The Departure
Morning broke icy and pale over Thornhaven, the first promise of oncoming winter seen in the ice that edged the grass.
Lioran stood at the edge of the village, tightening the pack on his back. He rode with little—four weeks' worth of provisions, a plain sword, the dragon-scale armor folded tightly in oiled leather. No banners. No escort. Just one man going north into uncharted lands.
Renn walked up, his sturdy mountain horse in tow. "You're actually going to do this by yourself?"
"I have to," Lioran said. "The ember requires. room. Distance from others I could harm." He grasped the horse's reins, feeling his hands still shake a little—the perpetual strain of keeping power at bay seeping into his muscles.
"Come with me," Renn insisted. "You're going to need someone to watch your back."
"I need you here more," Lioran told him. "The council needs someone who knows both sides—the Flamebound and the refugees. Someone who isn't afraid to point out issues."
"I'm not a politician."
"Neither am I. That's why it works." Lioran's smile was faint. "Besides, Thornhaven can't lose both of us. If I don't return—"
"Don't," Renn said. "Don't say that. You will return."
Lioran couldn't tell if that was prayer or promise, but he nodded all the same.
Mira stood by the north path, her shawl clutched close around the early morning cold. When Lioran caught up to her, she drew him in close in an embrace that testified to all the goodbyes she'd already said in her life.
"The Frost Kingdoms are treacherous," she whispered. "Not only the trek, but the folk. They're different from southerners. They have their own customs, their own magic. Don't think your fire will keep you safe from all things."
"I won't," Lioran vowed.
She drew away, regarding his face as if committing it to memory. "And don't lose yourself in there. Cold can be as devouring as fire. Don't forget who you are under all of that power."
"I'll try."
"Try harder." She shoved something into his hand—a compact cloth package. As he opened it, he was met with bread she'd made that morning, still warm. "So you don't forget what home tastes like."
Lioran forced himself to look away lest the tears form. "I'll return," he growled.
"I know you will," Mira said. "Just make certain you return as yourself."
He rode his horse, glanced once more at Thornhaven—at the rolling green fields and wisps of smoke from cooking fires, at the people going about morning routines—and rode north.
Behind him, the ember throbbed with something very near relief.
At last, it seemed to whisper. At last, we can burn.
.....
The Borderlands
The initial week of travel was misleadingly simple.
Lioran traveled on the northern trade road, going past scattered villages that ringed the periphery of civilized lands. These villages were tiny, suspicious, their people the sort who'd elected solitude over the hassle of kingdom politics.
They recognized what he was—the glowing eyes, the way fire seemed to follow his footsteps—but frontier folk had their own code. They offered food and shelter for coin, asked no questions, and made clear they expected the same courtesy in return.
On the eighth day, the road ended.
Lioran stood at the boundary of what the frontier people referred to as the Gray Reach—a desolate sea of rocky hills and gnarled forests that went on for hundreds of miles between the southern kingdoms and the Frost Kingdoms proper. No roads. No towns. Just wild country and whatever made it its own.
The ember flared with excitement. Here, there would be things to burn.
Lioran goaded his horse into the forest, and the southern world receded behind him.
.....
The Gray Reach
The forest was ancient in a manner that made southern woods seem young and domesticated.
Trees twisted and huge grew, their trunks bigger than houses, their branches so dense with canopies that sunlight struggled to penetrate. Thorns and odd flora choked the undergrowth, plants that moved if he weren't paying direct attention to them.
And there was silence. Too much silence. No birds. No sound of small beasts scrambling through bushes. Only the creak of his horse's hooves on moss-encrusted stone and his own ragged breathing.
On the second day in the Gray Reach, he found the first body.
It hung from a tree, bound with chains that looked ancient, the corpse desiccated by time and weather. Carved into the tree trunk above it were symbols Lioran didn't recognize—not words, but warnings.
The ember pulsed hot in his chest, recognizing danger even if he couldn't name it.
He proceeded, but more cautiously now, hand on sword hilt.
.....
The Bandits
They arrived on the third night, when Lioran had camped in a clearing that was slightly safer than the rest of the forest.
He had heard them first, the crack of a twig, the rustle of fabric against leaves. A score of men, perhaps more, gliding through the night with the ease of hunter animals on home territory.
Lioran rose slowly, keeping his fire alight, making himself a target. "I'm just passing by," he shouted. "No harm meant."
Laughter came from the blackness. A figure entered the light of the fire—scarred, armed, clad in mismatched armor that spoke of numerous victims. "Passing through with a good horse, good provands, and armor worth more than all we have stolen this year. You're right. No trouble at all."
The others came out of the trees and made a ring. These weren't desperate refugees or conscripted soldiers. These were career predators, men who'd made violence their job.
The ember flared to a roar.
At last, it sang. At last, worthwhile targets.
"Last chance to walk away," Lioran told him, and his voice bore harmonics that were no longer quite human.
The leader of the bandits sneered. "Big words for a kid alone in—"
Lioran stepped.
Flame burst from his palms in deluges, weeks of pent-up fury released in a tide of fire and light. The leader of the bandits had time to yell before he was reduced to ash. The rest attempted flight, but flame pursued them, ravenous and accurate.
In seconds, it was finished. The glade was blackened, the bandits little more than smoldering ash. Lioran's horse had bolted, frightened by the spectacle.
He was in the midst of the devastation, chest laboring, the ember contented in a manner it had not been since Duke Rhaemond's passing.
And for the first time in months, Lioran felt. good. Relieved. As though a weight he'd been holding was finally discharged.
Then he glanced at his hands, still wrapped in dying fire, and felt ill.
This is what I am, he thought. This is what I'll always be.
....
The Watcher
He discovered his horse the following morning, spooked but intact, grazing along a stream.
As he drew near, a voice shouted from the trees: "Impressive display last night."
Lioran turned, fire already forming in his hand.
A woman stepped out of the darkness—a tall, lean figure clad in armor that appeared to be crafted from ice itself, shimmering and transparent. Her hair was snow-white, her eyes pale blue, and with every breath, frost encrusted.
"Peace," she said, holding up her hands to demonstrate that they were unarmed. "I'm not here to fight. Though I must say, seeing you incinerate those bandits was pleasing. They've been causing trouble for months."
"Who are you?" Lioran asked.
"Captain Valdis of the Frost Guard," she replied. "Dispatched to inquire into fires in the Gray Reach. We had hoped the southern kingdoms were launching raiders into the north." She examined him with wide curiosity. "But you're something else. Dragon-marked, unless I'm mistaken. And out on your own, which is brave or suicidal."
"Both, likely," Lioran confessed, allowing the fire to burn out. "I'm looking for the Frost Kingdoms. I wish to speak with your leaders regarding trade."
Valdis laughed. "Trade? The south has called us barbarians for centuries, attempted to 'civilize' us with crusades and missionaries. And now you wish to trade?"
"The south has called me heretic and anathema," Lioran said. "So perhaps we have some things in common."
Valdis's face changed to something akin to respect. "You're the Dragon Lord. The one who forced Crane back without a fight." She walked around him slowly, like a predator evaluating prey—or an equal evaluating a competitor. "We heard tales. Thought they were sensational southern gossip."
"Most of them likely are," Lioran replied.
"But not all?" She pointed to the burned clearing a short distance away. "That was no exaggeration."
"No," Lioran conceded. "That part's true."
Valdis was silent for a moment, then nodded as if making a decision. "Queen Evelina doesn't receive many visitors from the south. Fewer still who arrive with honesty, without armies or priests. She may find you. interesting." She started walking north. "Come along. Attempt anything foolish, and you'll discover that fire is not the only deadly element."
As if to drive home her point, frost radiated from beneath her feet, spreading elaborate patterns across the ground.
Lioran rode his horse behind her, the ember silent now, observant. He'd sought distance from society, an opportunity to let pressure off safely. He'd achieved that. Now he was venturing into completely new country, with new rules and new abilities he didn't comprehend.
In the distance, mountains were rising—white-capped and huge, the real edge of the Frost Kingdoms.
And somewhere within them, a queen waited who ruled ice as totally as he ruled fire.
This, Lioran saw, was going to be difficult.