The carriage jolted over the last broken causeway, sending the canvas covering snapping and creaking in protest. Frostmarch lay ahead, gray and wind-lashed, a landscape that had been promised to no man and cursed for generations. I had been given a viscountcy in name only; in reality, it was a gauntlet, a stone around my neck, a chance for the empire to see me drown quietly.
I stared out through the dirt-streaked windows, lightning itching beneath my skin in a restless murmur. Water and storm pulsed like a twin heartbeat; I had never felt them awaken so fully until now. My fingers twitched as though they remembered a shape they had never held. The land ahead was barren, the forest line distant and dark, the mountains in the far horizon jagged teeth against a slate sky.
Elizabeth sat beside me in the carriage, posture perfect, expression unreadable. The wind whipped strands of her hair across her pale face, and yet her hands, folded neatly in her lap, betrayed nothing. Ice waited in her veins, patient and cold, ready to harden the air around her if the situation demanded.
I said nothing. Words felt cheap here. The road had already spoken. Frostmarch had whispered its welcome in cracked stone bridges, eroded walls, and splintered wagon ruts.
The keep came into view—gray stone against gray sky, jagged as the cliffs it clung to. The gates were closed, thick and unwelcoming. Not a soul stirred on the walls. It was as though the fortress itself were holding its breath, waiting to see whether we belonged.
When the carriage finally creaked to a stop, the steward and a few guards hurried to open the doors, their expressions tight, their bowing almost frantic. "Your Grace—my lord," the steward said, voice quivering, "welcome to Frostmarch Viscounty."
I studied him. Middle-aged, gaunt, the color drained from his face as though he had been walking on frost-bitten ground for years. No illusions here. This place had seen lords die of exposure, hunger, bandits, and worse. It had devoured them all.
I nodded once. "How many soldiers?"
His lips trembled. "Thirty-two able fighters, my lord. Twelve injured. Four mages, none above second circle."
I laughed. Not a full laugh, not one that carried warmth, but a bark of disbelief. Thirty-two men, four mages, a fortress the size of a minor city—and this was supposed to be enough?
Elizabeth inclined her head slightly, her pale gaze unwavering. "We will make do," she said, quiet, precise. Ice in her words, but clarity beneath it. She understood the arithmetic of survival better than anyone I had ever met.
The keep smelled of damp stone, of cold and decay. Not fresh blood, no. Worse—the lingering tang of old failures. I could almost feel it settling in the walls, curling around the stairways, and filling the hallways. My fingers itched, the hum of lightning threading through my veins, water responding in waves of tension and pressure. My magic was awake, but raw, untested, and angry.
Elizabeth touched my arm, a simple, grounding gesture. "We start at first light," she said. Not a suggestion. A command disguised as a word.
We were escorted into the hall, the guards trailing stiffly behind. The torches on the walls flickered, struggling against the wind that seeped in through cracks and arrow slits. Every step I took felt like an intrusion into a land that had learned to fight everything that moved. And now we had arrived.
That night, sleep became impossible. I had not expected the territory to fight back immediately—only that it would test us over weeks, months. Yet the first test came before darkness had even settled.
A movement in the hall. A whisper of air. I had not heard the assassin until he was nearly on top of me. Reflex took over before thought.
I rolled. The knife passed where my neck had been moments ago. Water surged beneath my skin, insulating and diverting, and lightning leapt along that same channel, unbound and pure. It struck the man where he crouched to recover, jerking him violently as though the storm itself had entered the room.
He screamed. Then collapsed, convulsing, dead before he could hit the ground properly.
Elizabeth was already moving. Ice formed along her fingers in seconds, creeping toward the doorway, sealing exits, freezing air, narrowing the world into a cage for anyone foolish enough to enter. She did not scream, did not panic. She only watched, every gesture deliberate, every breath controlled.
The rest of the guards arrived moments later, faces pale, weapons drawn, but useless. The man who had lunged for me was gone. Only the smell of ozone and iron remained.
I knelt beside the body. "Who sent you?" I asked.
No answer. Only silence, thick and heavy. The air hummed from the storm beneath my skin. Lightning still flickered along the floors, crackling softly over the wet stone. My heart beat against the cage of ribs, slow and steady, my magic still raw, still angry, still tasting the blood of the living.
Elizabeth came to stand beside me, hands clasped neatly, ice faintly coating her boots. "They will try again," she said. Her voice was calm. There was no fear there, no doubt. Only clarity. "And we will be ready."
I rose. Every fiber of my being screamed, not in fear, but in anticipation. Frostmarch was not a gift. It was a challenge. A gauntlet meant to crush men who could not fight, who could not plan, who could not bend the land to their will.
We spent the night checking every corridor, sealing exits, placing wards, and organizing the few soldiers left in the keep. Four mages, none above second circle, and thirty-two men. That was all the empire trusted me with. And yet, the first attempt at my life had already failed.
By dawn, the storm of my own making had settled into a low hum beneath my skin. Lightning coiled in tension, water rippled through nerve and muscle, and I knew, finally, that I could survive here. More than survive. I could thrive.
Elizabeth prepared the halls for inspection. Orders, lists, accounts, maps—she moved like a conductor, orchestrating precision from chaos. There was no complaint in her motions, no hesitation. In the corner of the hall, I allowed myself a brief smile. She was ice, but she was also fire—calculated, enduring, unstoppable.
I took the first steps toward our future as the viscount of Frostmarch. Outside, the wind tore across the walls, the forests waited silently, the mountains loomed like sentinels, and the keep itself seemed to pulse beneath my feet.
I understood one thing clearly:
This territory did not forgive weakness.
And I was no weakling.
The day stretched long. I walked the halls, inspected the armory, counted the rations, spoke to the guards, and observed the sentries. Every man was expendable. Every misstep could kill them. Every mistake would be my own.
Yet as I watched Elizabeth confer with the steward, organizing the meager stores into systems of efficiency, I felt a flicker of hope. Not the naive hope of a boy dreaming of victory, but the cold, calculated hope of a man who knew he could bend even the harshest land to his will.
The sun sank behind jagged peaks, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Frostmarch was awakening for the first time in centuries, not with the lull of peace, but with the promise of vigilance, the scent of blood barely spilled, and the hum of storm magic waiting to erupt.
That night, as we retired to the private chambers, the keep was silent, but not still. Every corner, every wall, every door had been scrutinized, prepared. And yet I knew—this was only the beginning.
Somewhere beyond the walls, the enemies were watching. Counting. Waiting. And some of them would come again, daring to test a prince who had been given nothing but dirt, stones, and the empire's contempt.
I smiled faintly in the darkness. Frostmarch would not eat me.
I would eat Frostmarch in return.