Vireloch's dawn came with cold light and colder news.
A royal courier knelt before Zareena in the council chamber, hands trembling as he extended the scroll. Two seals gleamed upon the wax: one in gold, the mark of the Crown. The other, red and intricate, was unmistakably that of the Sanctum.
She did not break it immediately. Not in front of the council. Not yet.
"Put it on the flame," she ordered.
The courier hesitated, confused. Doren, ever her shadow, stepped forward and held the scroll near the brazier. The seals melted. The message unrolled itself like a curse.
Zareena read it aloud.
"By decree of His Radiance and with the sanctified approval of the High Faith, Vireloch shall receive an envoy of the Sanctum to assess its purity and guide its moral restoration. The Lady Serinova is to yield all spiritual jurisdiction until further notice. Her garrison is to stand down if requested."
Silence.
Then a quiet voice—Nasir's—cut through the air.
"They want to strip you."
"They want to sanctify me," Zareena said coldly. "With fire."
Within the Marble Hall of House Serinova…
The great hall was quiet, yet filled with power—echoes of cloaked words and sharpened gazes. Banners of deep crimson and black silk hung above the chamber where Malik Serinov, Lord of the North and Patriarch of House Serinova, sat in his ironwood chair.
Across from him stood emissaries from three noble houses and two advisors of the Crown. Their words were wrapped in courtly etiquette, but the message was clear:
"How long will you let your daughter play warlord, my lord?"
"Vireloch sits on the edge of rebellion and spiritual decay."
"A woman governing soldiers, taxing trade routes—this is not the way of Serinova."
Malik let their words settle like dust.
He took one slow sip of wine, then rose to his feet—not hurriedly, but with the calm power of a man who had faced more wars than courtiers.
His voice was low, each word measured like a sword being drawn.
"Zareena is no warlord."
"She is my heir."
A pause. His dark eyes swept the room, daring interruption. None came.
"If any house raises a hand against her—if one whisper of harm reaches me—I will ride to that doorstep myself.
And when I do, I won't come to negotiate. I will come to bury lineage."
"How she governs her garrison? Her decision."
"How she feeds her people? Her duty."
"But make no mistake—if this court or any cloaked advisor believes they can 'correct' her with fire…"
He turned, walking toward the tall window that looked northward—toward the mountains.
"Then I suggest they prepare for winter."
Silence followed. Not fear—respect laced with dread.
Malik Serinov had spoken. The wolves of the north were listening.
Unexpected Aid
That same night, Rashid Alimov sent a sealed letter by hawk.
"The capital sends fire. I send steel."
"If you need men, you have them. If you need coin, say the word."
"The north may be cold, but I have never seen such heat in a woman before."
Zareena read it with an unreadable expression. Then tucked it in her sleeve and summoned Nasir.
"We need to prepare the streets. Re-arm the town watch.
And send word to the smiths.
If they want embers," she said, "we'll show them what the north does with fire.