The first strike came at dawn.
Not from Evelyne's armies, but from foreign forces—the Ash Serpent clans who had promised neutrality but broken it when offered more gold.
They attacked the northern border silently, their spirit beasts slithering beneath the frost, scales coated in black aether. No banners. No warning. Just swift, calculated violence.
Selene was still reading reports when the first scout stumbled into the war chamber, his armor slashed open, breath misting in the cold air.
"They're here," he gasped. "The serpent riders—"
Selene didn't flinch.
She already knew.
Her crimson eyes locked onto Lira, who stood frozen near the war table.
"Ready the defense lines," Selene ordered softly.
Lira hesitated only a heartbeat, then nodded.
"Yes, my lady."
Lucien heard the news in the southern sector.
By the time the first flames rose on the northern horizon, he was already moving—cloak snapping behind him, golden eyes narrowed.
Alaric rode beside him, his face pale beneath the hood.
"They promised neutrality."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "Neutrality is for cowards."
He spurred his horse faster.
On the battlefield, crimson snow mixed with real blood for the first time.
The serpent riders moved like shadows, their spirit beasts coiling beneath frost and stone. Their blades glinted black in the morning light, slicing through outer defenses.
But Selene's forces did not scatter.
They held.
Captain Serina Vale led the northern line, her armor frostbitten, her voice sharp.
"Hold the wall!" she shouted, sword flashing.
Behind her, rebel archers launched volley after volley into the snowstorm. Beastkin warriors leapt from rooftops, knives drawn, fur-lined cloaks sweeping through the air.
Selene arrived at the front by mid-morning.
Her crimson cloak billowed behind her as she strode through the battlefield, eyes cold, heart steady.
She did not ride a horse.
She walked.
Unarmed.
A symbol.
A dare.
The serpent riders faltered when they saw her.
Even spirit beasts hesitated beneath her gaze, their aether-stitched scales rippling in confusion.
Selene's presence did that now.
She wasn't just a rebel leader.
She was becoming a myth.
Lucien reached the field moments later, his blade already drawn. Gold flashed as he cut through serpent riders without mercy, his movements clean, practiced, silent.
When he reached Selene's side, his cloak was stained with blood—not his own.
"You shouldn't be in the middle of this," he muttered, voice low.
Selene's crimson eyes didn't leave the battlefield.
"I'm exactly where I need to be."
Her fingers brushed his briefly beneath the storm of snow and steel.
A private vow, silent beneath the chaos.
By sunset, the serpent riders retreated.
Half of them dead.
The other half fleeing into the frostlands, their gold-stained loyalty shattered.
Captain Serina Vale knelt at Selene's feet, her armor cracked, her shoulder bleeding.
"We held, my lady," she whispered, voice trembling.
Selene knelt beside her, pressing a steady hand to the captain's shoulder.
"You did more than that," she whispered back. "You proved this rebellion is real."
But victory was never clean.
The frost fields were littered with bodies—friend and enemy alike.
And crimson snow continued to fall.
Soft.
Relentless.
That night, Selene and Lucien stood together beneath the moons, watching the battlefield from the cliffs above.
Lucien's golden eyes reflected the flames of the distant funeral pyres.
Selene's crimson gaze held no tears.
Only resolve.
"This is just the beginning," she whispered.
Lucien's hand found hers, their fingers cold but steady.
"I know."
The rebellion had drawn first blood.
Now the kingdom would bleed, too.