly, becoming more regal, more controlled. The bearing of a king.

But his hand never leaves mine as we approach the final door. Whatever comes next, we face it together.

The guards at the door step aside, and darkness yawns before us like the maw of destiny itself.

The underchamber doors groan open on ancient hinges, and my heart clenches at the sight of the near-black interior. This room—this vast, dark space where Arvoren first claimed me as his—has changed. Black banners bearing Ulric's personal sigil drape the walls, covering the ancient dragon skulls that once watched over the throne. Braziers burn with unnatural blue flame, casting strange shadows that seem to move of their own accord. The air tastes of copper and ozone, thick with a magic that makes my teeth ache.

And there, upon my husband's throne, sits Ulric.

He lounges across the ornate seat as if born to it, one leg thrown casually over the armrest. His golden hair catches the eerie light, forming a mockery of the crown he hasn't dared to claim. Courtiers and lesser lords cluster around him like moths to flame, though I notice they keep their distance—close enough to show support, far enough to flee if needed. I don’t spot any of the major lords, but some must be here, I know. Perhaps waiting out the day to see who wins this battle.

"Brother." Ulric's smile is sharp as broken glass. "I must say, you're looking rather…alive for a dead man."

"And you're looking rather comfortable in a seat that isn't yours." Smoke curls from Arvoren's mouth with each word, the temperature around us rising as his dragon nature surfaces.

"Isn't it?" Ulric straightens, his casual pose dropping away like a shed skin. "The people seem to think otherwise. They've grown tired of the old ways, brother. Tired of kings who let winter freeze their children.”

His eyes find mine, and something hungry enters his expression.

"Welcome home, Calliope. I trust your little northern adventure was…illuminating? I’ve missed you."

The spike of fury I feel from Arvoren would have, on any other day, taken me to my knees with its force. But I stand tall.

"Enough games." Arvoren takes a step forward, slightly in front of me, scales rippling visibly beneath his skin. "Stand down, brother. While you still can."

"Or what?" Ulric rises from the throne, his own dragon nature beginning to show. Steam rises where his boots touch stone. "You'll kill me? Your own blood? Like you might well have killed our parents?"

The accusation hits like a physical blow. Through our bond, I feel Arvoren's surge of grief and fury. "I did not—"

"No?" Ulric's laugh is cruel. "You certainly didn’t seem to mind how it worked out. Power, glory, blood—that was what their deaths gave you. You won the day."

"You dare?" The words emerge as a roar that shakes dust from the rafters. "You, who tried to murder your own brother? Who would have killed your queen?"

"I would have freed her." Ulric's gaze finds mine again. "Would have shown her what true power means, without your chains and control. Would have given her child a proper father—"

The last word is barely out of his mouth before Arvoren moves. One moment he stands beside me; the next, he's across the room in a blur of scales and fury. His clawed hand closes around Ulric's throat, lifting him off the throne as if he weighs nothing.

"Choose your next words carefully, brother," Arvoren snarls. "They may be your last."

Ulric's laugh sounds wet, choked. "You won't kill me. You never could.”

Magic crackles through the air as Ulric breaks his brother's grip, transforming partially to match Arvoren's state. The brothers circle each other like wolves. The temperature in the underchamber seems to rise sharply in the span of half a second. The watching courtiers scramble back, pressing against the walls, eyes blown huge and fearful.

"The throne is mine by right," Ulric hisses, sharpened teeth glinting in the dull light. "The people chose me. Chose stability over your chaos, chose peace over your endless war—"

"Peace?" Now it's Arvoren's turn to laugh, the sound sharp with dragon-fury. "Is that what you call this? Betraying your blood? Threatening my wife? My child? This city will become a necropolis under your rule, Ulric, and we both know it.”

Ulric's eyes widen fractionally at those last words. “You’re so small-minded, brother, even now. You have no idea what I can make your city into—what I could make your wretched runt into.”

He doesn't finish. Arvoren's fist catches him in the jaw, sending him staggering. Ulric recovers quickly, retaliating with a strike of his own. The brothers crash together like storm fronts, magic crackling around them as they battle for dominance.

I step forward, ready to help, but Arvoren's voice cuts through the chaos: "Stay back!"

Faintly, I register fighting all around me, in all directions. The Fjordmarse and Fort Caddell forces battling back castle guards, restraining traitors against the walls. But I have eyes only for my husband.

His shouting holds all his kingly authority, but I hear the fear beneath it—fear for me, for our child, for what Ulric might do if he gets too close.

But I am not the same woman who fled this castle in terror.

Our child's magic pulses within me, strong and sure, reaching for its father. I feel ancient power stirring in my blood, responding to the dragon-fury that fills the air. Frost spreads beneath my feet in delicate patterns, climbing the walls like deadly lace.

The temperature plummets back down violently as my magic rises. The unnatural blue flames in the braziers sputter and die, replaced by an eerie white glow that emanates from the frost itself. Servants and courtiers gasp, pressing closer to the walls as ice creeps across the floor.

Ulric and Arvoren break apart, both breathing heavily, steam rising from their partially transformed bodies. Blood drips from Ulric's split lip, freezing before it hits the ground. His eyes find mine, and something like real fear enters his expression.

"You see, brother?" He takes a step back, his smile wavering. "Your queen has grown stronger than either of us. If she isn’t snuffed out, Kaldoria will freeze solid. No nation can live in this eternal winter. Better that she be snuffed out mercifully. Better it be raised by someone who understands true power—"

"You will never touch them." The words emerge in a snarl that's barely human. Arvoren's transformation completes in a surge of magic, his massive dragon form filling half the chamber. "Never."

People flee toward the doors as Ulric's own transformation takes hold, his scales catching the strange light. The brothers face each other in their true forms, equally huge, equally terrible, looming above me in the massive space.

I raise my hands, ice crystals dancing between my fingers as I prepare to defend my husband, my child, my crown. Whatever comes next, we face it together.

The real battle is about to begin.

The brothers collide with enough force to crack the ancient stones beneath their feet. Dragon-fire fills the air, gold flame meeting black in explosions that shake the very foundations of the castle. Their roars echo off the walls—primal sounds that speak of betrayal deeper than blood, of wounds that will never truly heal.

Through our bond, I feel Arvoren's fury and grief warring with each other. Every strike against his brother costs him something precious, every wound he inflicts tears at his own heart. But beneath that pain burns something fiercer: the need to protect what's his, to end this threat to his family once and for all.

It will hurt him if he kills his brother today, I know. But he won’t regret it.

Ulric is the quicker of the two, using his smaller size to dart beneath Arvoren's guard, scales flashing as he lands strike after strike. But Arvoren's greater bulk gives him raw power that his brother can't match. When his claws connect, they leave deep gouges that steam in the frozen air.

I press myself against a wall as their battle rages, one hand curved protectively over my stomach. Our child's magic pulses wildly, responding to both dragons' power. The air grows thick with competing magics—Arvoren's formidable strength, Ulric's desperate fury, my own winter storm rising beneath my skin.

Another explosion rocks the chamber as the brothers' flames meet again. Through the smoke, I see several of Ulric's remaining supporters draw weapons, preparing to intervene. Without thinking, I send a wave of killing frost in their direction. They stumble back, blades falling from frozen fingers as ice creeps up their arms.

"My queen!" The Fjordmarse commander appears at my side, steam rising from his armor. "We should get you to safety—"

"No." I straighten, frost dancing between my fingers. "I won't leave him."

Above us, Ulric lands a lucky strike that sends Arvoren crashing into a wall. Ancient stone cracks under the impact, and I feel Arvoren's pain lance through our bond. Before his brother can press the advantage, I act.

Power explodes from me in a wave of winter fury. Ice spreads across the floor like living crystal, climbing the walls in patterns that pulse with otherworldly light. The temperature plummets until even the dragons' breath frosts in the air. Every surface the frost touches begins to sing with strange harmonies—the music of deep winter, of magic older than kingdoms or crowns.

Ulric falters, his scales dusted with frost. His supporters cry out as the cold bites deeper, dropping their weapons and fleeing toward the doors.

Through the bitter chill, I hear them shouting to those beyond the chamber, frantic and vicious: "The heretic is here!"

But this is no mere storm. In that moment, I am no longer only myself. I am more. My magic rises like a tide, filling the chamber with swirling snow and crackling ice. The very air seems to crystallize, turning each breath into shards of frozen light.

Arvoren recovers, using my distraction to launch himself at his brother. This time when their flames meet, my ice joins the fray. The resulting explosion throws Ulric back, sending him crashing into his stolen throne. The ornate seat shatters beneath his weight.

"You see?" Ulric snarls, struggling to rise. "See what she's become? What that child will become? Too powerful to control—"

"She was never meant to be controlled." Arvoren's voice fills the chamber, dragon-deep and terrible. "She was meant to be queen."

An absurd, powerful, brilliant joy flowers inside my chest. It could melt me, I know. I could die right here.

As if to emphasize his words, our magics surge together—his dragon-fire and my winter storm combining into something new, something awesome and terrible. The remaining courtiers flee in terror as frost and flame dance through the air, turning the throne room into a place of legend, a spectacle of light and heat and cold.

"You're finished, brother." Arvoren advances, his massive form blocking any escape. "Yield, and I may yet show mercy."

For a moment, something like regret flashes in Ulric's golden eyes. Then his expression hardens, scales rippling as he gathers himself for one final attack. "Never."

He launches himself at Arvoren with desperate fury, claws extended for a killing blow. But this time, we're ready. My ice catches his wings, slowing him just enough. Arvoren meets his charge with terrible efficiency, centuries of training evident in every movement. Their flames collide one final time—brother against brother, pretender against true king.

The entire room shakes. I fall to one knee, gasping, as something high above our heads crashes, a massive, distant sound.

When the smoke clears, Ulric is gone.

A hole in the ceiling reveals his escape route, his dark form swirling away into the winter sky high above the city, vanishing into the quelling storm. Several of our soldiers start forward, human and looking desperate but determined, but Arvoren stops them with a growl.

"Let him run," he rumbles, scales rippling as he begins to transform back. "He won't get far. Not now."

Outside, there is a keening screech, answered by a number of others. I spot, through the entryway, half a dozen shifters from the army of Fjordmarse take to the skies, brilliant ice-blue scales flashing in the snowy white light, giving chase.

There is hubbub outside. Shouting, confusion, chaos. Soldiers roam, shouting orders, as civilians fight to see what’s happening.

None of it matters.

Arvoren approaches his throne. Steam still rises from his skin, and his eyes still burn with inner fire. But when he reaches for me, his touch is gentle as ever.

Neither of us sits. The throne is broken now, destroyed, and its remains are like a tomb in the center of the room. I know in my gut that when Arvoren orders for its replacement, they will have to construct or procure another, if I am to sit at my husband’s side in court. I’m eager for that day.

We stand before the throne. I take my place beside him, frost trailing in my wake. Through our bond, I feel his fierce satisfaction, his relief, his bone-deep need to keep me close. Our child's magic pulses between us, strong and steady, finally at peace.

"Your Majesties." Detaching himself from the chaos, a Fjordmarse commander kneels, a handful of other soldiers following suit. "The throne is yours."

Arvoren's hand finds mine as we face our subjects together, hearts beating as one. The air grows warmer as my winter storm slowly but surely subsides around us, leaving only a gentle snowfall that drifts through the broken ceiling like a blessing.

We have all changed since that first meeting in this chamber, I know. We will continue to. The fight isn’t over. There will be more battles ahead, more challenges to face. But for now, we stand united, stronger together than we ever were apart.

"Rise," Arvoren commands, his voice carrying all the authority of the Dragon Kings. "Your king and queen have returned."

The words echo off ancient stones as morning light spills through the broken ceiling, turning frost and flame to diamonds in the winter air.