“Tell me again how this is a good idea,” Driana muttered, her voice nearly lost to the wind.

Ash clung to her skin like a bruise. Her hands were bound for show, tight enough to leave marks. She kept the limp, even though the pain had faded. All of it staged. A performance for the ones who’d taken Owin from her.

Lorian didn’t slow.

“It’s not,” he said. “It’s just the one that might work.”

The cold got meaner as they drew closer. Less wind, more weight. She pulled her hood low. It was one Lorian had lent her, since hers was gone. Her nose was already numb. Her fear, worse. That, she buried for Owin’s sake.

She glanced at Lorian.

He’d shed the ash-grey cloak she now wore, trading camouflage for contrast. Now he moved beneath a shroud of pitch black, the trim stitched with sharp red thread. From blending in to becoming something no one could ignore.

The change was deliberate.

“You don’t exactly look subtle,” she muttered.

“I’m not supposed to,” he said. “They’re expecting a demon. Might as well give them one.”

A dozen Glacierborn waited at the camp’s edge. Broad, silent, unmoving.

Their armour didn’t match. Rusted mail. Burned leathers. Pieces torn from fallen enemies, worn like trophies.

One wore a Praetorian chestplate. Driana’s stomach turned. It could’ve been Vellis’s.

No one raised a weapon.

Yet.

She stepped in behind Lorian, head down. Time to play the part of a prisoner.

But what if it wasn’t just a part? What if she failed and this became real?

One of the guards stiffened. “The emissary,” he muttered. “The Icebinder’s been waiting.”

Lorian gave a sharp nod. “Your men grow slack. They left this one for dead.”

The nearest Glacierborn glanced at her, then quickly away. His grip tightened on his spear, but he didn’t question it.

“We were told she fell to her death,” he muttered. “It won’t happen again.”

Driana waited until they’d cleared the checkpoint.

“They’re expecting someone?” she hissed.

“Obviously,” he said, low and even. “Let’s hope she doesn’t know the real envoy’s face.”

She had to remind herself to breathe.

She didn’t even know how far they’d come. Just that help was far beyond reach.

“I still don’t trust you,” she muttered.

Lorian didn’t look back. “Good. I don’t need you to. Just follow.”

Driana bit back a reply. Of course he didn’t need trust. Just her obedience. Trust didn’t matter. Getting Owin back did.

Up ahead, two wolves stood still. White-furred and massive, their flanks marked with branded runes.

Driana slowed. “What’s wrong with their eyes?” she whispered. They didn’t track movement. Just stared. Glassy. Empty.

“They’ve been bound,” Lorian said. His voice didn’t rise. “Tundra wolves usually serve by choice. Or run free. This?” He nodded towards the beasts. “Only necessary if their masters have been corrupted.”

The camp opened up beyond the ridge. Jagged tents stitched from hide and patchwork metal, smoke curling from low fires. Glacierborn moved between them, quiet but purposeful. One crouched over a cooking pot. Another scraped frost from a blade.

They looked… ordinary.

Not monsters. Not demons. Just people going about their morning.

Her fists curled inside the borrowed cloak.

They cook. They laugh. They breathe.

And still, they took him.

Owin, shivering in a cage, while they acted like nothing was wrong.

“Lorian,” she said, so low it barely touched the air, “I swear, if they’ve done something to Owin…”

“They haven’t,” he cut in. “Not yet.”

“How do you know?”

His gaze flicked towards a cluster of guards up ahead. Each one stepped aside, reverent, even as their eyes narrowed.

“Because the Icebinder wouldn’t waste her leverage,” he said. “She’ll want to meet me first.”

They halted before the largest tent.

Pillars of carved ice held up sagging fabric, stitched from uneven patches of hide and canvas. At the top, a glyph pulsed. Dark red etched over glacial blue, like a wound trying to heal over.

A voice called from within.

“Enter.”

Lorian didn’t hesitate.

Inside, the tent was warmer than outside, though not by much. Two iron braziers glowed near the floor, their coals giving off thin ribbons of smoke that traced the needlework along the inner canvas. The space stretched longer than she expected, about twenty strides from end to end. Most of the heat clung low to the ground, leaving the air above bitingly cold.

Four Glacierborn stood at the corners of the tent, silent and unmoving. But it wasn’t their stillness that made Driana’s gut twist.

It was their chests.

Each one pulsed with the same dark shadow she’d seen on Owin’s captors. Not the soft, pale glow she’d expected.

The guards at the entrance hadn’t had it. She was sure of that now.

These ones had been changed.

Her jaw tightened.

She looked up.

At the far end of the tent sat a throne, if it could be called that. A raised block of packed snow, shaped just enough to seem intentional, its back crowned with curved antlers, pale frost clinging to their arcs.

The seat lifted her just enough to sit above them. Just deliberate enough to be a reminder.

She sat still as ice. Short. Broad-shouldered. Wrapped in black. Her skin reflected the light like glass. But something darker pulsed underneath.

The same rhythm as her guards.

“You are earlier than expected,” the woman said. Her voice was steady, neither warm nor cold. “The offering isn’t quite ready.”

Lorian didn’t bow. “You can never be too careful. The weather turns fast in these lands.”

She studied him a moment too long.

“I am Thjora Icevein,” she said at last. “Warden of the Onyxborn. Keeper of the Pact. The Icebinder.”

“I’m honoured to meet you,” Lorian said. “I was told you value fair dealings.”

Her gaze didn’t soften. “And I see you haven’t brought what was promised.”

Lorian didn’t flinch. “I’ve come ahead of the main delegation,” he said evenly. “You’ll have it soon enough.”

Driana stiffened.

Onyxborn.

“My people grow restless,” Thjora continued. “We yearn to be free of the last of our Glacier Amethysts. The Onyx Hearts your kind forged for us have served us well.”

She tapped her chest.

Could they really have made a pact? Given up their hearts to demons?

“As long as you give up your Amethysts,” Lorian said, voice flat, “and provide what was agreed…”

“You’ll get your supply.” He nodded towards Driana. “But losing assets like this one lowers the value of your trade.”

Thjora’s eyes moved to her.

“You survived.”

It wasn’t a question.

Driana met her gaze, jaw tight. “Your soldiers left me to die in the snow.”

Thjora gave a slight nod. “Yes. They failed to check your body. Sloppy.”

She turned to Lorian. “I regret that you had to retrieve her yourself. That burden shouldn’t have fallen on you.”

Lorian shrugged. “I managed.”

Thjora stepped down from the throne, boots crunching softly on the packed floor.

She was shorter than Driana, but didn’t carry herself like it.

Her presence made the tent feel smaller.

“You were marked for ritual, not slaughter,” she said. “There is a difference.”

Before Driana could respond, Thjora raised a hand.

Two guards entered.

Between them walked Owin.

He was alive. Pale, but upright. Dressed in clean clothes, a blanket around his shoulders, warm gloves, new boots.

Her chest tightened.

He saw her. “Dri?”

She stepped forward on reflex, but a guard gently blocked her with an arm.

Across the tent, Owin took a step too, but was held back.

“He is not mistreated,” Thjora said. “You are both to be preserved. That was the agreement.”

“What agreement?” Driana asked.

Thjora didn’t answer. She looked to Lorian instead.

“You know the terms.”

“I do,” he said, his voice soft.

Driana glanced between them. “You’re trading us.”

Thjora didn’t look at her.

“They bring the Onyx. We give what is asked, our old cores. Or the children of our enemies. That is the pact.”

“You’re just going to let them take us?”

Lorian said nothing.

“I call it peace,” Thjora said simply. “A hundred more of my people will no longer remain subservient to the Empire.”

Driana’s stomach turned. She wanted to shout. Wanted to run.

But Owin was right there, alive.

“Rest up. You must be weary from your trek through the mountains,” Thjora said, turning to Lorian. “Tonight, you dine with the Onyxborn. The emissary’s seat is yours.”

She paused. Then flicked her gaze towards Driana.

“These two, we will hold them. They stay until our payment arrives.”

They dragged the siblings back towards the cage.

It sat at the centre of the camp, sculpted from ice, iron anchors driven into each corner. Runes etched into the frost glowed low and steady, casting pale blue light across the snow-packed floor. There was warmth, too. Gentle, almost unexpected.

The guard who opened the door didn’t speak.

The one who closed it gave her a small nod.

Inside, Owin sank to the floor, arms wrapped around his knees.

“Owin,” she breathed.

“Dri.”

She dropped beside him and pulled him into a tight hug.

“You’re okay?” she asked, checking his hands. “They didn’t hurt you?”

He shook his head. “No. They fed me. Let me sleep.”

His voice was quiet.

“I thought you were gone,” he whispered.

“Never,” she said, jaw locking. “I found you. That’s what matters.”

Owin looked towards the bars. Two Onyxborn stood just beyond. Silent, unmoving.

“They’re not cruel,” he said. “But they are cold.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“They don’t talk much. But they didn’t shout. Didn’t hit me.” A pause. “One gave me tea.”

Driana frowned. She watched the guards. One of them glanced over, then turned away again.

She pulled the fur tighter around Owin’s shoulders. The air inside the cage was warmer than it had any right to be. Blankets were stacked in one corner. A bowl of dried fruit sat untouched.

“They think this is right,” she said aloud, before she meant to. “They think this is how they win.”

Owin didn’t answer.

Silence settled between them.

Did Lorian mean to hand her over all along?

Or was he just playing along with… whatever his plan was?

“Lorian’s going to come back,” she said, more for herself than to Owin. “And when he does, we’re going to leave. All right?”

He looked at her, his eyes wide, unsure.

“You promise?”

She hesitated. Then nodded. “I promise.”

He leaned his head against her shoulder. She felt how light he was. How tired.

Outside the bars, one of the guards turned.

For a moment, Driana thought she saw something in his eyes.

Doubt? No, just pity.

***

Midday passed in silence. Before she knew it, evening had come.

They were brought scraps. Stale bread and a few strips of stringy meat that tasted like snow-game.

A fire had been lit at the centre of the camp.

Deadwood and glacial resin stacked high, crackling with unnatural heat.

Shadows rippled across the tents. Across the Onyxborn who didn’t speak.

Thjora stood tallest among them. More because of her presence than her height.

Her hand was raised high, her voice carrying strange syllables Driana didn’t recognise.

She spoke a word, then lifted her fist.

The Onyx in her chest flared dark red. Only for a moment, before it dulled again.

Driana kept still.

Owin was curled against her side, breathing slow.

They’d pretended to sleep when the guards had checked. Everyone had been drawn to whatever ritual the Icebinder was performing.

But now, there were no guards at the cage. All eyes were on Thjora now, drawn to her strange chanting and smoke-bound rites.

Then Driana heard the boots in the snow.

Slow, measured.

She opened one eye.

Lorian crouched low beside the cage, cloak drawn tight around him.

“We go now,” he whispered. “Before the real delegation arrives.”

Driana shifted, careful not to startle Owin. “How did you…?”

“No time,” he said. “Talk after. Move now.”

He pulled a small flask from his coat and poured a few drops over the ice bars. The liquid hissed on contact, spreading in thin veins that began to glow faintly blue. A crack ran through the nearest bar, then another, until the ice split clean through with a sharp pop.

Lorian caught it before it fell.

“Up,” he said.

Driana nudged Owin. “Come on. Stay close.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded and slipped out into the night.

They moved fast. Quiet. Low.

Between tents. Around crates. Past the wolf pens, where the runed beasts gave only a passing glance.

They weren’t expecting flight.

At the edge of the camp, Driana glanced back.

Thjora still stood at the fire. Her hand moved through the air, drawing shapes in smoke and ash.

“What is she doing?” Driana whispered.

“Preparing,” Lorian said. “Tomorrow’s a big day for them.”

He looked to the treeline.

“Though we may have just spoiled it.”

They were nearly clear when Lorian stopped.

“Wardline,” he muttered, sounding annoyed. “Wasn’t up when we came in.”

Ahead, a mark had been carved into the snow and filled with black powder.

Light shimmered faintly above the groove.

No mage in sight. Just glyphs, pre-set sigils, etched below, their energy suspended in air.

Power stored, ready to trigger.

“Isn’t that going to warn them?” Driana asked.

“Either they don’t trust us,” he said, “or they wanted to keep something out.”

He glanced at her.

“On three.”

Driana’s heart thundered.

“One.”

She grabbed Owin’s hand.

“Two.”

The glyphs pulsed.

“Three.”

They crossed.

The world kicked sideways… then she was hauled upright, Lorian catching her with one arm and steadying Owin with the other.

A shockwave burst behind them.

The ice groaned as the glyphs along the ward ignited, burning into jagged red lines.

The alarm had been tripped.

From somewhere in the camp, a voice shouted.

Glacierborn…

Or maybe Onyxborn.

Driana risked a glance back.

Thjora stood at the fire’s edge, hands raised, the spell unfinished. She was no longer chanting.

Her voice carried instead, unnaturally clear across the wind.

“You deceived me, emissary.”

Not rage.

Worse.

Disappointment.

“No matter. I’m sure the Daskans would be pleased to have a stray returned to them.”

Lorian didn’t look back.

“Keep moving.”

They did.

The camp fell behind them.

Alarms still rang out. Shouts, howls, the scrape of weapons drawn in haste.

Driana’s breath rasped in her chest. Owin stumbled beside her, legs too short, too tired. She pulled him forward anyway.

“Where now?” she hissed.

“Ridgeline,” Lorian said. “If we reach the trees, we disappear.”

A low howl echoed behind them. Edging closer each time.

“They’re following,” Owin whispered.

“They’re hunting,” Lorian corrected. “There’s a difference.”

The flat ground gave way to frost-cracked rock and snow-pitted slope.

Behind them, Thjora’s voice rose again. Something more than just a command. Like the words from a long-lost ritual.

“She’s still casting,” Driana gasped.

“Let her,” Lorian said. “If she’s busy with that, she’s not chasing us.”

They pushed harder.

The campfires vanished behind a wall of trees, swallowed by the dark.

But the howls kept coming.

Her lungs burned. Still, she kept moving.

For Owin.

For their mother.

For something past the fear.

The slope turned brutal. Each step a stagger. Snow clung to her boots like chains.

She slipped, but kept herself upright.

Owin stumbled beside her, gasping.

“I’m trying, Dri…” he panted. “I really…”

Behind them the sounds of wolves drew closer.

Paws on snow.

Blades drawn.

Voices rising.

“We’re not going to make it,” she said, barely a whisper.

Lorian didn’t answer. He just ran.

And then, Owin fell. Hard. Flat. He didn’t get up.

“Owin!” Driana dropped beside him, shaking his shoulders. “Come on, we have to go…”

“I can’t,” he said, small. “My legs…”

She looked back.

Figures were breaking through the trees. Too close now.

She grabbed him, pulled his arm around her shoulders, tried to rise…

But her knees buckled.

The strength was gone.

Lorian turned.

Then, without a word, he was there.

He hauled them both.

Owin slung over one shoulder, and he half-dragged Driana with the other arm.

She’d been trained, like any senator’s daughter.

Run. Fight. Endure.

But now, she was just weight.

Lorian kept moving.

But slower.

Heavy.

And they were being surrounded. Shadows on both flanks.

Too many.

It was too late.

She couldn’t lift him. Couldn’t save him. She’d failed Owin.

Behind them, the air cracked. A pulse rolled over the slope and beneath them, before settling at the forest’s edge up ahead.

It hit waiting glyphs seeded in the drifts, knitting into a standing wall of red light across the trees.

Light bled upward from the markings, forming a wall of flame. Their escape was sealed.

“She finished her spell,” Lorian hissed. “That firewall’s meant to trap us in.”

It was over.

They would never see their mother again.

And then…

That sound.

Low. Buzzing. Out of place in snow and silence.

But she knew it. Her gaze lifted skyward.

A shape ripped through the clouds. Brass wings stretched wide, like those of an insect, but fixed.

Twin rune-engines burned beneath it, casting light across the frost.

Not a bird.

Not a spell.

A Hornet.

Another followed, just as sleek, tight in formation.

Not just built to chase.

Built to end.

The lead Hornet opened fire.

Twin bursts flared from beneath its belly. White-hot streaks that slammed into the snow just behind them.

The ground erupted.

Snow and ash blasted skyward, along with the stench of scorched metal and blood, burning through the frost.

Onyxborn were flung like ragdolls, limbs twisted, still.

Another Onyxborn dived too slowly. His leg crumpled beneath him as shrapnel tore through the ice.

Screams rang out. Wolves scattered. The line broke.

As the first Hornet tore past overhead, Driana caught a glimpse of the engraving along its flank.

LEG I, PRAETORIA, ARTIMI

Her breath caught.

The First Imperial Praetorian Legion.

Led by the general she’d grown up hearing stories about. Brennus Trisval.

The Vermilion Banner.

Pacifier of Taulica. Bane of demonkind.

And now he was here.

Not just soldiers. Not just ships.

The Legion.

And for the first time since the ambush, something bloomed in her chest.

Hope.