The wind howled endlessly, a cruel song that refused to quiet, as if it wished to carve its way into their bones. The northern lands were bleak—snow covering the earth like a burial shroud, the trees stripped bare, frozen rivers gleaming like knives. It was not a place fit for an empire's prince or a girl who once wore silk and was expected to curtsy.
But neither Adam nor Salira had ever belonged to that empire.
Not truly.
It had been seven days since they'd arrived—just the two of them and Faer. The palace was unfinished, barely more than a shell of stone and timber. Fires burned constantly to keep the cold from claiming their fingers, their toes, their wills. Salira's knuckles were split from gripping her sword too tight. Adam's eyes stayed sharp, scanning every crevice of the frosted woods.
He was quiet more often now, the heaviness of exile settling around him like another layer of snow. But he never once regretted it.
"You were grinding your teeth in your sleep again," Faer said as he passed Salira a bowl of hot barley stew. "Eat. Or Adam's gonna go mad thinking you're withering away."
Salira rolled her eyes but took the bowl. "I'm fine."
"You're never fine. But sure, let's pretend."
They sat around the fire in what they now called the 'council room'—a corner of the palace with three chairs, a map, and broken stone columns. A week ago, it had been a ruin. Now, it was home.
Faer adjusted his cloak and leaned closer, serious now. "We need people, Salira. If it stays just us three, this kingdom dies before it starts."
Salira didn't speak immediately. Her fingers clutched the steaming bowl as if grounding herself. "The letter was sent."
"Do you think anyone will come?" Faer asked.
Adam, who had been silent near the edge of the room, cleaning his blade, finally said, "They will."
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because there are people who have no place left in the empire. And people like us always find each other."
Salira stared into the fire. Her voice was soft. "Let them come. If they're willing to freeze for a new future, they deserve one."
That very night, the first knock echoed through the half-frozen gates.
A family. Then another. Then twenty. Then more.
By morning, nearly a hundred stood outside the makeshift gates. Wrapped in thin cloaks, children clinging to parents, scarred men and frightened women.
They had read the letter.
The emperor had seen it too. He laughed in the council hall, tossing the parchment onto the fire and scoffing, "Let them freeze with the prince and his little engineer. A pile of snow will be their grave."
But in the north, fires were lit. Homes were rebuilt. The people who had been cast aside found shovels, bricks, and tools. Faer taught them to hunt. Adam taught them to fight. And Salira—Salira showed them how to build.
She hammered wood beside the blacksmith. Drew designs for water-heating systems on frost-bitten parchment. Taught children to hold tools with steady hands. No one called her Lady. They called her Salira, and some whispered she was more than that.
"She's the fire in this frozen place," a girl murmured once. "She's not the villain they said she was."
And still, snow fell.
But now it landed on roofs. On walls. On a rising kingdom born from exile.
They were no longer alone.
They were no longer unwanted.
They were just beginning.