Morning came grey and heavy.
Thalen was buried beneath the frozen courtyard, wrapped in a soldier's shroud. No one spoke during the burial. Even the wind held its breath.
Zareena watched with her hands clasped tightly behind her back. Not a tear fell. Not a prayer was spoken.
This was how grief looked in a place already dying.
She returned to her chamber in silence.
That's where she found the letter.
Placed on her table—no guards had seen anyone enter. No footprints in the frost. No sound. No warning. Just the envelope: bone-white, sealed with crimson wax. The seal bore no crest she recognized—only an intricate design that looked like a rose… with thorns curling inward.
She opened it with care.
The handwriting was elegant, dark, controlled. It read:
Lady Zareena Valeska ibn Rashanov,
"You've survived longer than I expected.
That is no insult—merely observation. Most nobles sent to Fort Vireloch die within a month. You've managed not only to endure but to command the broken. That is a rare trait.
But do not mistake loyalty for safety.
The cold is not your only enemy.
The shadows that circle your walls hunger for far more than warmth or blood.
You've stepped into a story much older than you."
There was another page to the letter:
"Your soldier was not the first.
They will not be the last.
You cannot fight it with swords.
You cannot chase it on horseback.
But you can burn it.
If you must kill it, do so in flame. Oil, ashwood, and salt are your only allies.
Do not bury the next body. Fire it.
And should it speak to you, do not answer—it will learn your voice.
Do not trust shadows.
Do not relight the same candle twice.
Do not sleep near mirrors.
You do not know me, but I know you.
Survive.
—R"
The writing style was the same as the previous letter. She folded it without a word and locked it in a box beneath the floorboards.
Outside, the wind howled like laughter.
And somewhere beyond the pine trees, a shadow began to move.