The cold wasn't quiet.
It crackled. It groaned. It whispered secrets into the bones of the mountains and buried them beneath a hundred years of snow.
Eira Wynter stood at the edge of the cliff, the wind pulling at the hem of her fur-lined cloak like a petulant child begging her not to jump. Not that she planned to. Not today.
Her breath curled in the air-silver ribbons in a kingdom that had forgotten the color gold. The sun hadn't broken the sky in over three centuries, and Elowen, once a kingdom of rolling green and honey-washed fields, had become a cradle of frost. Everything was gray here: the sky, the stone towers, the ash-bark trees. Even the people had taken on a pallor, as if the cold had crawled beneath their skin and snuffed out the light.
But not her.
Not Eira.
There was a flame inside her. Small. Wild. And very, very illegal.
She tucked her gloved hands deeper into her pockets and stared down at the frostbitten valley far below. Pine trees stood like mourners, bent beneath the weight of winter. Far in the distance, the capital glistened-a silver crown of spires rising above the mist.
The city of Virelyn.
Her prison. Her home.
"Wynter!" a voice barked behind her. "You're late."
Eira turned, slow and deliberate, like the world didn't demand speed anymore. Only obedience.
Sir Corran stood a few paces away, his armor gleaming like a polished icicle, beard dusted with snow, eyes the color of wet steel. He wasn't unkind. But he was loyal to the crown. And loyalty in Elowen meant never asking questions you didn't want punished.
"I was just... breathing," Eira said, her voice soft but clear.
He grunted. "Try doing that inside the walls, where you won't be mistaken for a spy, or worse, a fire-born."
She stiffened.
Corran didn't notice, or pretended not to. "Your shift begins now. The Stormwardens are short, and the wind's picking up. Another frost surge is coming."
Of course it was. It always was.
Eira gave the cliff one last look, as if the wild beyond held a secret just for her, and then turned toward the winding stone steps that led down the craggy slope toward the city gates.
---
Inside the Walls
Virelyn was a cold beauty, carved from stone and silence.
The streets were kept clear of snow by weatherbinders like Eira-mages trained to channel and redirect the froststorms, though only a handful were strong enough to hold back anything beyond a breeze.
Eira was one of them. Not the strongest. Not the weakest. Just enough to matter. Just enough to be watched.
She pulled her hood up, hiding the rich chestnut waves of her hair as she passed through the bustling market square. Merchants wrapped in wool barked about smoked meats and salt-preserved fruit. Children ran through patches of white with faces too thin and laughter too brief. And above it all, looming like a vulture perched on a throne, was the palace-ice-veined and haunting.
The Queen of Frost sat there.
Watching. Always watching.
Eira made her way to the weatherbinding post, a narrow stone tower with runes carved into its base. The others were already gathered-five mages in pale blue robes, eyes hollow from the drain of their duties.
She nodded silently to Nessa, the youngest of them, whose cheeks were raw from windburn. The girl offered a small smile. One of the few still brave enough to smile here.
The commander, an older binder named Thale, handed out assignments. "Eira, west wall. There's pressure building. Keep the winds from slamming the sentries into the battlements again."
"Again?" she asked dryly.
Thale didn't answer. He didn't need to.
---
Two Hours Later
The wind screamed.
Eira knelt on the walltop, arms outstretched, gloves off, the ice biting her bare skin. She murmured the binding chant under her breath, low and steady, guiding the wind like reins on a wild beast.
It fought her.
It always fought her.
But beneath her pulse, beneath the practiced magic of the frost, a different power stirred. One not born of winter, but of something far older. Something wrong.
Fire.
A flicker ignited in her palm.
She snapped her hand shut, gasping. The cold turned her breath to glass.
No one saw.
No one must see.
---
That Night
Her room in the barracks was sparse-one cot, one trunk, one frosted window that faced the mountains she longed to run toward. She unbraided her hair, the soft waves falling around her pale face. There were burn marks on her gloves. Again.
She held her hand above the candle and whispered, "No."
A spark flared anyway.
The fire wanted out.
And the frost was losing its grip.
---
In a Tavern Across the City
Kael Thorne sat with his back to the wall, boots up on the table, and a mug of bitterroot ale untouched beside him. He was listening. Watching. Waiting.
The bounty poster in his coat pocket rustled against his chest as the door blew open and a gust of snow scattered into the firelit room.
A face passed by the window.
Soft. Sharp. Haunting.
A girl with fire in her eyes.
Kael stood, heart hammering once-hard-and followed the ghost into the storm.