In the heart of the capital, House Vassren's estate gleamed like wealth incarnate—polished marble halls, tapestries worth small kingdoms, and guards who smiled with sharpened teeth.
Nasir's letter arrived just before the midday meal.
Lord Avren Vassren read it once. Then again. Then burned it in a silver brazier and said nothing.
But the firelight couldn't hide the tremble in his hand.
Across from him, his second son—Edrien—watched in silence. He had never met Lady Zareena, only heard rumors. Ice-veined, battle-hardened, ruling Vireloch like a winter storm held in skin.
Now, she summoned him.
Not as a prisoner. As a guest. A test. A weapon.
"You're going," Avren said at last, voice tight. "You'll smile. You'll learn. And you'll watch."
"And if I fail?"
Avren's eyes narrowed. "Then hope she's merciful. Because I won't be."
Meanwhile, in the inner sanctum of the Royal Court…
The Crown Prince paced, agitated. The name Serinova now came up in every conversation: merchants, generals, scholars. Everyone spoke of Zareena's garrison, her battle, her return, her rise.
And somewhere, he had returned as well.
A shadow moved through the chamber. Court fell silent. Even the highborn stopped whispering.
The doors to the king's private hall opened—and Lord Malik Serinov entered.
He walked without guards. Without sound.
But every step was thunder.
His cloak was black. His silver-streaked beard trimmed sharp. His eyes—sea-glass green—held the weight of wars and empires. A man who had been whispered about, feared, and never ignored.
He hadn't appeared at court in nearly ten years.
Now he stood at the center of it all, and the room bent around him like gravity.
The Crown Prince straightened instinctively. Ministers fell into hushed awe. Even the king's closest advisor leaned forward.
Lord Malik unrolled a single piece of parchment onto the central table.
On it: Zareena's military report from Vireloch. Accurate, efficient, brutal.
Then a second parchment—the letter she'd sent to House Vassren.
"She is no longer a girl in exile," Malik said quietly. "She is a contender."
"Contender for what?" a noble muttered.
Malik's gaze turned to him. The man flinched, as if struck.
"For survival," Malik said, voice low but unmistakably clear. "For loyalty. For what this kingdom will become."
He paused—then laid his palm over the parchment bearing Zareena's name.
"She is now my heir."
Gasps rippled across the court.
"If anyone dares harm her—physically, politically, or otherwise—I will pay a personal visit to that household. You know what that means."
He glanced—pointedly—at one of the nobles from House Vassren.
"As for how she governs her garrison, mines her hills, or handles the frostbitten edge of the north—that is her concern. She was sent to die. Instead, she built something."
His gaze moved slowly around the room. "The Serinova name is not a memory. It is a force. And Zareena carries it now."
He looked last to the Crown Prince, eyes cold with meaning.
"She does not need your approval. And she certainly doesn't need your affection. She only needs space to lead."
Then he turned on his heel and left the chamber, cloak trailing behind him like shadowed thunder.
The doors closed.
And far in Vireloch, beneath a waking sky, the snow began to fall again—but this time, it felt like the beginning of something far greater.