Hearts of Ash and Ivory
The wind howled across the Ashen Hills, carrying with it the stench of war. Smoke curled up from a ruined outpost in the valley below, painting the dusk sky in bruised shades of violet and rust. Seris Virelle crouched in the shadow of a crumbled watchtower, her cloak blending with the jagged stone behind her. A blade gleamed in her gloved hand—short, curved, and blackened from years of use.
Tonight, she would strike.
"Four guards at the gate," whispered Bran, her second-in-command. "Two more near the armory."
Seris nodded. Her sharp green eyes swept the narrow path that led to the supply depot—an outpost vital to the northern Crown forces. The king's troops had grown overconfident, fattened on early victories and lulled by snow-choked passes that slowed rebel advances. But Seris had not come this far to retreat.
"Wait for the bell," she whispered. "Move with the shadows. Leave no survivors."
Bran looked uneasy. "And if we're spotted?"
She glanced at him, her voice steely. "Thenmake them bleed for every heartbeat you lose."
He hesitated, then nodded and vanished into the dark.
Seris moved like smoke. Her feet barely touched the ground as she descended the slope, the frozen earth muffling her steps. Each breath clouded the air, but her mind burned with clarity. Tonight wasn't just about crippling the Crown's war machine—it was about proving herself. To her father. To her people. To herself.
She slipped past the first guard with a whisper of steel. The second barely had time to choke before her blade silenced him. Within minutes, the rebels fanned out across the compound, precise and lethal. It was going perfectly
Until the wind changed.
A horn blew—sharp and shrill, not from the outpost, but from the trees beyond. Seris spun, eyes narrowing.
An ambush.
Shouts echoed across the slope. From the tree line, armored soldiers charged—not the lazy conscripts of the Crown she had expected, but black-cloaked riders with silver crests. The Queen's elite.
Someone had tipped them off.
"Fall back!" Seris shouted, even as she slashed her way through a stunned sentry. "Back to the ridge!"
But it was too late.
Arrows sang through the night. Bran fell with a thud, an iron shaft buried in his back. Others scattered, trying to retreat—but the trap had been laid well. Torches lit the ridge above. Soldiers poured in from every side.
Seris ducked behind a crate of dry powder, heart hammering in her chest. Her breath came in short gasps, her dagger slick with blood. Her mind screamed for retreat, but her body refused to run.
Not again.
Not like last time.
She made it as far as the supply tent before they surrounded her. Five soldiers with drawn blades. One barked an order—something about surrender. She didn't listen.
She fought.
Like a cornered beast, she lashed out, cutting down one and slashing the cheek of another. But exhaustion was already settling in. She hadn't slept in two days, and her arm trembled from the cold.
A blade caught her shoulder. She staggered, dropped to one knee.
The world tilted.
And then—darkness.
She woke to the clink of chains and the chill of stone beneath her.
The cell smelled of mildew and smoke. Thin light spilled through a slit in the wall, casting bars of golden dusk across the floor. Her wrists were shackled above her head, and dried blood clung to her arm where the blade had cut her.
Footsteps echoed beyond the iron door. Heavy. Deliberate.
Seris raised her head as it creaked open.
In stepped a man dressed in dark green velvet, gold embroidery glinting at his collar. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A sword at his hip—not for decoration.
But it wasn't the blade that gave her pause. It was his eyes.
Grey. Cold. Watchful.
Crown Prince Kael Thorne.
She'd seen portraits of him in the rebel camps—usually with a dagger stabbed through the likeness. But the real man was more imposing than she expected. Less polished. There was something wolfish in the way he moved, as though the courtly clothes were just a disguise for a much more dangerous beast beneath.
"So," he said, voice smooth but edged with iron, "you're the infamous Ghost of Eleran."
She smirked. "You expected someone taller?"
"I expected someone smarter."
He stepped closer, eyes flicking over the blood at her shoulder.
"You attacked a Crown supply post, knowing full well it fed the Western Front."
"Had to stretch my legs," she said lightly. "Thought I'd drop in."
He didn't smile.
Instead, he crouched in front of her, gaze steady. "You're lucky I ordered you taken alive."
"Didn't feel very lucky at the time."
Kael's jaw twitched. "Tell me something, Lady Virelle. Do you really believe this rebellion of
yours will succeed?"
She didn't flinch. "It already has. You just haven't realized it yet."
"Bold," he said. "And stupid."
He rose, turning toward the door. "You'll be transferred to the capital tomorrow. My mother—Her Majesty the Queen—will want to question you herself."
Her smirk faded. "I'd rather rot."
Kael paused in the doorway. "Don't tempt her. She has less patience than I do."
And then he was gone, leaving her with nothing but the sound of her own breathing and the slow drip of water from a crack in the ceiling.
Later that night, sleep evaded her.
She sat slumped against the wall, arms sore from the chains, the sting of her wound dulling into a throb. But her mind was sharper than ever.
She'd studied the Crown since she was a child. Knew its weaknesses. Knew the family tree of every noble house, the battle history of every general. She'd heard whispers of the prince—how he fought beside his men in the field, how he refused to marry for alliance, how he clashed often with the Queen.
But she'd never expected to see him up close.
And he was nothing like she imagined.
Kael stood in the war room, his fists braced on the edge of the map table. Flames flickered in the hearth behind him, casting his shadow long and fractured across the stone floor.
General Harth cleared his throat. "She won't talk. The rebel girl."
"She will," Kael said. "Eventually."
"And if she doesn't?"
Kael glanced toward the sealed window, where the distant hills glimmered with the last blush of sunset.
"Then we make her watch as everything she's fought for burns."
But as the night deepened, and the stars wheeled overhead, Kael found sleep elusive.
Not because of guilt—he had long since buried such luxuries.
But because, for the first time in a long while, the war had a face.
A sharp-tongued, fire-eyed face that refused to cower.
And that unsettled him more than any blade ever could.