The tent was warmer than she expected. Kane had all but pushed her inside, the heavy canvas flap closing off the night's icy winds. A brazier glowed at the center, its embers breathing faint warmth into the air.
Arasha lowered herself to a stool beside it, arms draped loosely over her knees as she stared into the shifting orange coals.
Her body ached—every muscle, every bone, even the weight of her armor pressing on her shoulders felt unbearable now that she'd stopped moving.
But the pain was only a shallow hum compared to the storm clawing through her thoughts.
The image of the battlefield refused to fade. Blood on the snow. Men collapsing mid-swing. The shrieking forms of the riftspawn shielding their more humanoid kin, as if acting on discipline rather than instinct.
Her jaw clenched as she leaned closer to the brazier. Humanoid spawn…
She knew too well what that meant.
Not beasts, but enemies who could think, who could plot, who could turn the tide of war with strategy instead of savagery.
The embers cracked, and her eyes narrowed. Perhaps… perhaps this time there might be Awakened Ones among them. She could only hope.
Ordinary men could not shoulder this burden forever. Awakened Ones—those rare souls who defied the limits of flesh—could change the tide, as they always had.
But with that hope came a bitter taste.
She had lived this once before. In another lifetime, she had bled not only on battlefields but in court halls, fighting tooth and nail against nobles who sought to chain the Awakened, strip them of their humanity, and wield them like weapons.
She had seen Awakened Ones forced into servitude, treated as commodities.
And not all Awakened were saviors. Some reveled in their power, using it to dominate the weak, or to hunt their own kind.
She had been forced to cross blades with more than one such fallen soul.
Her hands curled slowly into fists. The hope of their return, and the despair of what it might mean, collided in her chest until it almost broke her.
If they did not awaken, mankind might fall. But if they did, the cycle of exploitation and corruption might begin anew.
The turmoil spiraled until the world narrowed into ash and flame before her eyes. Her breath quickened, her shoulders tight, her mind teetering between hope and dread.
"Arasha."
The voice cut through the fog. Firm, steady. She blinked, her head snapping up as if waking from a nightmare.
Kane stood at the entrance of the tent, holding a small tray with two steaming bowls of stew. His face, usually sharp with discipline, was softened now by a furrow of worry.
He stepped inside, setting the tray near her before crouching slightly to meet her eyes.
For a long heartbeat, the storm in her chest stilled. She focused on him—the steadiness of his presence, the warmth radiating from the food, the unspoken care in his expression.
She exhaled slowly. One breath, then another. Her fists loosened.
She had to take things one at a time. The rift would not be sealed in a day. The Awakened, if they came, would not be molded in a night.
For now, there was Kane. Warmth. Food. Survival.
Her lips tugged into the faintest of smiles. "You always know when to show up."
Kane set one bowl in her hands, his gaze holding hers. "And you always forget you're human. Eat."
For the first time that night, Arasha let herself obey without protest.
****
The stew was almost gone when the tent flap stirred. One of Lionel's trusted retainers—a grizzled veteran with a limp—bowed low as he entered. His eyes were tired but earnest.
"My lady, Sir Kane," he said humbly. "His Grace requests your presence. There are matters that cannot wait."
Arasha set her bowl aside, but before she could rise Kane shot her a look and placed a firm hand on her shoulder.
"We'll go when you're done eating. So finish you're meal. You need every bit of food to keep your strength up," he said evenly, his tone leaving no room for debate.
For a heartbeat she thought to argue, but the weight of his gaze silenced her. With a faint sigh, she returned to her meal, eating the last few spoonfuls while Kane leaned back, arms crossed, satisfied that she obeyed.
Only when she was done did he rise and gesture toward the door.
"Alright," he said. "Let's go."
The keep's great hall was dimly lit, lanterns casting long shadows over a table strewn with maps, reports, and hastily drawn sketches of riftspawn. Lionel sat propped against cushions, his wound tightly bound, his face pale but his gaze sharp.
His commanders stood arrayed beside him, a mix of seasoned veterans and younger officers scribbling notes. The Duchess had excused herself earlier, leaving the council to attend to their children and reassure them of their father's survival.
When Arasha and Kane entered, Lionel inclined his head, gratitude flickering in his eyes. "You've done more than I could ever repay, but there is little time for thanks. We must speak of what comes next."
The meeting began with a meticulous recounting of the battle. Each man offered his observations, and Arasha added details of how the humanoid riftspawn mimicked human formations, their coordinated shield tactics, and their unnerving cunning.
Kane confirmed her words and added his own, describing the barriers around the rift and the signs that the creatures were capable of arcane use.
"Then we are not facing heedless beasts," Lionel concluded grimly. "We are facing an army."
From there, the discussion turned practical.
Infrastructures needed reinforcement—walls to be repaired and fortified, watchtowers erected at key points. Potions and talismans would be vital, both for defense and for the morale of the people.
Arasha and Kane shared what they knew: reliable supply chains, trusted alchemists, certified talisman-makers whose wares could be counted on not to fail in the field. Lists were drafted, runners dispatched to neighboring towns, alliances quietly reaffirmed.
"Tomorrow we begin," Lionel declared, his voice hoarse but resolute. "Every moment wasted is a danger to Frosthaven."
Arasha and Kane agreed, and in turn gave orders to the Scion Order men who had accompanied them. A handful would remain, tasked to work alongside Lionel's men in fortifying the city, training troops, and organizing resources.
Two days passed swiftly in labor and planning. Frosthaven buzzed with activity—masons strengthening walls, enchanters marking wards, smiths forging weapons late into the night.
When the time came for Arasha and Kane to depart, Lionel himself bade them farewell, though he remained seated by necessity.
Before they could leave the keep, however, Lucian came rushing to meet them. The young heir looked solemn, though his eyes shone with determination.
In his hands he held a small wooden carving of a wolf, the grain polished smooth from careful work.
"It's not much," Lucian said, voice steady despite his youth. "But… it's a charm. For luck. And for thanks—because Father lives today because of you."
Arasha's heart warmed. She crouched slightly and drew him into a gentle embrace, holding him close. "You've a brave heart, Lucian. Keep it strong."
But the moment was cut short when Kane cleared his throat, stepping forward with the faintest edge of impatience. His eyes lingered on Lucian—his old friend, reborn younger and unknowing of the bond they once shared.
Kane's composure did not falter, but in his chest was a strange ache, a mixture of fondness and sorrow. To meet his dearest friend again… and yet be a stranger to him.
Arasha released Lucian with a smile, brushing his hair back lightly. Kane gave the boy a short nod, nothing more.
And then, with farewells spoken, Kane drew forth a talisman etched with sigils of transport. The glyphs pulsed as he activated it, threads of arcane light weaving into a circle beneath their feet.
"Back to the capital," Kane murmured. "Alight and Linalee must hear this."
Arasha gave Frosthaven one last look—the people laboring with renewed hope, the Duke recovering, the Duchess standing strong, and Lucian clutching his wolf carving.
Then the light swelled, and in a blink, the two vanished, bound for the heart of the realm.