The storm had broken, but the keep still carried its weight in silence. Snowmelt dripped from the eaves in steady rhythm, a reminder of the night's ordeal. Word of the beacon had spread faster than fire through dry grass; by morning, even the scullery maids whispered about Nevara's frostlight as they polished cups, and guards repeated the tale at their posts with wide eyes. The woman who had come from nowhere had lit the sky like a goddess, they said, and the lord had carried her as though she were made of glass and steel all at once.
Nevara stirred awake, the smell of woodsmoke and bread lingering in her senses. The cubs had curled up against her through the night, their warmth anchoring her through fevered dreams. Aurelia's lashes fluttered against her arm, while Thoren's soft snores puffed into her shoulder. She smiled, tender and tired, her heart easing at the sight.
They trust me so much… even after seeing me like that. Can I keep them safe without scaring them? The thought gnawed at her, but she gently tucked the blanket tighter around them and kissed each brow.
When she finally rose, Orren was waiting in the doorway. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed, his presence heavy but his gaze softer than usual. "You should rest more."
"I've rested enough," she replied quietly, adjusting her hair. "There's stew to be made, and two cubs who will eat us out of the kitchen if we let them."
Thoren stirred, blinking. "We heard that…" His voice was groggy but mischievous. Aurelia giggled into the blanket.
Orren's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "They take after you more every day."
Breakfast was chaos. The cubs—half-awake, half-hungry—shifted unpredictably between human and leopard ears and tails, chasing crumbs across the table. Nevara scolded them half-heartedly while sneaking them honey-dipped bread, earning wide-eyed adoration. Orren sat at the head of the table, silent as always, but his eyes lingered on the way she laughed with them, how her hand never failed to reach out and steady a plate before it toppled.
Later that day, the council chamber stirred again. Representatives from the village had come, bearing gifts—baskets of winter apples, carved trinkets, even a woolen shawl. The mother of the rescued boy knelt before Nevara, her hands trembling as she pressed the shawl into her arms. "We have no words. You gave us back our son."
Nevara flushed, unsure how to take the reverence. "I… only did what anyone would."
"Not anyone," the woman said fiercely. "A storm like that swallows people whole. But you—" she broke off, tears in her eyes. "You gave him back to me."
The chamber fell silent, the weight of gratitude heavy. For a breath, only the crackle of the braziers filled the space. Then Councilor Malrec, one of the older members known for his cold tongue and subtle maneuvering, cleared his throat, his expression sharp. "With respect, my lord… it is dangerous to lean so heavily on one whose powers we do not fully understand. Gratitude does not erase caution. What if such magic runs wild again?"
A murmur ran through the chamber—some nodding, others glaring at the man for speaking aloud what they dared not. Nevara stiffened, hugging the shawl closer, her smile fading. There it is again—the doubt, the fear. No matter what I do, someone will always see the danger first.
Before she could answer, Orren's voice cut through, low and commanding. "She acted as one of us. Any who question her place here will answer to me."
The declaration sent a ripple through the chamber. Councilor Malrec bowed his head quickly, but unease lingered on his features. His eyes flicked toward Nevara with the calculating look of a man already planning his next objection, sowing seeds of doubt for future days. Nevara felt her cheeks heat, though part of her wished Orren hadn't said it so bluntly. Yet when she glanced at the cubs, their faces alight with pride, she knew she couldn't shrink from it.
That night, as the keep settled into quiet, Nevara found herself on the battlements, watching the moonlight dance on snow. Orren joined her without a word, his cloak brushing against hers. For a while they stood in silence, breaths mingling with the cold.
"You drew the storm's teeth away from him," he said finally. His golden eyes glinted. "That was no simple frost. What are you, Nevara?"
She hugged her arms, unsure if the chill she felt came from the night or his question. "I don't know. Only that I can't stand to see children suffer."
He studied her, expression unreadable, but there was no accusation in his voice—only curiosity, and perhaps something like admiration. "Whatever you are, this keep is stronger with you in it."
Her heart stuttered at the words. She looked down at the courtyard, where the cubs had built a lopsided snowman earlier. Their laughter still echoed faintly in her ears. "Then I'll stay. As long as they need me."
Orren's gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. "They'll always need you."
And for the first time, Nevara let herself believe it.