The snow beneath Driana’s feet felt wrong. It crunched like bone and smelled faintly of fire.

Her boots slipped, half-worn soles skidding on the ice. She yanked Owin behind her, their fingers clenched tight. His breath came in short, terrified puffs.

She risked a glance back. The convoy lay broken. Carts split open, wood scattered everywhere. A wheel still turned, slow, useless.

“Keep going,” she hissed. Her gaze snapped forward. No more looking back.

She pulled her torn cloak tighter, trying to block the cold. It had ripped hours ago. Or was it only minutes? She couldn’t tell anymore. Time had blurred, like the flakes drifting across her vision.

“Dri…” Owin’s voice cracked. “Why didn’t Mother come with us?”

“Because she couldn’t,” Driana snapped, too fast. “She’s waiting in Incantium. We have to make it.”

They stumbled into the shadow of an overturned wagon. The frost lacing its edges jagged. Too sharp. Too crystalline.

A Praetorian Guard lay nearby, eyes wide, a line of red across her throat. Her face was already going purple.

She heard Owin gasp. “Is she…?”

“Gone.” Driana pulled him behind the wreckage. “Quiet now.”

The cold bit through her winter cloak, straight to the bone. She pressed her free hand into the snow, trying to think. Think... think.

It had all happened too fast.

They were just a day out from Incantium. She remembered the guards laughing around the fire. One of them, Vellis, had even shown Owin how to spar with a stick.

Then the sky dimmed. No thunder, no warning.

And the howls began.

The mages came first. Armor lacquered with frost. Sigils flaring blue-white across their gloves as they raised their hands.

Bolts hit the lead carriage. Wood cracked. Frost bloomed. A horse reared in sheer agony as a bolt struck its flank. 

Guards screamed. One spell caught a man mid-step. He didn’t finish the motion.

Then silence. Then the charge.

Driana had seen Glacierborn before. Short, broad, half-bearded. Chests faintly aglow, their Glacier Amethysts pulsing where a heart should be, made of ice, not flesh.

They told stories, those ones. From deep below the frost. Once, King Gomin himself had given her a shard of candied snow and called her brave.

But not these.

These carried axes rimmed in silver frost, with no laughter in their eyes. They moved with purpose. Discipline. Fury.

Wolves raced ahead, with eyes like sapphire glass. One took a throat. She couldn’t say whose.

Iron met iron. The convoy folded fast. Too fast.

Vellis went down hard. His sword skittered across the snow. He didn’t get back up.

The air stank of blood. Of burning wood. Of things she knew she’d never forget.

She’d grabbed Owin then. No time to think. Just run. Just hide. They’d slid beneath an overturned carriage, breath ragged, hearts hammering.

A low growl cut through the snow nearby. A wolf.

It came too close.

Then a sharp whistle. A muttered command.

The wolf pulled back.

Now? She didn’t know who was still alive. Had anyone else made it out? Were they still being hunted?

The howls rose again. Somewhere in the dark.

Owin stumbled beside her. She didn’t slow.

“We’re going,” she said, more to herself than to him. “We’re going to make it.”

“But what if they come back?” he whispered.

“They won’t.”

The lie sat in her throat like ash. Bitter. Heavy. But she kept walking.

She dragged him past the next pile of smoldering wood and cloth. Smoke gnawed at her eyes. Through the haze, she spotted a dropped torch, half-buried in ash.

They had to keep going. There would be no more warnings. No other convoy would find them. Not until it was too late.

Only her and Owin.

A howl rose again. Closer this time. Her grip tightened around his hand. Jaw clenched, she ran.

They dove into a snow-filled gully, the slope slick beneath her boots. She nearly fell. Owin did.

“I’m okay,” he gasped, voice muffled by his scarf.

She pulled him up, the cold air cutting her lungs like knives. Up ahead, tall, dark trees laced with snow. Their only hope for cover. She headed toward them without another thought.

“We’ll be safe in there,” she said, more to reassure herself than him. “Trust me.”

Owin didn’t answer. He just followed.

The forest swallowed them whole. Branches sagged under the weight of snow. Flakes clung to her eyelashes, melting down her neck. Her boots, already damp, were now soaked through.

“Dri,” Owin said after a while, “why would the Glacierborn do this? Aren’t they part of the Empire?”

She kept pushing forward, step after step. Ducking under branches. Weaving between towering trunks. Her foot punched through a snow crust.

“Maybe they’re different somehow,” she said finally. “Bandits, maybe.”

Owin went quiet before replying, “Bandits don’t use spells.”

Driana didn’t respond.

Driana knew it. The intricate, practiced way the mages had woven their sigils. How they cast one spell, then the next. That was training. Years of it. The kind of education rarely seen among bandits.

Owin stayed quiet. But she could feel it in the way he held her hand tighter. He’d sensed it too. Even if he didn’t have the words.

Still, she said nothing. Just kept moving, one foot after the other, Owin’s hand in hers.

A gust tore through the trees, scattering flakes in every direction. A mound of snow slid from the branches above and narrowly missed them. She blinked through it, clenching her teeth.

Then, through the shifting branches, a flicker of blue-white light pulsed in the distance.

She froze. Her fingers locked around his.

“Wh… what happened?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. Just turned sharply and changed direction.

“We’re not going that way,” she said.

“But…”

“Not that way.”

That same eerie blue-white. The color of the first spell that had split the lead carriage like fire.

Was it a signal? Another battle?

It didn’t matter. Only that the Glacierborn were on the move.

They pushed deeper into the forest. She could barely feel her feet now. She didn’t really know where to go next.

But she’d keep lying. She’d keep running.

Even if only so Owin could keep going too.

They came to a stream, frozen over with a sheet of ice.

Driana crouched beside it, checking Owin’s hands. His fingers were stiff, raw at the knuckles, the tips turning a worrying shade. Freckles speckled his nose and cheeks, barely visible beneath the frost. His black hair clung to his forehead in frozen curls.

She didn’t dare think what her own toes looked like.

“But…”

“No arguing.” Her voice came out hoarse.

She bit into the edge of her cloak and tore until the fabric gave. She didn’t care that it ripped the crest of House Ferona in half. All that mattered was Owin, shaking too hard to speak.

She wrapped the cloth around his hands, pressing them between her own.

“Breathe into them,” she ordered. “Like a mug of honey-brew.”

She had only just reached her twelfth summer. Even the thieves from the alleys back home would have called her too young for this.

His breath fogged. Weak. Unsteady. But he did it.

Driana blinked hard. “We’re almost there,” she said, though she didn’t know where there was. “Maybe smoke. A ranger outpost. Or a legion patrol.”

Owin looked at her. “You don’t believe that.”

She just smiled. “Breathe.”

He did.

There was no more wind. No birds. Just the eerie silence of night.

Then came the sound. A branch cracking. Then another. A low, long growl.

Driana’s head snapped up. “Run.”

They scrambled uphill, slipping, boots scrabbling as snow flew like loose powder. The trees pressed close. The growls multiplied, drawing closer now.

She didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

“Owin! Keep going!”

“I’m trying!”

They burst through the tree line. Ahead: a slope. Too steep. Too late.

They slipped as the snow gave way beneath them. She twisted mid-fall, shielding Owin as they slid down into the shallow ravine.

She hit the frozen bottom hard, her shoulder taking the worst of it. Her hand went numb. Owin groaned beside her.

“Up,” she gasped. “We have to…”

Then came the scout.

Not a bandit. A Glacierborn. Pale-blue, broad, stout. Eyes like curved quartz. A spear of jagged frost in one hand.

Another followed behind. Then another. Too many.

Something was wrong. Where his Glacier Amethyst should’ve glowed, there was only shadow.

Driana grabbed Owin. They had to go. Now.

The scout lunged with the butt of his spear.

The blow didn’t land, she was too fast. But she lost her grip on Owin’s hand.

Worse, as she staggered and slipped, there was no ground beneath her.

Just air.

The fall off the ledge was short but brutal, maybe ten feet down.

Her head cracked against something. The world reeled. She gasped. Couldn’t move her legs. Couldn’t see straight.

Voices shouted above.

“Check the edge! Quickly!”

“Don’t waste your time. She can’t have survived that.”

“Dri…” 

She tried to answer, but nothing came out.

Snow was falling again. It drifted over her eyes.

And the chill took her.

***

She didn’t know how long she floated in the dark.

She didn’t know if she was dead.

But the cold still hurt. That had to mean something.

Her fingers twitched. Her breath rasped in her chest.

She was broken. But not gone.

Owin.

She’d failed to bring him home.

Was she even still alive?

Would her mother find her body? Or just her cloak, torn through the crest?

Would anyone come? Would anyone even know where to look?

She woke to a beak picking at her neck.

“Ah…!”

A croak. Black wings. Then another jab, sharp and testing, just above her brow. She flinched. It cawed in her face and flapped back, settling onto a rocky outcrop.

Another dark shape swept toward her. She raised a trembling arm and swatted at it.

Pain lanced through her legs as she struggled to her knees.

Ravens. Three of them. Circling back. Hopping closer across the snow-packed stones.

“Go!” Her voice cracked. “Get away.”

They didn’t move. One tilted its head, curious. Another tapped at her shoulder. They were waiting. Watching. Sooner or later, they’d make a meal of her.

She stared back, barely breathing.

What now? Go after Owin? Try to find help? Or just stay here, while she bled, and just wait?

The convoy was gone. Incantium would notice. When it didn’t arrive, someone would send scouts. Her mother would see to that. Maybe even King Gomin himself. Someone would come.

She just had to last that long.

And then… 

A whoosh. Sharp. Unnatural.

The air flared orange. Ember-bright, like fire beneath glass.

The ravens shrieked and scattered. Snow lifted in a ring around her.

Above, a sigil burned in midair. Not an attack spell. Not quite. Just a warning. A presence.

She blinked at it, disoriented. It wasn’t like anything she’d seen cast before.

Something else. Something old.

The crunch of boots broke through the snow.

Driana tried to stand. Her shoulder flared with pain. Her hand trembled as she braced against the ice.

“Who’s there?” she rasped.

No answer.

He stepped through the haze.

Cloaked. Tall. A helm shaped with curling horns. In one hand, an orb glowing ember-orange. Runes pulsed across its surface like coals shifting in a hearth.

Her heart pounded her ribs.

“Demon,” she croaked.

The figure stopped. Lowered the orb.

“Demon?” His voice was calm. Amused. “On this side of the Inva Mountains?”

With one final, painful push, she staggered to her feet. Her knees nearly gave, but held. Her hands curled into fists.

She didn’t care what he was. If he’d touched Owin, she’d…

“What do you want?” she snapped.

The man stepped forward. The sigil began to fade; the orb in his hand dissolved like smoke.

“To make sure you were alive,” he said.

She blinked.

“That fall would’ve killed most.” He glanced back toward the slope. “You’re lucky you didn’t land headfirst.”

“I don’t care.” Her voice shook. “Where’s my brother?”

A pause.

“Taken,” he said.

Her throat went dry.

“You saw,” she rasped.

“I saw.” He didn’t look away. “You’ll need help getting him back.”

“I don’t need help from a demon.”

He tilted his head. She froze.

His helm wasn’t horned.

The horns were his. Curved. Real.

“If I were,” he said, crouching until they were eye level, “would you still be breathing?”

Her breath caught.

Horns. Real ones.

The old stories surged back. Half-whispered warnings from palace guards, temple murals of demons with fire for eyes.

The stories conflicted. Some made them monsters. Others, exiles. Teachers. Traitors.

She knew they were real. The wars had proved that. But this close? This calm?

She couldn’t tell which kind she was looking at.

That scared her most.

A moment passed. She felt those eyes bore into her.

“Funny what they teach Aevite children. That we eat the bones. That we wear your skins.”

He glanced at her clenched fists.

“You ever stop to ask why they want you that scared?”

Driana swallowed. “Then… what are you?”

The man looked up, toward the distant peaks, as if weighing his answer against the wind.

“I’m what’s left,” he said softly. “Of the ones who fought this war the first time.”

“I don’t understand,” she said.

He looked back at her. Almost smiled. Sad. Tired.

For the first time, she saw his face. Half-shadowed, but unmistakably human. Lined. Bronze. A streak of old scar across one cheek.

“Just call me Lorian.”

It told her nothing. Not really.

But something in her chest eased. Just a little.

And she wasn’t sure why.

Not that she trusted him. It was too soon.

They moved without speaking.

He led her through the snow, slow and careful. She limped behind, her knee throbbing, her boots squelching with every step. The cold had changed. No longer sharp, but dull and deep. Creeping. That scared her more.

It didn’t take long to reach the small camp he’d prepared earlier. A curved stone overhang shielded it from the wind, crude, but solid.

Lorian crouched beside a flat stone and pressed his palm to its surface.

Driana hovered nearby. Her legs felt like wood.

A sigil flared to life beneath his hand. Ember-orange, like before, but shaped differently now. Rounder. Layered.

Driana stiffened. She wasn’t supposed to know what a sigil like that meant. Not yet. But she’d peeked over enough restricted scrolls to recognize control work. Layered glyphs. Focused heat. Deliberate flow. That kind of glow didn’t come from instinct. It came from training. The kind taught in imperial academies. Or… other places.

She forced herself not to flinch.

The warmth spreading from the sigil was real. Comforting, even.

She blinked. Dazed. “You made fire from stone.”

“Wouldn’t waste the Lady’s magic on something as dull as fire.”

Her stomach tightened. Even demons had gods? If that was true, it hadn’t made it into the teachings. Or maybe it had. Just not the parts they let children read.

She didn’t ask. Didn’t dare.

He brushed the sigil. “This is an emberstone. Quieter. And it’ll save your toes.”

He gestured for her to sit. She didn’t move.

“You’re safe.”

Slowly, she stepped forward and sat. Her hands shook as she peeled off one boot. Then the next.

Her stomach turned. Her toes were raw. Almost blue.

Lorian frowned, but said nothing.

Then, without a word, he knelt and drew a second sigil on the ground, right in front of her feet.

It flared gently. Heat rose from the stone.

She jerked back, instinctive.

“I’m not hurting you,” he said. “I’m helping.”

She still didn’t want to trust him.

But her toes… were pinking again. The ache turned to pins and needles.

The feeling was coming back.

Finally, she spoke. Voice flat.

“They took him. Why?”

Lorian didn’t answer at first.

“The Glacierborn,” she pressed, “I thought they were part of the Empire. Loyal. Why now?”

He exhaled, slow.

“Most are. Maybe more than your own kind,” he said. “Their ancestors owed the Empire. It saved them from extinction. There was a bounty once. For the stones in their chests.”

He tapped his own sternum.

“But not everyone was grateful.”

“You’re saying they’re rebels?”

“Debt or not, not everyone wants to stay under Aevite rule forever,” Lorian said. “And some… are willing to do worse than rebel to prove it.”

Her mouth went dry. A chill traced her spine.

“But why us?”

His eyes flicked to her brooch. The crest.

“What’s your mother’s name?”

She hesitated. She wasn’t sure why.

“Elicia,” she said.

A pause. Then a nod.

“Elicia of House Ferona.”

He gave her a look. 

“Daughter of the Mage-Pontiff. Makes sense now. Your mother’s the one who ensures every Glacierborn heart makes it back to the Capital.”

Driana didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Something tightened in her chest.

“It’s…” her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s not like that. It kept the poachers away. For hundreds of years. That’s what King Gomin told me!”

“But now?” Lorian asked. “The Glacierborn give back to the Empire with much more than their heart.”

She didn’t have an answer. Her eyes dropped to her hands.

“That’s not a matter for me,” Lorian said. “Maybe it will be for you, when you’re older.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. Just turned and walked, cloak dragging through the snow.

Driana hesitated, then grabbed her boots.

He hadn’t asked her to come. But he hadn’t left her to die, either.

She looked at the emberstone. At her boots, somehow dry. At the way he kept his back to her, giving her space.

Horns. Magic. A name she didn’t know.

Maybe he wasn’t safe.

But he hadn’t lied. And the warmth he gave her. That wasn’t cruelty.

He wasn’t her enemy. Not yet.

That would have to be enough.

She followed.

The silence wasn’t cold. Just unfinished.

They climbed.

The wind caught her sleeves, whispering over her skin where her cloak used to sit. Her knee still ached, but not sharply. The pain had dulled.

The ridge ahead rose like a blade. Pale, jagged.

Lorian didn’t slow. He climbed like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe more.

Driana gritted her teeth and followed. That was all she could do now. Get to the top. Get Owin back. Get home.

They reached the ridge just as the first sliver of dawn crept into the sky.

Lorian knelt and pointed.

“Look.”

She did.

Below, tucked between pine trees, lay the rebel camp.

Not a fortress. Not even a war camp. Not like the ones her mother had shown her. No banners. No defensive rings. Just tents, slumped under snow. A patchwork of dark canvas and crude barricades. Snow crusted the fabric like rot.

Wolves moved between them, as though they were ghosts on four legs.

She saw Glacierborn. Seven, maybe eight. Cloaked in mismatched armor, spears at their backs. Watching. Waiting. Probably the nightwatch. Probably bored.

And then her breath caught.

The cage.

It stood in the center. Bars of sculpted ice, glowing from within.

Inside, curled small, far too small, was Owin.

She remembered swearing she’d protect him. That no matter what, they’d make it together. And now… 

He was caged. Alone.

Unmoving. Arms wrapped around himself, like he’d fallen trying to run.

A sound escaped her. Not a sob. Not a scream. Just breath, twisted wrong.

“No…”

“He’s alive,” Lorian said. “That’s why they haven’t shattered the cage.”

Her heart pounded in her throat.

“They killed everyone else,” she whispered. “Why him?”

Lorian’s gaze stayed fixed on the camp. “Because killing would’ve been mercy. This?” His voice softened. “This is a message.”

Her fists clenched. “To who?”

“To your Empire,” he said. “To the ones in red cloaks. The ones in airships. The ones who write laws with someone else’s blood.” He looked at her. “To your mother.”

Driana said nothing.

The wind rose again, brushing strands of dark brown hair across her face. The world felt too quiet.

Her fingers were trembling.

But her voice, when it came back, was steady.

“We get him back.”

Lorian nodded once.

“And the Icebinder’s down there,” he said. “You’re in luck, kid. She owes me.”

Driana didn’t feel lucky. Not yet.