The girl said nothing, only walked ahead — boots crunching softly against the frost-speckled earth.
Leon walked beside her, glancing sideways. "You've lived here long?"
"All my life."
"And yet you're still not frozen to death. Impressive."
She smiled faintly, eyes ahead. "We Halemonders are built of stone and snow."
"I believe it," Leon said. "Though I still think you're hiding a fire somewhere under that quiet."
She didn't respond. But her smirk lingered, and something about the way she moved — quiet but grounded, graceful but deliberate — kept Leon watching.
They passed through a pine archway and down a narrow slope where low shrubs clustered in the shelter of a crag.
"There," she said, pointing.
Leon knelt, eyes widening. Delicate blue petals dusted with frost. White streaks curled along their spines like the first kiss of winter. And, god's - it does smell like strawberries!
"I'll be damned," he whispered. "You've saved my reputation."
"Glad I could be of service."
He looked up at her again, searching. "I didn't get your name."
She hesitated. Then, "Does it matter?"
Leon blinked. "I suppose it does."
She smiled. "Then let it stay with the mist."
*********************
The mountain air of Halemond was a whisper — cool, damp, faintly pine-sweet — and it curled around Damon's cloak like silk as he stood at the balcony of Lord Velmorn's manor, his hands resting lightly on the frost-slicked stone balustrade.
The Storm Lord was still as the land itself, his shadow cast long in the low golden wash of early morning. Below him, the hills rolled in gentle, endless folds — a breathless sweep of evergreen ridges and sun-drenched hollows that ran for miles until they blurred against the horizon.
Damon exhaled through his nose.
There was a peace to Halemond. A strange quiet that hadn't touched him in years.
From this vantage, he could see almost everything: the eastern slopes where the rivers split, the scattered farmlands dappled with wool-white sheep, and further west, the low road that ran toward the Braemorin border.
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes catching movement.
There, below the slope, halfway across the estate's eastern garden, someone moved through the mist.
A girl.
A girl with hair like fire spun through garnet — red as dying embers in snow.
Damon stilled.
She walked with a purpose — not floating or flitting like some court-trained waif, but sure-footed, grounded. Her dress was plain, pulled close around her, though the breeze tugged gently at the hem as she crossed the garden's outer path.
Even from this distance, something about her struck him hard. As if the entire world around her had dimmed to let her pass.
She stopped near a crag of shrubs.
Another figure joined her — male, familiar build, dark cloak.
Leon.
Damon's brow rose slightly.
They exchanged words he couldn't hear, but he saw the girl gesture. Saw her laugh, tilt her head slightly. There was mischief in the movement. No—more than mischief. There was spirit. There was life.
Then she turned, walking back uphill, her hair trailing behind her like the banner of some old forgotten kingdom.
He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath until a voice cut through the air behind him.
"She's like her mother in the light," said Lord Velmorn.
Damon turned.
The elder lord stepped onto the balcony with a worn leather map tucked under his arm and a cup of steaming cider in one hand. His grey cloak flapped lightly behind him.
Damon cleared his throat, but his eyes were still fixed on the path below. "Who is she?"
Lord Velmorn followed his gaze. Then smiled — not grandly, but with something close to fond exasperation. "That's Neriah."
Damon turned fully now.
"My second daughter," Velmorn added, "Your soon-to-be queen."
For a breath, Damon said nothing.
His eyes drifted back toward the misted trail, where the red-haired girl was slowly disappearing from view.
Then he let out a soft, stunned chuckle — almost boyish in its surprise.
"I was expecting a mountain goat," he said dryly. "Something with a limp and a wart."
Velmorn laughed.
"She's… something," Damon murmured, "Gods. That hair. No one warned me about the hair."
"She was her mother's flame," Velmorn said. "She's been mine ever since."
Damon's gaze sharpened.
A silence passed — not awkward, but quiet in the way old friends often fall into.
"She's beautiful," he said simply.
Velmorn exhaled. "Aye. That she is." with that he walked back to his chair, brushing frost from the edges of the stone bench as he unfolded the leather map across the balcony's ledge. "Now, come," he said, tapping a region marked by faded ink. "I want to show you something—this is the spine of our eastern border. Few know there's a pass hidden here—"
But Damon wasn't listening.
His eyes remained fixed on the fading path below, where Neriah's figure had just slipped into the mist, her red hair the last thing to vanish between rows of wind-bitten evergreens.
He didn't blink.
Didn't move.
"Your Majesty," Lord Velmorn called, gently.
Still nothing.
He said nothing else. Only turned back to the map, his voice warm with amusement as he resumed tracing the borderlines with one calloused finger.
But deep in his chest, he was smiling still.
*******************
Leon stood near the stables, shoulders hunched beneath his cloak, muttering curses into his scarf. The flower Kaelith had begged for was tucked securely inside his coat, wrapped in linen and still dewy from the mist. He looked down at it again—delicate blue petals with streaks of lavender and a heart that pulsed with the soft scent of wild strawberries.
"You better love this," he grumbled to no one in particular, rubbing his hands together.
The stable door creaked.
He turned.
Damon Dragarth stepped into view, his cloak trailing slightly behind him, black against the frost-stained stone. The Storm Lord looked… well, warm, somehow. As if the cold dared not touch him.
Leon narrowed his eyes. "Took your time, your Majesty. I'm nearly a snowman."
Damon arched a brow. "Poor Lord Leon. Halemond's drizzle too much for your Southern bones?"
Leon sniffed, rubbing his nose. "This isn't drizzle. This is airborne betrayal."
Damon laughed, walking toward him, boots crunching frost. "You should've stayed near the fire."
"You're the one dragging us to the edge of the kingdom hunting shadow merchants. I should be wrapped in velvet right now. Eating grapes. Somewhere hot."
Damon's eyes drifted then—to the small bundle peeking from Leon's coat.
He gestured. "That for me?"
Leon blinked. "What—this? No. No, it's—uh—it's for Kaelith."
Damon paused.
He tilted his head, just a little.
A beat of silence.
Then he said, with the calm cruelty only a friend could manage: "Should I be worried?"
Leon blinked again. "What?"
Damon took a slow step forward, mischief flickering at the corner of his mouth.
"Is there something going on between you and my sister that I should know about?"
Leon nearly choked. "Gods, no! I mean—Kaelith? She's—she's—she's Kaelith!"
Damon raised a brow. "That's not a no."
"I mean—yes! No! I mean—she threatened to put frogs in my bed if I didn't bring her that blasted flower."
"She threatened you?"
"She always threatens me."
Damon laughed. "Interesting,"
He reached forward, plucking the flower gently from Leon's coat and bringing it to his nose.
He closed his eyes.
"Smells like strawberries," he murmured. "Fresh ones. Haven't had that scent in years."
Leon watched him, still recovering. "You know, for someone called the Storm Lord, you get real poetic most times."
Damon handed the flower back. "You're not the only one who gets threatened by Kaelith."
Leon grinned. "You too?"
"Yes." The Strom Lord said with a smile
They mounted their horses, banter still flickering like warm fire between them, and rode off toward the next bend of fate — the flower between them, smelling of summer.