The next morning dawned pale and brittle with cold, the kind of northern sunlight that looked warm but bit like frost when it touched skin.
Maria stood in the courtyard as the horses were readied, her breath forming delicate clouds in the air. She had obeyed the King's instructions: no silks, no jewelled trains, nothing that whispered of Sareen. Instead she wore a dark wool cloak lined with fur, her gloves stitched in plain leather. Beneath it, her riding dress was a deep forest green that caught only the faintest shimmer when the light hit it, the only indulgence she had allowed herself. Her hair was braided simply, pinned at the back of her neck.
When Aedric emerged from the stables, he looked entirely at home in the cold. His cloak was black, heavy, and trimmed in wolf pelt. The silver of his armour gleamed faintly beneath it, polished not for show but habit. The reins in his gloved hand matched his horse. a massive grey stallion whose breath steamed in the morning air.
Maria's mare was smaller, sleek and dark-eyed, the kind of creature bred for grace rather than battle. She ran a careful hand along its neck, whispering something in the soft Sareen tongue without thinking. The horse snorted, as if in approval.
Aedric mounted first, movements precise and effortless. When Maria hesitated, the stirrup feeling too high, he reached down a gloved hand. For a heartbeat, she froze, then took it. His grip was steady and warm even through the leather, his strength making the motion feel weightless.
Their eyes met briefly. Neither spoke.
They rode out through the castle gates with Varin and a small escort of guards. The city unfolded before them: tall stone houses pressed close together, banners rippling from high windows, the air filled with the mingled scents of smoke, snow, and bread baking somewhere unseen.
At first, the streets were quiet. Then word spread.
Heads turned as they passed. Bakers abandoned their stalls, soldiers paused mid-drill, and women carrying baskets of kindling stopped to curtsy. The Queen of Sareen, the foreign bride, had not been seen beyond the palace walls since her arrival. Now here she was, cloaked in northern wool, her cheeks touched by the cold, her bearing still unmistakably regal.
Whispers followed them like a second procession.
"She's paler than I thought."
"Her eyes like the southern sea."
"She looks too soft for our winters."
"And yet she rides beside him."
Maria kept her gaze steady ahead, pretending not to hear, though her spine stayed straight and her chin lifted. She was aware of every stare, every murmur. But what caught her most was Aedric's silence. He did not speak, but he slowed his horse slightly to match her pace, glancing at her once or twice as if to ensure she was keeping balance on the icy road.
It was a small thing, that wordless courtesy. Yet to Maria, it felt monumental.
When they reached the training fields outside the city, Aedric dismounted to speak with the commander. Maria stayed seated, watching the soldiers drill in perfect, brutal rhythm. The sound of blades clashing against shields echoed against the snow.
One young soldier stumbled, catching sight of her instead of his opponent. Aedric's sharp voice carried across the yard, cutting through the clamor.
"Eyes forward, not at the Queen!"
The command snapped the air in two. The soldier flushed crimson, bowing his head.
Varin, standing beside Maria, let out a quiet laugh. "It seems His Majesty has found something more dangerous than the enemy."
Maria said nothing, though her heart gave an unfamiliar, traitorous flutter.
As they turned back toward the city, the air had grown thicker, sharper somehow. The rhythm of hooves softened against the snow until it was interrupted by the low roar of a crowd gathering near the main square. Smoke rose faintly in the distance, not from hearths, but from the square's pyre, the one Maria had seen from her window countless nights before.
Aedric's posture changed instantly. His back straightened, his shoulders set, and his eyes narrowed with the kind of focus that came from long habit. Varin exchanged a brief look with one of the guards.
"Your Majesty," the captain murmured, "they claim to have caught a witch."
Aedric dismounted without hesitation.
Maria followed, her hands trembling slightly as she pulled her gloves tighter. The crowd parted for them as the King stepped forward; no one dared speak his name, but his presence alone demanded silence. Even the winter wind seemed to die.
At the centre of the square stood a young woman, bound at the wrists, her hair wild with frost. Her gown was torn, her knees scraped from being dragged through the cobblestones. Yet her eyes burned like coals, defiant even in ruin.
"She was caught near the river, sire," a soldier reported. "Said to be practicing blood rites."
Maria's heart stuttered.
Aedric stepped closer. "Did she confess?"
"She would not, Your Majesty."
He regarded the woman, silent for a long moment, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, but it cut through the square like steel.
"Then let her scream her confession in the fire."
A ripple of approval passed through the crowd, some crossing themselves, others whispering praise for their merciless king.
Maria felt the blood drain from her face. She had heard of his reputation before: his hatred for witches, his cold execution of their kind during the Frost Purge. But hearing the stories and standing in the shadow of one were not the same.
The witch met her gaze then. Really met it.
For one breath, one frozen heartbeat, it felt as though the world fell away. The crowd, the soldiers, the fire all gone. There was only that woman, her eyes dark and endless, searching Maria's face as if she saw straight through the wool and silk, straight through to the secret that pulsed beneath her skin.
Maria took a half-step back, her lips parting, but no sound came.
The woman smiled faintly, a cracked, bloodied thing. "Silver blood," she whispered, barely audible, yet Maria heard it. The words were not spoken for anyone else.
Aedric turned, his expression thunderous. "Did she speak?"
The captain shook his head quickly. "Nothing, sire."
"Then she dies a liar."
The torches were lit. The crowd surged forward.
Maria's pulse thundered in her ears as the soldiers dragged the woman toward the stake. She couldn't help it, the words left her before she'd even decided to speak.
"Your Majesty," she said softly, her voice just audible above the wind. "Perhaps... perhaps we should be certain first. If she has confessed nothing, then what if she is simply—"
Aedric turned his head sharply, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight. "You would defend her?"
Maria faltered beneath his gaze. "I would only be sure," she whispered. "Before she burns."
He looked at her for a long, cold moment. The silence between them was so still it made her chest ache. Then his eyes hardened.
"You are not in Sareen anymore, Maria," he said, each word deliberate, clipped. "Mercy feeds corruption. A single witch spared has cost a hundred lives before. I will not risk another."
She opened her mouth, but he had already turned away.
The guards obeyed his gesture. The torches were lowered.
Maria flinched at the sound of fire catching dry wood, the crackling roar that followed, the sudden rush of heat against the cold.
Aedric didn't watch her as the flames rose, but she saw the faintest tightening in his hand, a motion so brief it might have been imagined.
To the crowd, he was a savior. To her, he was suddenly, terrifyingly real. a man of absolute conviction, capable of tenderness one moment and fire the next.
And standing there, with the light of the pyre flickering against her pale skin, Maria understood what it meant to live beside a man whose love for order could burn the world clean.
Maria could not move. She could not even look away. The flames caught quickly, curling up the witch's dress, reaching her hair, painting the snow in a feverish orange glow. The woman did not scream until the very end and when she did, it sounded like a curse whispered to the wind.
Aedric watched with a face carved from stone. When it was done, he simply turned away. "See the ashes scattered beyond the wall. No grave. No marker."
Maria followed in silence, her gloves trembling as she mounted her horse again. Her stomach churned; the taste of smoke clung to her tongue.
The city cheered for its king as they rode back through the streets, the people bowing, shouting blessings. Yet Maria only saw the reflection of flames in their eyes. She saw worship built on fear, loyalty born from cruelty.
And beneath the weight of her furs, the mark on her palm burned faintly, pulsing with something dark and alive.
Aedric rode ahead, his silhouette sharp against the pale sky.
He did not notice that behind him, his queen was silently weeping.