Chapter 1: Introductions
Chapter Text
Once upon a time,
In a world where magic lied within the mind,
Before the stars had names and constellations were still bound to fate.
Long before the kingdoms were waging war,
A hidden and primordial garden existed,
And they called it "Eden".
Home to the angels.
Before it became a kingdom,
Eden was a thought, an impossible ideal caught between chaos and order.
In the time when stories walked with stars, the Thrones gathered, for creation and conquest.
They were not gods,
though some would call them such. They were architects of law, of wonder, of silence that could hold meaning. And from their communion, Eden was shaped.
The kingdom of Eden was born not from blood, but from vow, seven sovereign stars, each bearing a name no longer spoken, aligned their destinies and cast their legacies into the sky.
Oaths became light. Light became law. And thus the Nebula
was kindled.
Before the wars. Before the silence. Before the name of Eden was whispered like a wound, there was a golden age.
The age of Unity. The Golden Reign. The hush before the storm.
Eden was not one land, but seven, each a fragment of the founding dream, each bearing a facet of the whole, they called these regions as "seven heavenly courts"
To the North rose Aurelia, the realm of starlight and silence, where scholars endured harsh winters, and frost bloomed in the shape of forgotten runes.
Known as the home of the cold and ruthless angels, hardened by solitude, sculpted by ice. Trained from childhood in the arts of strategy and survival, they were not raised to dream, but to prevail. In Aurelia, to win was to live; to lose was to vanish into the snowdrifts of memory.
To the West stretched Vireon, crowned in golden winds and woven with storms. Its angels danced with lightning, naming each bolt like lovers and laughing with the thunder.
Known as the home of the bold and unbound. Troublemakers by tradition, poets by instinct. The angels of Vireon were as wild as the wind and as swift as the storm, fearless in flight, driven by freedom, and loyal only to their sky-born oaths.
To the East shimmered Ophire, a land of wonders and reflection, where peace settled like dew and wisdom echoed in glass towers. There, truth and justice walked so closely they were often mistaken for one another.
Known as the home of gentle minds and quiet power. Angels who sought knowledge not for dominion, but for understanding. Scholars, philosophers, and visionaries, they held peace not as an absence of war, but as a discipline, a sacred practice woven into every word, every breath.
To the South thundered Thoborn, its roots deep in molten stone, its peaks forever wreathed in smoke and fire. The land itself pulsed with ancient fury and radiant purpose.
Known as the home of master blacksmiths, stone-carvers, and warriors of flame.
Angels who forged weapons and virtues with equal care. In Thoborn, respect was not given by birthright but earned through fire, craft, and unwavering courage. Their justice was sharp-edged and unyielding, born in the heart of the earth.
There are three known but limited to the highest of angels.
Caelestis, ever-moving among the clouds, home of those who chased comets where only royalty reaches.
Myrrh, a sanctuary of deathless gardens and timeless tears, where angels would come pray and weep.
and the courts of Eloen, where oaths were inked into the skin and every citizen bore the law in flesh, where the highest of angels would judge, make decisions and have important meetings.
those are the 7 blessed lands, though there is one forgotten land… some say it's too gruesome and inappropriate for other kingdoms to know, so they kept this island a secret
But there was one land untouched by the order. A fracture in the map, where logic unraveled.
Skorching Skagos—a drifting island of flame and salt, tethered to no cardinal wind. Some said it was a punishment; others, a prophecy. All agreed, Skagos was a wound Eden never dared to heal, so they just forgot and hid it from the world.
The land left in ruins and disposed of Eden because of the demonic flames that engulfed the land due to wars, no one knows what lies in the island, nor does anyone know what happened to the scorched island off the coast of blazewater bay.
Secrets aside, together, they formed the kingdom. Not in harmony, but in balance.
A kingdom far from wrath, pride, secrecy, and sin.
Or at least that's what the king and lords states.
In the age before ash, when the stars still sang in their orbits, and the throne of Eden had not yet cracked beneath pride,
There were Six.
Not men, not gods as mortals know them.
Angels, yet so far from merciful beings.
But constellations etched in divine flame,
Each spinning in solemn orbit around the dying sun that crowned the world.
Caelus Aurelius, lord of Aurelia
the North Star of Everfrost, carved from winter’s bone and born of breathless light.
He watched, unmoved, as sinners froze beneath his gaze.
Justice, to him, was stillness. Perfection was purity. O pureblooded holiness, they praised.
Dynasty: The House of Aurelius
An ancient and purest line said to be born from the breath of the most holy and the untouched snow of the First Winter. Their blood is pale and sacred, whispered to hold no sin. The Aurelians worship silence and symmetry; they breed prophets, seers, and inquisitors. They believe only the purest mana may touch the Throne, and thus purge what they deem impure- by exile or by execution.
Their halls are cold, their hearts colder. They do not weep, for to weep is to waver.
Elrik Maelion, lord of Vireon
the West Wind, once free, now tethered to duty like a chained tempest.
His lightning bore names like lost lovers,
But he let his skies grow silent to please the burning King.
Dynasty: The House of Maelion
Once wild as the skies they ruled, now bound by doctrine and honor twisted into chains. The Maelions were dancers of freedom who broke their own wings to gain the King’s favor. Their skies are still bright, but beneath, rebellion festers. They mask their thunder in honeyed words, their lightning in golden laws.
Once beloved for their liberty, they now crush songs under boot, naming it sedition.
Amun Caelora, lord of Ophire
the Eastern Mirror, whose lips dripped law and prophecy in equal measure.
He painted lies in goldleaf and named them peace for his people's reflection.
Truth, in his hands, was a blade.
Dynasty: The House of Caelora
The Caeloras are born with ink on their tongues and gold dust in their veins. They claim descent from the Archscribe who first transcribed the stars. Their peace is heavy, like a law book carved in stone and iron. They are a house of libraries and prisons, of peace so structured it strangles.
To question them is heresy. To correct them is blasphemy.
Yet they are always right- even when wrong.
Rhogar Dravon, lord of Thoborn
the Southern Anvil, whose breath was forge fire and whose oaths clanged like hammers.
He judged not with thought, but flame,
And burnt the innocent to honor the strong.
Dynasty: The House of Dravon
Forged from fire and faith, the Dravons rule Thoborn with molten hearts. Their warriors do not bow; they kneel only to craft or combat. Theirs is a dynasty of firewalkers, oathkeepers, and iron-willed generals.
But their honor is now a weapon wielded blindly, loyalty bought with glory, and warriors thrown into war to feed pride rather than peace.
To question a Dravon is to be unworthy of breath.
Ithrial Vhalor, high judge of Eloen
Keeper of Eloen, ink-blooded binder of souls, whose every word was law,
And every law is a noose for the desperate.
He wrote commandments not to be free, but to command.
He prophesied each and everything about to happen.
Dynasty: The House of Vhalor
In the heart of Eloen stands the Black Archive, and within it sleeps the name of every Vhalor who ever lived. This house lives by pact and dies by decree. Their ancestors sealed the First Accord, binding Eden to its fate.
But their chains now weigh upon the necks of the innocent. Their laws serve their rise.
They are revered as keepers of peace, but whispered to be the authors of slavery.
And above them all, encircled in thorns of his own making, stuck in the walls of the hidden castle,
Metatron Astyrax, King of Kings
the King of All, the Sun that Burned Instead of Warmed.
He declared war an inheritance, suffering a test,
And told the dying they were lucky to die in his name.
Dynasty: The House of Astyrax
The Astyrax line is older than the walls of Eden itself. Born from light and crowned with blood, they claim the right of kingship through celestial decree. The most ancient and noble house of Astyrax are filled with heartless brutes given by history.
Metatron’s rule burns, not with justice, but with survival.
He demands loyalty not from love, but from necessity and in return, he delivers war masked as divine will.
His sons are born to be monsters or martyrs. His daughter, to be sacrificed or forgotten.
And the world still calls him King.
They circled him like planets doomed to fall.
They bowed, they bled, they betrayed.
And Eden, once eternal, began to break.
However, prophecies have been spoken by scholars and reflected by the lord of courts himself.
From the Scroll of Calaethis, Verse of the Seventh Moon:
“And, a child shall rise beneath the twilight veil,
Not first, nor second, but forgotten by flame.
Born not of law, nor lineage, but love buried in ash
A child not meant, yet marked.”“The Wheel shall turn, and blood shall call to blood.
One Son shall hunger for power; the other, cast down for peace.
But neither shall unmake the throne, nor heal the wound of the world.”“Look not at the sons, O King of the Iron Throne
For the spark lies in she you never feared.
A daughter, cloaked in Skagos’ fire,
Shall walk with the deathless and carry the Ever flame.
She shall bleed light. She shall break the cycle.”
Metatron heard and scoffed.
He could not strike down Michael, his firstborn, his son to his queen consort for the boy bore the shadow of his dead queen’s eyes. A mistake of grief, yet a living echo of love.
Raguel, second of his sons, his son to a concubine, noble and mild, was cast into the shadows for daring to speak of mercy. A threat to the kingdom’s myth of strength.
And when Uriel was born, his daughter to a concubine, swaddled in prophecy and flame, the King felt no quake in his soul.
For she was a girl.
And girls, in the histories of kings, did not end empires.
But prophecy does not heed the hearts of men.
And the wheel turns still.
So if I were you, stay seated and take notes, for this shall be a long story to tell.
Chapter 2: To you, in a century. Child Of The Prophecy (1)
Summary:
Uriel's backstory of how she got her powers, of why she's in the prophecy, of how unfair their kingdom was.
She was brought up the Hampshires of the highlands in Thalos, the southern court as a baby, and there she grew with her half brother, Raguel and the woman who adopted her, a close friend of her mother's and also her father's first concubine.
Chapter Text
HELENA OF CORONEA
The night air lay thick and tremulous over the village of Coronea, each wooden hut nestled like driftwood against the blackened cliffs of Skorching Skagos. Fires from hidden forges glowed dimly, casting the dwellings in a molten twilight that blurred the thin line between wakefulness and dream.
In a humble chamber carved from basalt, Helena bore her final breath with measured purpose, welcoming life with arms that trembled less from pain than from the singular joy of a mother’s heart.
Her green eyes pierced through the baby's emerald eyes happily as the baby cooed, the baby angel had all of her features as if she had been cloned from her. This was the child of the prophecy. The child said to overthrow the king's iron throne.
Outside, the wind carried no song, only a distant growl, like the low heartbeat of the island’s ancient fury. Helena pressed her newborn daughter to her breast, marveling at the tiny, perfect white wings that fluttered beneath thin skin. She named her Uriel Celeste Astyrax, “Light of the Heavens,” daughter to the high king Metatron Astyrax even as the first tremor of dread rippled through her soul.
It had been a few centuries that the war was going on for, it had been many nights of the people's suffering because of the king's absence. The demons were threatening to burn each home in Skagos, because an angel was reported to have killed a low demon.
No sooner had the midwives slipped away to fetch fresh linens than the village was bathed in hellfire. A thunderous roar split the night, and Helena hurled herself to the floor as splintering wood and the screams of the innocents echoed down the narrow lane. The door cracked under a brutal strike, revealing shapes born of nightmares, demons brought from obsidian and flame, their eyes ablaze with the promise of death.
Helena rose, heart hammering not with fear but with a mother’s defiance. Clutching Uriel to her chest, she darted through winding alleys, the infant’s crying a single, high note against the threat of slaughter. Each doorway she passed was a tableau of terror, a blackened father heaving his last breath over a broken cradle,
children whose small bodies lay half-buried in ash. The demons moved with savage grace, too swift, too inhuman, leaving ruin and destruction in their wake.
At the mountain’s edge, where the earth cracked open to reveal veins of molten rock, Helena came upon the roar’s source which was the Great Gate of the Demon King, Agares, yawning like a wound in the world. From the abyss beyond, fiendish laughter poured forth. She pressed herself against the cold stone, whispering prayers to the Ever flame, the dying holy embers of Skorching Skagos’ first fire.
Shadows spilled in: demons sculpted from obsidian and living flame, their howls devouring hope. Helena rose, voice steady. “Leave this child be, she is the king's daughter.” she commanded, though her heart roared with fear.
From the churning pit beyond the broken door came a voice like grinding iron,
"Angel, you stand amid the ashes of your kin. Why should I grant mercy to one born of Eden?”
Agares, the demon king had said, the voice scraping her ears because of the unpleasant noise.
Helena's eyes shone with defiance. “This child holds no sin. Spare her, and in exchange, take my life instead.”
Agares emerged, tall as a spire, horns of black curving toward the ashen sky. His masked grin glinted. “You barter your life for a prophecy’s promise. Very well, but speak not of pity. Tell me, do you know of your child's future?”
“The prophecy has been telling the sons of Metatron will meet a horrible fate, his first will be found dead and his second shell presume a gruesome one, that's all I know of" Helena said in a reclined tone.
Agares' eyes shined as he smiled listening to Helena's answer as if recalling something from memory before continuing.
‘"A daughter shall be born, cloaked in Skagos’ fire, shall walk with the deathless and carry the Ever flame. She shall bleed light. She shall break the cycle. She shall break chains." He recalled.
Agares’s obsidian eyes flickered. “You know the words, I presume, But I have low doubts your daughter will overthrow the king. Then swear your blood willingly. Swear that her breath shall outlast your last.”
Kneeling in the spattered ash, Helena pressed her palm to the cold stone floor. “By my life, I bind your oath. Let her live.”
The demon king lifted a hand of flickering embers and carved a rune of binding into the rock. The air sang with power. “Then go,” he intoned. “Her years shall be counted in fire.”
No sooner had the vow been sealed than the ground beneath them cracked open, spewing a cathedral of hellish white flames. Helena scooped up Uriel and stepped into the blaze.
Each lick of fire caressed mother and child, weaving a mantle of living embers around the infant’s shoulders.
As the flames roared, Uriel’s tiny palms blossomed with glowing sigils.
The Hellfire Stigmata she has been blessed with, scars burned without pain, marking her as the chosen of Skagos just like the prophecies did
Warmth flooded Helena's heart even as her strength ebbed.
Drawing her last breath, she pressed Uriel’s cheek to her own and whispered, “Live… and become the fire that undoes them all.”
Agares watched in silence as mother and daughter vanished into flame. When the conflagration subsided, only a single infant lay cradled in ash, her wings glinting with otherworldly light as she starts to cry and set everything ablaze, her palms alive with hell’s gift.
"Oh, Metatron, I hope you know what you've started." Agares said, touching the child's forehead as he stares into her eyes.
"This is why I'll never be a parent" Agares laughed to himself before disappearing into the portal he opened.
Thus ended the night of blood, and thus began the age of the Gold.
Far beyond the veil of Eden’s shattered palaces, where the Dominion's fires still smoked from the sins of kings, a woman flew alone through the secret passages to the isles of the Skorching Skagos. She was veiled in black linen, her silks torn by the brambles of exile. The wind carried with it the heat of forgotten gods, and the land itself seemed to whisper warnings in tongues older than truth. Her name was Asenath, once the king’s first concubine, now nothing more than a shadow hidden in the alleys of Thalos.
Asenath moves through the highland light like a memory half‑remembered, graceful yet wary, each step measured. She stands just shy of five‑and‑a‑half feet tall, her frame slender but resilient, honed by years of hardship in exile. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, faint veins tracing delicate maps at skin. High cheekbones give her face a chiselled beauty, but it’s her eyes, ocean eyes flecked with brown that catch and hold the light, they are at once warm with compassion and shadowed by the loss and agony she carries.
Her hair falls to mid‑back in waves of dark brown, threaded here and there with silver strands she never bothered to hide.
Her clothing is simple, a homespun linen gown under a woolen kirtle patched by her own hand, the hems embroidered with tiny blossoms from happier gardens long out of reach. Around her neck she wears a slender circlet of twisted bronze, a remnant of her time as almost royal.
Worn now more as a reminder of promises broken than as a token of status.
Even in flight, Asenath’s posture remains proud and unbowed, as though she believes that, one day, the grace of Eden might be reborn in her children’s laughter rather than its courts.
But Asenath was not born to be forgotten.
She had known, in dreams brought from fever and grief a few millennia ago, that the child of fire had survived.
That amidst the Skorching Skagos- those cursed islands where the flame never dies and no man dares linger,a cry had echoed through the sacred pyres.
The cry of a girl. A girl prophesied to burn the kingdoms clean.
It was on the seventh moon after Eden fell that she reached the shores of Skagos. The waves hissed like serpents upon obsidian rocks, and fire danced between the clouds. She climbed the steps to the altar barefoot, each stone a wound, each breath a prayer.
There, swaddled in scorched linen, lay the child. Hair like embers. Eyes shut as though the world itself was too heavy to behold. Flames licked around the altar but touched her not.
Asenath fell to her knees so she could look at the baby well enough on the altar.
“Uriel, child of the prophecy” she breathed.
The child opened her eyes.
The fire bowed.
And Asenath couldn't help but mourn, she had known Helena well, but looking at the baby in her arms, the girl bared her features, nothing like her father for sure.
The girl bore her impossibly bright green eyes that shone like emeralds, blonde hair strands and the gaze that could absolutely melt someone, subtle movements can be felt as if she's relaxed in the altar, yawning softly as her small wings had flapped.
She wrapped the child in her arms, the way a mother wraps not only in cloth but in soul. The altar quieted. The air cooled. Even the ever-burning pyres of Skagos dimmed to a reverent glow.
"Barely a day old and you already have feathered wings.." Asenath praised, smiling at the baby in her arms, it was fascinating that a day old angel already had feathers.
RAGUEL ASTYRAX
Far inland, the grasslands tucked in the mountains of Thalos, waited a boy of eight summers and winters.
He had very child like features, considering he was only 8 years old, but alas, he is mature and willfully strong and intelligent for his age. He sat patiently in the grass beneath a tree with the lambs and sheep he had, playing the harp, a carved wooden sword resting patiently in his lap. His hair was dark brown, tousled and unkempt, yet his skin held the pale glow of one born to marble halls and moonlit courts. But it was his eyes that set him apart, deep violet, majestic and strange, like dusk captured in glass. His name was Raguel Thoross Astyrax.
He stared toward the pathway, where the faint sound of footsteps stirred the silence. His back straightened. The sword clattered from his lap as he stood.
“Mother?” he called, the syllables hopeful and sharp.
"Mother! You're back!" He said happily, running through the grass into his mother's arms.
She stepped into view, her figure silhouetted by the low firelight, cradling something swaddled close to her breast. Her journey had left her gaunt, her robes marked by soot and salt, but her gaze was steady.
The boy’s brow furrowed. “Is that… a baby?”
Asenath smiled gently, stepping forward. “Yes.”
The boy tilted his head, studying the bundle. When she lowered it slightly, the firelight revealed a tiny face tucked into the folds of scorched linen. The child’s lashes fluttered. A faint glow flickered along her brow.
“She.. barely looks like Metatron” the boy whispered, awe creeping into his voice.
“She has the look of spring and fire.” Asenath murmured. “And she is your sister.”
The boy’s purple eyes widened. “Sister…?”
He stepped closer, cautiously, like one nearing the edge of a dream. His small hand reached out, hovering just above the child’s cheek. When she stirred, he let out a soft gasp, as if he were the one born anew.
“She’s warm,” he said.
“Her name is Uriel.”
He repeated the name, trying its weight. “Uriel…”
Then, unexpectedly, he grinned. That rare, bright grin only a child who’s lost too much can still manage. “I thought I was alone.”
He sat beside her, close enough to keep her safe, but careful not to press too near. Then, with the proud sincerity only a six-year-old could summon, he whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll protect her.”
Asenath said nothing. She only watched and smiled at his son's protectiveness, watching as the lambs grazed on the green grass of the highlands, watched as the future unfolded gently between two children, lost heirs to a kingdom that had burned itself hollow.
Outside, the wind whispered the names of dead kings.
But deep in the far fields of Thalos, new blood stirred, and prophecy breathed.
A few months gone by and one certain summer evening, the fire's glow deepened as Asenath settled between her two children on a worn woolen rug. Raguel sat closest to her, Uriel cradled gently in her lap, even the flicker of the flames seemed to lean in, eager for the tale. Asenath’s voice was soft but unwavering as she wove a story of Eden’s Caelestis,
“In the golden halls, they spoke of justice and mercy, words as hollow as the marble pillars that lined the throne room.
The King’s decrees fell hardest on those without favor, those born outside the inner circle.
Bread was raised in price so that the poor starved, while gilded courts feasted in plenty.”
She paused, letting the weight of those injustices settle like dust in the corners.
“Your father, Metatron, sat upon that throne, along with many lords from different dominions. He swore to guard his people. Yet under his reign, the weak were cast aside like broken toys.”
At the name Metatron, Raguel’s violet eyes flared with fury. He sprang to his feet, fists clenched, the little slingshot hanging forgotten at his side.
“He let them suffer!” Raguel burst out, his voice cracking. “He never lifted a finger for the hungry or the poor!”
Uriel, too young for words but not for feeling, stiffened in Asenath’s arms and began to wriggle, distress sharpening her tiny cries.
"They say he holds tremendous power, one fit to be the ruler of Eden, said that he was the one who founded the order of the phoenix, the one who won several wars, the one who was able to awaken the talisman of agony and suffering. Conquerer that sits on the Iron Throne of swords and is crowned with the golden crown bathed on the blood of war" Asenath continued.
Asenath rose and gathered them both close. She stroked Raguel’s hair, then pressed Uriel against her shoulder. “No child should bear the weight of a crown,” she murmured. “We escaped that cruelty so you might learn kindness instead.”
Raguel’s chest heaved, eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Uriel’s sobs softened into hiccups as Asenath began a gentle lullaby, one part courtly verse, two parts promise.
That in their hidden home on these rolling grasslands, injustice would find no foothold and love would be the only legacy they ever passed on.
Summer came faster than expected, morning broke soft and gold, spilling across the highland grasses and into the low-beamed cottage where the scent of warm barley broth lingered from Raguel’s early-morning efforts. Raguel, already awake and tousle-haired, sat cross-legged by the hearth with a chipped wooden bowl cradled in his lap. In it steamed a modest soup of barley and wildroot, boiled with care in the early hours while Asenath still slept.
On a makeshift cushion of old lambswool sat Uriel, swaddled in a patchwork blanket, her lavender eyes gleaming with mischief. She had only just begun to sit up on her own, wobbling a bit, one chubby fist tangled in the hem of her tunic.
“Alright, little lady, you're already 5 months old” Raguel murmured, scooting close with the spoon. “You’re going to eat something today. No more turning up your nose.”
Uriel blinked at him, unimpressed. The spoon came closer. She sniffed. Then, slowly, deliberately.
She turned her head aside and let out a long, theatrical sigh through her nose.
Her emerald eyes blinked sleepily as Raguel blew gently on the spoon and offered her a taste.
“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Raguel coaxed, dipping the spoon toward her mouth.
Uriel turned her head with theatrical defiance.
“Please?” he tried again, softer this time.
“Oh, come on,” Raguel groaned. “I spent hours not burning this.”
Fenris, now the size of a small goat but still pure pup in spirit, let out a grumble from his spot beside the hearth, as if seconding Raguel’s frustration.
Uriel gurgled in laughter.
Raguel set the bowl aside with a resigned sigh. “Fine. No soup. You win.”
He moved across the fur rug and turned, patting the floor. “Alright then. Walking. Let’s see it.”
Uriel brightened, planting her hands down with a small, excited squeak. She wobbled once, twice, then began inching forward in that ungraceful baby-way, all limbs and determination. Raguel grinned wide.
She just very barely balanced herself on her own two legs and fell down due to her panicking
"Uriel! Uriel are you okay?" He asked while running forward to the child, his hands covering her head, making sure there isn't anything that was bleeding or anything.
Uriel just cooed, laughing at Raguel, in return he laughed back.
"Naughty little angel, now come on, wanna do that again?" He asked, this time, helping her balance herself.
“Yes! That’s it! Come on, Uriel you're balancing yourself!" He said triumphantly.
But suddenly, the air changed.
There was a quiet hum, like the whisper of wind through the grasslands. A shimmer, thin as morning mist, curled around her shoulders. Raguel’s smile froze as he watched Uriel rise, not just in spirit, but physically. She was lifting off the ground. Literally.
Just an inch, then two. Then three. Her arms flailed for a moment before settling by her sides. She floated forward, a tiny, glowing bundle of quiet triumph, drifting toward Raguel like a wind-blown thistle seed.
“By the stars…” he breathed. “You’re flying.”
Fenris barked once, startled but clearly impressed. Raguel opened his arms, and she bumped gently into his chest, giggling with absolute glee.
“You skipped crawling. That’s not fair,” he muttered, holding her close. “No one said babies could do that.”
Raguel looked toward the hallway where Asenath still slept, unsure whether to wake her or keep the secret a little longer, just for them.
He hugged Uriel close and whispered, “Let’s not do that in front of Mother yet, yeah?”
She wriggled and floated a bit more, completely unaware she had just unraveled every rule of angel kind, a mere 6 month old already flying.
He looked toward the bedroom where Asenath still slept. Part of him wanted to shout, to tell her. But another part,
A selfish, protective part, wanted this secret, just for now. Just between brother and sister.
That night, the sky hung heavy with stars, the kind that blanketed the hills in quiet silver. The hearth was warm, the air filled with the faint crackle of the fire and the scent of dried rosemary.
Asenath had wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and slipped out just before dawn, basket on her arm, saying she’d return before moonrise with fresh greens from the neighboring hollow.
Raguel had nodded solemnly. “Don’t worry. I’ve got her.”
And he did.
Mostly.
Uriel sat babbling in the middle of the rug, tugging at Fenris’s tail, who bore it with saintly patience. And occasionally raising small pebbles into the air just to drop them with delight. Raguel, meanwhile, hunched beside the fire, tongue peeking from the corner of his mouth in deep concentration.
He held a tiny, lopsided doll made of fleece and scraps of linen. Its head was crooked, its eyes mismatched wooden beads, but its smile was true. A crown of yarn circled its head, haphazard, but unmistakably regal.
Raguel turned and held it out to Uriel with both hands. “Here. It’s you.”
Uriel blinked once, then twice. Slowly, her hands reached out grasped the doll and pulled it close to her chest.
The look on Raguel's face was as humble as a mere bard, comparable to a shepherd's.
Raguel beamed. “See? Even queens get toys.”
Uriel squealed with joy.
And then, suddenly, whoosh.
Flame burst in her palms, tiny and fierce. The doll flickered once, twice, then burst into cinders.
Uriel froze.
So did Raguel.
“...Oh no.”
She began to cry. Big, wobbling sobs full of guilt and confusion, her tiny fists full of ash.
“No, no, no, no, Uriel it’s okay!” Raguel scrambled forward, brushing the soot from her fingers, then gathering her up in his arms. “You didn’t mean to. It’s alright, it was just a doll. I can make you more”
Fenris crept over, licking her cheek in gentle consolation. Raguel rocked her back and forth, holding her tight as her cries softened into hiccups.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” he whispered into her hair. “You’re still learning. And I’ll be here. Every time you fall. Every time you fly.”
Outside, the wind rustled the sheep-grass. Inside, the flames flickered low, their light casting shadows of two siblings, and a direwolf, curled into the quiet shape of a home.
Chapter 3: Of pages and ink, Child Of The Prophecy (2)
Summary:
Raguel sneaks in his mother's library while she was asleep, it wasn't his intention but fall curious and naïve to Eden's history, How awful of those pharisees, scholars and scribes to tell how glorified Eden was when almost all who suffered under Metatron's rule was found without their names, without their past selves and without a family to run back to. So he finds out.
Chapter Text
RAGUEL ASTYRAX
It was way past dusk, and he was in his mother's library, waiting for dawn to arrive as he searched for answers on what secrets of Eden had been hiding, until he saw a thick black book.
"Eden's history" was written in gold writing,
He opened the first page and read all about the author,
Tom Heron.
Was a scholar in Ophire, studied law and politics, winner of the 4th annual tetra anghelus tournament.
Raguel had many questions in mind, what was the reason for this book? Who is this author? How does he know so much? And what's a tetra anghelus tournament?
A few hours had passed and probably his third cup of coffee that he asked permission from his mother (actually stole) from her cupboards.
Raguel’s quiet night study, where the flicker of candle light guides him through the tangled, blood-stained history of Eden and its five most ancient and most noble houses, each carved into the world like scars left behind by the war for the Throne and Crown.
The candle burned low, but Raguel’s eyes remained fixed on the page, its parchment coarse beneath his fingertips.
Little Uriel slept beside him, small and wrapped in wool. The fire’s warmth curled against the edges of the house, but within his mind, a colder world began to take shape, a world of crowns and ashes, of names long buried in the snow and soot of time.
The next chapter bore no title. Just a symbol.
A thorn-crowned sun.
The Legacy of the Six,
The Wound of One.
He turned the page.
EDEN'S HISTORY
I. House of Aurelius — North Star of Ever frost
Caelus Aurelius, Lord of Aurelia,
carved from winter’s bone, born of breathless light.
He watched, unmoved, as sinners froze beneath his gaze.
The North was the first to rise, and the last to fall. Aurelia, a land of endless frost, of mountains whose peaks kissed the sky and valleys blanketed by silence. The House of Aurelius ruled not through conquest, but brutality. The cold was their scripture, and purity their God.
Their dynasty claimed descent from the First Winter, their veins said to hold mana untouched by sin. They bred seers and inquisitors, prophets who did not speak unless Truth itself demanded breath.
Caelus, the North Star, was revered and feared. His voice echoed through marble temples as if it came from the ice itself. He preached stillness, for motion was corruption, preached silence, for speech was a seed of chaos.
When the war came, Caelus did not move. He waited and watched as lesser kings exhausted themselves in the mud. Justice, to him, was time.
They despised evil mana and half-blooded angels who dirtied their status as angels, therefore they're pure blood supremacists, refering evil mana and half-angels as "mud-bloods" even resorting to exiling and executing angels from their snow forged land.
Caelus Aurelius, the unsinning, the invincible, the righteous.
Raguel traced the shape of Caelus’s name, sensing the chill even in ink.
II. House of Maelion — The West Wind Bound
Elrik Maelion, Lord of Vireon,
lightning once free, now chained to the sky.
He sang to storms, then muted their thunder to serve the King.
Once, the Maelions had danced with lightning, their skies wild and their laughter louder than war. Vireon was known for open fields, wandering songsmiths, and the sapphire banners that waved like wind-borne joy.
But freedom did not last.
When Metatron rose, Elrik bent the knee. Not in weakness, but in hope. He thought he could guide the new Order, that loyalty might protect his people. He offered the skies as tribute, muzzling their thunder for peace.
So he enslaves the weak, the poor, kids and elders alike for servants to appease other kings.
Peace became law. Law became chains, and that is what angels believe is for best.
Elrik Maelion, the inflictor of pain for the unworthy, molder of best, maker of chains and restraint.
And rebellion began to whisper beneath every hymn.
The Maelions still flew bright banners, but their joy soured. Their tempests, once sacred, were reduced to courtly displays, storms turned theater.
Raguel frowned. Even thunder can be made to kneel, he thought. But it never forgets how to roar.
III. House of Caelora — The Eastern Mirror
Amun Caelora, Lord of Ophire,
whose words were goldleaf truth, painted across scrolls of peace.
The East was parchment and law, towers of glass and ink. The Caeloras claimed their dominion from the Arch scribe who first wrote the stars into scripture.
They ruled through contract, prophecy, and penned illusion. Every promise was layered with subtext, every truth a reflection of a deeper deceit.
Amun Caelora smiled in the courts and bound nations with his tongue. His peace was perfect and expected. Question him, and one was marked a heretic. Correct him, and one disappeared beneath the vaults of Ophire.
His banners bore golden ink, his temples echoed with the chant of doctrine, and even his enemies admitted, he was never wrong.
Even if he would be proven wrong, they would erase the mistakes and they would be the best in history. They manipulated history itself.
IV. House of Dravon — The Southern Anvil
Rhogar Dravon, Lord of Thalos.
forge-breath and war-hymn. Flame made flesh.
He burned the weak to honor the strong.
If the North was silent, and the West was windy, then the South was furious. Thalos beat like a forge-heart, its fields red with clay and iron, its people born to battle and bound by blood-oath.
The Thalosians walked barefoot on coals to prove their worth. They fought not for conquest, but for honor, a word that hardened into obsession. They revered fire not as destruction, but as judgment.
Rhogar was the flame father, a man who held court inside a furnace. He judged quickly, and burned brighter. When Metatron called the banners to unite, Rhogar was the first to arrive, not for peace, but to test the Phoenix in battle.
He was not disappointed. But he never truly bowed.
Rhogar the great, the maker of ancient relics, served through justice and war, though merciful at times, you'll want to be on his side.
Raguel imagined the clang of warhammers echoing from Thoborn’s cliffs. A kingdom of warriors, with no war left but each other.
V. House of Vhalor — Eloen's Chainmakers
Ithrial Vhalor, High Judge of Eloen,
whose every law was a prophecy and every prophecy a double edged blade to the throat.
And in the center of Eden’s belly, deep in the black-marbled towers of Eloen, the Vhalors recorded everything. Names. Dates. Crimes. Decrees.
They did not rule with armies. They ruled with ink and paper.
Their Black Archive held the soul of Eden itself, or so it was said. Every secret known, every fate predicted. They believed in absolute order, in laws that never bent, even when justice wept.
Ithrial was their pinnacle, a man who never smiled, who spoke like a scripture and judged like a God. His eyes were pale ink, his robes a tapestry of edicts.
He wrote the First Accord, which sealed Eden’s fate. And some say he wrote the last one too, hidden, waiting, a prophecy none yet dared to speak.
Oh great Ithrial, his mercy unbending yet judgement so very true.
Raguel felt a shiver as he read of Eloen. Their truth was too perfect. And he wondered, what happens to people who don’t fit in the margins? Does this scholar in this book really say the truth?
He continued to read the book, the smell of ink, faded and old scent of books, the candle light
Not a bloodline, but worth mentioning.
VI. The King of Kings
And above them all, Metatron Astyrax.
Not a man, but a fire in the shape of one. He forged the Order of the Phoenix not to unite, but to rule. He wore peace like armor, and law like a sword.
They called him the Sun That Burned Instead of Warmed. He declared war a virtue, suffering a purification, and crowned himself King of All. His sons bore the burden. His daughter will bleed. His mercy was ever so thoughtful, a tongue who screamed scripture.
Long live the King. Gloria in excelsis Deo.
He ruled with pride. But pride, Raguel now understood, is just fear wearing a crown.
He flipped the book slowly,
Uriel stirred in her cradle, a flicker of ember at her fingertips, curling like a dream yet to come.
Raguel leaned back, eyes heavy. But the names would not leave him. Nor the question they planted in his heart,
What happens when the blood of kings is born into a world that no longer believes in them?
Outside, the wind sang.
Inside, a boy watched the shadows, and remembered every name.
The candle hissed. The wax had melted low, but Raguel could not stop reading.
A new chapter began beneath a torn page, its title faded, but legible still, as if it's written specifically for only Raguel to read.
“Ash and Oath: The Wars That Shaped the Phoenix" the chapter was titled.
"The past does not die,” the ancient scholar wrote. “It burns quietly beneath the embers of law."
"Eden, before the Order, had been a continent torn by ambition. Not one crown, many. Not one faction was at war, but four.
Each believing their gods had blessed only them. For decades, skirmishes cracked like thunder across borders, but it was the Great Ember War that scorched the map beyond recognition.
They called it the age of agony.
It all began with fire.
I. Thalos vs. Vireon — The Ember War
Thalos, scorched and hardened in the crucible of war, had always eyed Vireon’s open skies with envy. The West, blessed with fertile winds and freedom, was everything the South was not.
Under Rhogar Dravon, whose heart beat like a forge, Thalos declared that Vireon’s skies stole the fire that once belonged to the South’s divine sun.
So they marched.
Fire met wind. Villages vanished in smoke. Entire skyships of Maelion were torn from the clouds by molten javelins hurled through a storm.
Vireon retaliated, their thunder swift and wild, their storms lashing back at the invaders. But Thalos was relentless, and for a time, it seemed fire would consume the skies.
II. Ophire’s Betrayal — The Veil Burns
But then came the Ophirians.
The Eastern court of Amun Caelora, known for its neutrality and peace, broke its silence. They had long feigned disinterest, but truly, they feared that if Thalos won, the flames would consume all law and order.
So they sided with Vireon.
Their reasons were written in treaties, but the truth was simpler, they all hated being the one on the bottom.
Ophire struck with precision. Their arcane knights descended like silver shadows, cutting through Thalosian lines with spells that burned through fire itself.
Caught between storm and mirror, the Southern armies faltered. And for a moment, the world thought the war might end.
But they were wrong.
III. The March of the North — Frostfall’s Reckoning
For while South, West, and East bled in battle, the North waited.
Caelus Aurelius, the North Star, had watched the war from his icy throne, unmoved. His scribes recorded every death, his seers dreamed of conquest.
And when the three nations looked to one another where they were all wounded, breathless, and exhausted.
That’s when Aurelia marched.
Their legions came like ghosts, cloaked in snowfall and symmetry. Silent. Terrifying. Beautiful in their brutality.
They didn’t strike borders, they struck capitals.
Vireon’s sky temples were encased in holy frost.
Ophire’s towers crumbled beneath the towering layers of holy ice.
Thalos, weakened, watched its forges freeze over, their fires dimmed by ancestral ice. Their fiery mountains bathed in cold winter.
The North did not seek land. They sought purity. They believed the world had become corrupted—and they came to cleanse it.
Their campaign lasted seventy-seven days. Not one Aurelius soldier deserted. Not one fell to rebellion.
The Southern, Western, and Eastern alliances were broken. Old Eden was moments from collapse.
IV. The Pact of the Phoenix
It was then that Metatron Astyrax, descended from the high castle of Caelestis Citadel, Metatron called for the leaders of each Dominion. He stood in the ashes of his father's throne and offered a new path, not conquest, but an alliance. Not one king, but an Order to bind them, this was called The Order of the Phoenix.
Once a forgotten prince of a forgotten lineage, rose with a crown forged from the dying embers of a thousand cities.
He called for peace.
But he did not plead. He commanded.
He summoned the Five Lords to the ruins of central Eden, what would later become Myrrh, no lords present-- the garden and capital of new Eden. And there, amidst ash and oath, he forged the Order of the Phoenix. He promised balance through binding.
Each kingdom would retain its sovereignty.
But no House could declare war without the approval of the Courts of Eloen, formed from all four dominions.
A judge from each house would serve to monitor law, and punish betrayal.
The Throne of Eden would belong to none of the five, but to the king of the iron throne, a position Metatron claimed for himself, by fire, blade, and heads of demon kings.
Peace, at last.
Or so it seemed.
V. The Wound That Never Healed
The courts were formed. The Phoenix banners flew.
But beneath the celebration, bitterness festered.
For though Vireon, Ophire, and Thalos had bled together, had suffered scorched skies and shattered temples.
It was Aurelia who had struck the final blow.
And yet… they were never punished.
No reparations. No public trial. Not a single Northern general imprisoned.
Why?
Because the Aurelians were too powerful. Their military is unmatched. Their alliances are cold and precise. And more than anything, Metatron needed them to maintain the fragile illusion of order.
So he made sacrifices.
Not of land, but of justice.
The Courts of Eloen, built on the conquered and empty island beneath main land, born to bind the great houses, instead became a cage for all but one. And in the silent halls of Aurelia, they called that victory.
Some say the prophecy was real, the day he crowned his eldest son, as heir, the Order will die quietly.
Others said it will never die by the hands of his eldest son, some say it's his daughter.
And this daughter shall reign in darkness, bringing calamities to Eden in which her feet will touch, bringing wars with each raise of her flaming sword. Be aware, be afraid of the child of the prophecy.
-----------------------------------------------Tom Heron
Raguel stared at the final page. The candle sputtered. His sister turned in her sleep, golden strands glinting with embers. Outside, the wind rustled the sheep-grass. But inside, he could feel it. How could this book state to fear Uriel when she's the light of hope Eden has left? He didn't understand it all.
How can this book say each of the kingdoms are evenly loved and served by the King? When in obvious truth only the bloodlines of Caelora and Aurelius was the one that offered true power.
Her mother had told him that both Caelora and Aurelius used power, money and betrayal to rise to the top.
The kingdom had never healed.
They’d just built peace upon the ruins.
And he was born from the fire of a king, and the silence of a mother who fled from Caelestis' royal walls
The lantern flickered. Raguel’s fingers trembled as they undid the red twine of the scroll hidden beneath the annotated tome. The parchment inside felt older than the others, so old the ink bled into the fibers, as though the words themselves had tried to escape the page.
He unrolled it gently.
At first, it was almost unreadable. The symbols were ancient, half-written in the runes of the old tongue, half in sacred speech. But there, scrawled in the margins, in ink darker and newer was the handwriting of Tom Heron once again.
He read aloud, slowly, lips barely moving:
PROPHECY OF THE CHILD OF FIRE
“When the child of ash and dawn is born, the sky will shudder, and Eden will fall. Her breath shall blacken the rivers. Her hands shall scorch the Iron Throne and release the shackles of the beasts.
Slay her, before her first cry.”
His jaw clenched.
Then, below, a different hand had written faintly, as if carved by someone too scared to speak,
"She shall start wars, awaken the apocalypse and will behold the power of death and destruction, the child of the prophecy will cause the damnation of the new Eden."
Raguel looked up. Across the dim room, Uriel lay curled in a wool blanket, her tiny chest rising and falling in quiet sleep, framed by firelight. Her golden hair shimmered against the pillow, and her cheeks flushed with life and softness.
How could anyone believe she was born to ruin?
His fingers tightened around the edge of the scroll.
Unless they lied.
The prophecy had been poisoned, twisted not by divine warning, but by fear and control.
He stood slowly, crossing the room. He knelt beside the crib, brushing a lock of hair from her brow.
"You're not a curse, no one deserves to be called a cursed child" he whispered, voice thick. "You're the only thing sent down here to save the ones in need."
Uriel stirred, a soft coo escaping her lips as she reached for his finger.
And as Raguel took it in his hand, he made a vow, not to the gods, not to the kings, but to the girl who should never have had to bear the weight of a world’s lies.
He would protect his precious sister. He would uncover the truth. And he would rewrite the story they tried to bury her beneath.
As Raguel sat by the table, the scroll still splayed open before him, he felt it first as a pressure in the chest. Then came the hum, heavily faint, so slithering it could’ve been mistaken for the rustle of the sheep-grass outside. But it wasn’t.
The scroll moved.
Just a ripple, just a breath, but the ink stirred, as if it hadn’t dried in centuries. A low sound crawled up the edge of his hearing. Words that weren’t spoken aloud.
“What do you think you know, boy?”
Raguel froze. The scroll was on fire and now was speaking to him.
His fingers were clenched so hard the wood of the chair cracked beneath them.
“You are too young to carry truth.”
“Truth is a blade. You would not survive its edge.”The ink on the scroll shimmered, twisting letters, reforming old phrases.
The original prophecy vanished for a blink, replaced by words Raguel knew he had not seen before.
“Let her die now, and all shall be well. End her flame, and your kingdom will know peace.”
He flinched backward, heart thrumming. The room felt darker, deeper—as if the corners stretched too far, as if the shadows leaned in to listen.
“No,” Raguel muttered, rising to his feet.
The scroll pulsed.
"Do you not wish to return to Caelestis?”
“To walk the halls of kings, to stand where your father stood?”
“Kill the girl. Burn the proof. Claim your birthright.”
His breath caught in his throat.
The scroll knew. Somehow, it knew the part of him that did miss the taste of power. The part that wanted to be more than a shepherd hiding in the hills. It spoke not to his mind, but to his hunger.
And that made it dangerous.
Very slowly, Raguel looked toward Uriel. She was still sleeping, still safe. The direwolf pup had stirred, rising now, fur bristling, a low growl rumbling in its throat. It felt it too.
“No,” Raguel said again, stronger now. “You're lying, you and your author you call Tom Heron”
"I'll tell you only what you want,” the scroll breathed, every word coiling in ink like a serpent’s tongue. “You want safety. You want peace. Let her die, and it will be yours.”
Raguel stepped forward, fists clenched.
“You know nothing of peace,” he hissed. “You’re just a mouth carved from old lies.”
The flames from the hearth leapt higher, as though drawn to his voice. The shadows danced wildly.
"One day she will destroy everything.”
“One day, her wings will darken the sun.”
“And you will weep, Raguel Astyrax, knowing you could have stopped her.”
He grabbed the scroll and ripped it in half,
It writhed in his hands like a living thing, parchment curling and unrolling as if gasping for breath. But Raguel didn’t flinch. He carried it across the room, heart hammering, and threw it into the fireplace.
For a second, nothing happened.
The flames screamed.
Not aloud but inside his head. A thousand voices cried out at once, lies unraveling like the cords of a puppet’s strings, ink sizzling into smoke. Visions passed before his eyes, false prophecies, rewritten futures, crowned skulls laughing from distant thrones.
And then it was gone.
The scroll turned to ash, and with it, the whispers ceased.
Raguel stood in the silence that followed, panting.
Behind him, Uriel stirred. She let out a soft cry, not in pain but as if sensing Raguel, her beloved brother had gone missing. The direwolf nudged her gently with its nose.
Raguel turned back, his body shaking, tears in his eyes.
He crossed the room, knelt by her crib, and lifted her into his arms. Her warmth was still there. Her little hands touched his chin.
She smiled.
The fire flickered behind them. The house was whole again.
He held her close and whispered, “They will not write your story."
And outside, the wind quieted. For now, Eden slept. But Raguel did not.
Chapter 4: Repudiate, Child Of The Prophecy (3)
Summary:
Lord Ithrial Vhalor confronts king Metatron Astyrax of his growing concerns of the prophecy-- the king, he no longer cares and shows his defiance for the prophecy, so left with no choice, he calls a meeting with the 4 lords of Eden's factions, they talk about reviving 2
-"Valheim games" a game of survival that lasts months on the harsh winters of the North, though not only survival and the attempt to kill each other, they also need to survive as high powered demons are hunting them down as they are released into Eden for the sake of the game.
-"Tetra-Anghelus Tournament" all the 4 lords of the factions pick a warrior, to battle in a tournament, wether it be for death or for injury.
Notes:
Sorry for the short chapter, I overslept too much and I had trouble thinking the plot 😭
Chapter Text
The candle flame in the chandelier trembled across the polished marble of Caelestis castle, casting long, accusing shadows on the vaulted ceiling. Statues of ancient judges, stone‑cold and unblinking had lined the walls, their carved faces nearly mocking the living who dared to stand beneath them. Here, in this hall of judgment, Ithrial Vhalor, high judge of the court of Eloen had his footsteps echoing in the halls in rush like a messenger sent to deliver a package last minute, scroll still smoking in his hand
Footsteps clanged on the marbled floor in a rush, his white robes spilling themselves on the floor. He had short brown hair and a beard perfectly trimmed as if he was one of the Lord's apostles, velvet red eyes that spoke of challenge and law. Columns rose like verdicts around the inner sanctum, each etched with the laws older than Eden itself, older than war. Ithrial Vhalor walked cloaked in the light of the chandelier stitched with scripture.
He opened the great hall's huge wooden doors, bursting himself in the throne room dark in the night, where the Iron Throne had sat on the highest level. It was a throne made from the swords and death of conquest, and the crown glinting across his eyes.
Across from him, upon the throne carved with the names of vanquished kings, sat Metatron Astyrax, rightfully titled as King of Kings, unyielding and unbounded. His crimson robes pooled like blood at the base of the throne. His crown, wrought from blackened gemstones and studded with dying embers, gleamed with the promise of tyranny.
The king had white luminous hair, a long red robe with golden markings, he stood tall at 6 feet. His gaze pierced Ithrial's with almost transparent eyes with a faint hint of purple, eyebrows arched as if perfectly sketched from God himself, a challenging smile plastered on his face.
Ithrial inhaled, as one preparing for battle. “She has been named,” he began, voice low yet echoing. “Uriel Celeste the flame‑born, star‑bound. The Prophecy speaks her doom and her dawn alike.”
Metatron’s eyes, pale as ash, didn’t flicker. “Let the Prophecy speak for itself.”
Ithrial stepped forward, each word a hammer‑strike. “You promised me you would act. That if the Daughter of Flame, your own blood and flesh carried the burden of Eden’s end, you would protect the realm from her wrath.”
Metatron leaned back, uncaring. “I tell you, Ithrial, Eden will not fall into her succession.” He spread his hands. “The realm is a cradle of fools, and she is no different from us.”
Ithrial’s fingers clenched. “You see a child, I see a cataclysm. The courts warned you. The Celestial Heralds trumpets burned with fear. I have records—”
“A child,” Metatron snapped, “is not a king.” He waved a hand, dismissing the Heralds as one might shoo away gnats. “I will not sully my throne with her infancy.”
Ithrial’s gaze flared. “Because she is a girl, you believe she cannot wield power? She may not control dragons like the princesses of the kingdom below, but do understand she IS the dragon.”
Metatron’s lips curled in contempt. “Power is taken, not given. A daughter, no matter her fire cannot claim what a son does not seize. Eden bows only to strength.”
Ithrial’s hand clenched the smoking scroll. “You would leave her unsupervised, you deny my prophecy, her claim because you have an heir. Your eldest son, Michael Aemon stands ready at Caelestis to wear the crown.”
Metatron’s gray gaze sharpened. He leaned forward, embers glinting in his eyes. “My daughter is not heir. The crown passes through blood, her blood, yes, but via the eldest born. Michael Aemon is the firstborn. He sits at the Throne when I fall.”
A ripple passed through the court, it is an admission of inheritance, not prophecy. Ithrial pressed on. “She is of your blood as truly as he is. The Prophecy names her Flameborn, the true balance of fire and sky. Yet you cling to the law when it serves you.”
Metatron’s laugh was cold steel. “Law, yes, and tradition. Michael was crowned in secret at his 18th birthday at dawn, before the world even knew she drew breath. His claim is indisputable. Uriel is but a child of exile, barely a year old and was hidden away to live not to prepare her for the rule.”
Ithrial’s voice dropped to a hiss. “You hide her out of cowardice, fear that the kingdoms will rally to her side, that they will choose destiny over birthright.”
“Fear has nothing to do with it.” Metatron rose, his height dwarfing the Iron throne. “Michael is my heir. He will unite the Order. He will wear the crown. Uriel will have her place, at my side, never above.” He touched his iron-bound crown. “My throne, my law, my choice.”
Ithrial’s shoulders slumped. “Then you condemn her to obscurity, or worse, to serve as a pawn for those who would use her flame against us all.”
A murmur ran through the silent gallery, like wind across dead leaves. Even the statues seemed to lean in, their stony eyes widening.
Ithrial pressed on, voice breaking the hush. “This is not your seat, it is your daughter’s. You will betray her to save a world you already despise?”
“For all my disdain,” Metatron said, low and lethal, “I will not murder my own blood for the delusions of men who fear what they do not understand. Let the child live or not, either way, it will be my design. She will not conquer the great 4, each of the Lords have made sure.”
Ithrial’s knuckles whitened around the scroll. “You gamble with all—father, king, realm. You gamble with tyranny masked as indifference.”
Metatron rose, towering, a blaze of silent authority. “I am beyond your pity, Vhalor. I am beyond your laws. I have seen kingdoms crumble under your so-called justice. I have heard the wails of the weak. And yet here I sit, unshakeable, because I answer to no one, least of all my enemies.”
He stepped from the dais, each footfall a judgment. “Your Courts of Eloen are chains for the oppressed, not shields for the innocent. You would have me bind my daughter’s fire in iron, while you stifle the flames of every dissenting voice in Eden.”
Ithrial’s voice dropped to a rasp. “She is not your tool, Metatron. She is the flesh of your flesh. A queen in waiting.”
Metatron’s laugh was a slow burn. “A queen? A woman? Eden does not heed queens. It bows to conquerors and tyrants. And I am both.”
He reached out, and the lamp beside him snapped out, plunging the court into sudden darkness. A single torch flickered at the far end, its light too weak to dispel the gloom.
“Remember this, Ithrial Vhalor,” Metatron whispered as he reclimbed the throne. “I guard her fate not because she is my daughter, nor because she is a woman. I guard nothing but my will-- and in time, Uriel will learn to obey it or be forgotten.”
With that, he drew his cloak across his chest and turned his back. The single torch guttered, then died. For a heartbeat, the hall was swallowed by shadow.
When the lights returned, Metatron was alone on his throne. Ithrial stood before him, scroll scorched but unbroken, his robes dusted with ash, and in his eyes, the horror of knowing his king was more monstrous than any dragon.
Ithrial bowed stiffly, voice hollow. “As you command, Your Grace.”
And as he retreated down the marble corridor, the stones themselves seemed to sigh in sorrow, for Eden had found its true tyrant, and he would let the girl live only to wield her fire against them all.
-------------------
The Gardens of Myrrh, deep within the heart of Eden, the secret passages turning to open secret doors.
The moon above the garden burned pale and high, veiled by silk clouds like a mourning veil over the world. In the verdant maze of the Myrrh Gardens, where no stone remembered war and every flower grew under divine secrecy, Ithrial Vhalor had summoned the impossible.
A secret council of the five.
The four lords stood beneath a canopy of lantern-lit white trees, their cloaks whispering against the perfumed wind. Marble statues of forgotten angels loomed around them, their chiseled eyes watching as if heaven itself were in attendance.
Lord Caelus Aurelius stood stillest of all, his long silver-white hair pulled into a perfect knot, robes spotless, his violet eyes cold as his homeland's frost. Opposite him, Elrik Maelion tapped his storm-carved ring against his sword hilt, restless, his golden-brown eyes ever turned to the skies above. Rhogar Dravon, clad in obsidian and flame-wrought bronze, radiated heat and judgment, while Amun Caelora stood with a silver cane in hand, eyes flickering like candlelight, measuring every word not yet spoken.
“I assume you’ve heard the rumors,” Ithrial said softly, arms folded behind his back. “She is alive. Uriel Celeste. Hidden, growing, far from the Caelestis. And the boy… Raguel. The second son.”
Elrik Maelion though hard for a moment, “they are children.”
“And children grow,” Rhogar Dravon said gruffly, “especially ones bred by fire and rebellion. You forget the wars their blood once sparked.”
“No.” It was Caelus Aurelius who broke the moment. His voice was ice over a still lake. “We do not forget. We remember exactly what fire does when untended.”
"Are you saying the era of agony was just my fault?" Rhogar Dravon asked.
Caelus allowed a thin smile. “You forget, Flamefather, that frost is the greater conqueror. Do you recall the Autumn Siege? When your armies nearly broke the walls of Glacial Vale?”
Rhogar’s grin was grudging respect. “You left nothing standing. No forge, no smith, not a spark of defiance. I still smell the ice on my men’s swords.”
Elrik Maelion winced at the memory. “Your frost‑legions marched through Vireon, Lord Aurelius. Our storm‑mines did nothing but funnel your cold deeper.”
Caelus inclined his head, gaze distant. “They called it a mercy. I called it justice. Let them remember whose power commanded the North Star.”
A tense silence followed, until Caelus broke it, voiced as cold and clear as ice,
“The boy is insignificant. A brother can be exiled like the rest. But the girl… she carries fire in her blood. We must test her.”
Rhogar’s laughter was a low rumble. “Test her? I’d rather see her thrown to my war hounds. Frost and flames, what better trial?”
Amun folded his arms. “Are you both proposing we bring war down upon children? And how do you suggest we do that? Cast lots and send assassins?”
Caelus’s eyes glittered like shards of glaciers. “Not upon her, beside her. We initiate the game of survival in the games of Velheim, as tradition. We revive the Tetra‑Anghelus Tournament after the games,from each of us names a champion of equal age to Uriel. Let them clash in the arena’s dust. If she is the Flameborn, let her stand or fall by steel and will.”
"they're still too young." Amun said, looking at his records of the heirs, Gabriel the daughter of Aurelia and the harsh of winter, Lysara Maelion the speed of west winds, Rhyan Dravon, son of forge fire and Cassian Caelora the trickster.
All still months old.
The lords fell silent.
"In 16 summers and winters, we let them proceed in the Valheim games, then they will meet their match." Lord Dravon had proposed, to which the lords had nodded.
Then Caelus continued, “We cannot move directly. Not yet, mold them first. Let us sort what blood is worthy.”
At that, even the statues seemed to breathe, Ithrial solemnly,
“The Tetra-Anghelus hasn’t been summoned in a generation. And it got shut down by Metatron himself when we exploited the tournament just to eradicate the weak, and to add on to that, the Velheim games isn't such a bad idea, they'd be facing demons and be prepared for survival."
“Then we summon it again, but this time with our blood so Metatron won't refuse.” Caelus said. “Let each of us choose a champion. Let our houses send their best into the velheim lands and make them fight in the crusader's arena. If the girl or her brother is truly are born of prophecy, let them bleed for it. Let them prove it in Eden’s dust.”
Rhogar's fist clenched, interest stirring in his war-hardened gaze. “A trial by combat… a stage for fate.”
Amun frowned. “It would be spectacle. Dangerous. Political.”
“It would be truth,” Caelus said flatly. “Or the closest thing left.”
Ithrial narrowed his eyes. “You mean to parade your daughter into this?” he teased, he knew Gabriel Aurelius himself, and he was a witness that she froze the halls of Aurelia's castles when she cried.
Caelus turned to him. “Gabriel Aurelius is of pure holy blood, born of ice and winter. She and Uriel are matched in age. Let the people see them side by side. Let the heirs fight, not only for victory, but for legitimacy.”
“Gabriel is sharp,” Rhogar rumbled as he admitted. “Sharper than most grown men. But are you prepared to see her fall?”
“I do not fear her falling,” Caelus answered. “I fear not knowing which child the prophecy favors. Better to draw out the truth by blade and fire than let it grow in shadows.”
The air stilled. Then Ithrial Vhalor slowly nodded. “Very well. But if we do this, it must remain in our control. The Order of the Phoenix must not be fractured.”
Caelus inclined his head. “Then let the flames reveal the phoenix from the ashes.”
And thus, beneath the moon of Eloen and the breathless trees of Myrrh, the lords of Eden struck a secret pact. They would summon the ancient tournament, they would make it law.
And they would feed children to the Games of Velheim and the Tetra-Anghelus Tournament.
Beneath the lantern‑hung boughs of the Myrrh Gardens, the lords fell into a tense stillness after swearing the oath on the obsidian tablet of oath. The white blossoms above stirred in the chill night air, as though even the trees strained to hear what came next, each must now proclaim why their chosen heir would prevail in both the velheim games and the ancient Tetra‑Anghelus Tournament.
"Lords of Eden, proclaim your heirs." Ithrial said as he held the obsidian tablet.
Caelus’s pale voice cut through the hush like a shaft of winter light, his eyes looking at the name of his daughter.
"Gabriel Launter Aurelius, the Aurelia incarnate. From the hour she could walk, she marched atop ice‑tipped peaks to master the North’s unforgiving rigor. Each frost‑sigil strike she weaves, controls the water and encases foes. She understands discipline as few do. Where others see hardship, she finds strength. She has trained under the silence of snowfields, drawing power from stillness itself. In the arena, she will not be swayed by fear or fury, only by purpose. Her calm will chill her foes before her blade ever touches them.” The Lord of the cold had oathed.
Elrik stepped forward, wind‑hair tousled as if a storm chased him across the gardens,
"Lysara Maelion, my West Wind who moves like the gale itself. You will never see her coming until the air bends around her blade. She was raised chasing her own echo across the Vireon highlands when she was barely 6 months old, learning to dance with thunder and vanish in a sunlit haze. In the dust of the arena, no champion can stand against a force they never feel.” The Lord of the west winds had oathed.
Rhogar’s eyes blazed like forge‑fire as he strode to the center circle,
“Rhyan Dravon is the might of Thoborn made flesh. From his first breath, he was taught that steel and flame must be one. He has sparred with warriors twice his age, his warhammer cleaving plate as easily as silk. He fights not for glory but for honor, a word that fuels his every strike. In the arena, will and strength meld. His blows crack bones and break shields. Let him close distance, and he will grind his opponent underfoot like slag in the smithy. His fury is a wildfire, he will consume any who dare face him.” The lord of molten rock oathed.
Amun’s lean form straightened, silver‑dusted robes whispering over the marble. He tapped his staff thoughtfully before speaking,
“Cassian Caelora is the mind of Ophire made living verse. He does not strike first, he won long before entering the arena. His courtly upbringing taught him the power of words, of subtle illusions woven through legalese. In combat, he mirrors that finesse: distractions, feints, and arcane bindings learned in the hidden libraries of Caelestis. He can bend perception, make his foe see walls where none stand, hear phantom threats at their back. A mind unprepared is a body unguarded. In that disarray, Cassian’s blade finds its mark. Against him, brute force is wasted, and speed unharnessed. He will win by turning the truth into his greatest weapon.” The lord of reflection and trickery oathed.
Ithrial had finished making the contract and said
“The tournament will be judged by the four crowned lords, and all Houses must honor the outcome. No favor. Should Uriel triumph, her place in Eden’s future is undeniable. Should she fall, her bloodline is forfeit."
He fixed each lord with a steel‑cold gaze. “Thus, we bind this secret pact. Thus, we weigh the tournament. The one of four that will prevail shall face the fire-born"
.......
Not long after the night they called the meeting, Ithrial Vhalor is speaking again, his red eyes glinting with inked runes, raises his hand for silence.
“The girl lives. And worse, she breathes prophecy. The flame has returned to Eden. A flame we failed to smother. Her father does not care for Eden's demise." Ithrial Vhalor had said with a frown
Caelus Aurelius leans forward, his breath like winter through steel reeds. “Her blood is impure. I warned Metatron. That woman, her Mother, Helena. She is merely a holy half-blood, the offspring of a demon and an angel, she has tainted lineage. The flame should never have entered our realm. And now it cries in a crib in the Highlands.”
Rhogar Dravon shakes his head and slams a gloved fist down, his voice as hot as the furnaces of Thoborn.
“The girl is nothing! It is the boy who haunts me. The elder whelp named Raguel. He reads too much. Thinks too loud. The flames I understand, but curiosity? That’s a fire I cannot snuff."
Elrik Maelion lets out a low laugh, his sky blue eyes flickering like cloud-split lightning.
“Funny, isn't it? Metatron ignored both children. Now both might rise against us. One thinks, the other burns. And what do we do? Sit here beneath flowers and whisper.”
Amun Caelora lifts his cup, the wine as black as ink.
“Not whispering, Elrik. We’re plotting. Let me speak plainly. Raguel has read the Heron scrolls. He’s searching for more. Let him search.”
Ithrial narrows his gaze beneath his veil.
“You intend to bait him? That boy believes in something, someone. His sister perhaps? Or some silly future?”
Caelus scoffed "Belief. A filthy word. He should’ve been purged the moment he cried. But now? Now we have a worm crawling through the pages of our past. If he knows the truth behind Tom Heron is you-”
Amun smiled, “Oh, he knows. He read the Book of my Lies. And he will follow the thread I left in its final passage. A whisper about the lost Black Scrolls hidden in the catacomb of ash within Thoborn. A lie nested within half-truths. It speaks of a lost prophecy hidden in the mines.”
Rhogar's eyes had gleamed, “The Ash-Mines. That place is half rubble already. If the boy steps inside, I can ensure he never steps out. A forge cave-in? Clever. Collapsing those tunnels would be easy. We’ll say he died in a cave-in. Or better, let me face him inside. I’ve longed to test his blood.”
Caelus shakes his head slightly.
“Tragedy is for poets. I want certainty. He must die, and his sister must burn before she rises.”
Elrik stands, arms crossed. “Why not just take them now? Strip the Highlands bare. We’ve done worse.”
Ithrial Vhalor shook his head after thinking. “We cannot. Not yet. The people still whisper the girl’s name, Uriel. They call her the Celestial Flame. Any aggression now will only fan suspicions.”
Amun scoffed, “And besides... we want the boy to come willingly. If he uncovers the scroll I’ve forged, he’ll believe he walks toward salvation. That’s the trap. He will walk into the mines alone, thinking he’s uncovering the truth of the past, when in truth, he’s stepping into a tomb.”
Amun leaned forward, eyes sharp as the night “And let us not forget, it is my words he believes. My truth he follows. If the scroll tells him Eden must fall to be reborn, he will walk that path without fire or sword. I need only shape his belief.”
Ithrial spoke out coldly, “You speak like a scribe playing god, Amun.”
Amun frowned at Ithrial's accusation, “I only write what men already fear, Lord Judge. The boy reads what he wants to believe. That’s all a lie is.”
Silence falls.
Caelus had sighed, the atmosphere suddenly turning cold, his hair gleaming white in the moonlight. “And if he escapes?”
Lord Amun had smirked, “Then he will return not as a scholar, but as a story. And stories, as you know, are easier to twist than to kill.”
Ithrial Vhalor smiled, “Then let the mines be sealed with prophecy and stone. Bait him. Burn him. And if not, bind him.”
Rhogar the wrathful laughed and the heads of the demon kings shackling on his belt “I’ll ready the guards, then.”
Ithrial solemnly groans, “Then it is agreed. The Velheim Games proceeds as well as the Tetra-Anghelus Tournament, and the luring of the young prince is justified. The mines are sealed. And history, once more, will be rewritten by our hands.”
Chapter 5: Of venom & bones, Child Of The Prophecy (4)
Summary:
Raguel faces what the scrolls told him to, he meets Tom Heron through the glass mirrors, and he realized- Tom Heron isn't real, there isn't a record of a Tom Heron. But he meets him, not in flesh nor blood, meets him in illusion. He finds a sword in his adventures, which he awakened accidentally which the iron greatsword has fused with him as the master of the sword. Uriel says her first words and it's adorable.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was a hot summer noon in the highlands of Thoborn,
Noon had settled, Asenath led Raguel to the small herb alcove beside the hearth after making sure Uriel was snug in her cradle.
Downstairs, shelves groaned under jars of dried petals, crushed roots, and powdered minerals, each labeled in Asenath’s neat hand. A copper cauldron perched on low embers, its surface already whispering warmth.
She handed Raguel the list of ingredients and the instructions, making sure it was the right vile for brewing a fire-resistant potion.
“Tonight, you learn more than steel,” she said. “You learn protection against flame.”
Ingredients:
2 pinches of carrion flower ash (bleached white)
1 spoonful of ironbark powder (dark and metallic)
3 drops of glacial moss extract (silver‑green juice)
A single ionized dragons breath dew drop
Asenath swept a lock of hair from Raguel’s forehead as she handed him the mortar. “Here, crush the ash just so,” she instructed, nudging his hand. “Not too hard, you insolent child, or you’ll turn this cure into a curse.” she teased.
"Eugh, Raguel it smells bad, you're overdoing it. You can smell the shit from 5 miles away" she joked.
Raguel rolled his eyes, pressing too firmly and sending a puff of white ash into the air. He sneezed, clutching at his nose. “You're not going to ask if I'm okay? I’m fine, Mother,” he grumbled. “This is your concoction, shouldn't you do it?”
"Put the damn mortar down, Raguel. We both know you're going to blow the roof off" she said, sighing, how could the master of potions give birth to a son that sucked in potion making?
"Oh yes, the famous tart tongued concubine of the King Metatron Astyrax, queen of thorned tongue." Raguel teased his mother sarcastically.
"And the famous tart and bastard of the king himself, prince Raguel." Asenath said in reply, Raguel put the mortar down in pure shock and humiliation, earning a whine from his throat.
"I was only teasing, mother." Raguel pouted.
She laughed, low and warm. “Ah, but I’m the Master of Potions, remember? My hands are too ancient for this sort of labor. Besides,” she winked, “a true potion‑maker teaches her apprentice by trial, preferably one that doesn’t blow the roof off!”
He jabbed at the ash again, this time with exaggerated care. “Your ‘trial by fire’ nearly scorched my pretty eyebrows last time.”
Asenath spanked Raguel's arms with the wooden spoon that stirred the cauldron, reminding him the powder was already overworked. “And whose eyebrows did I save from the dragon’s breath? Who keeps that flame at bay with a single dewdrop?” She tapped the vial she’d already prepared. “That’d be my brilliant child who almost burned his brows."
Raguel smirked, carefully adding the glacial moss extract. “I suppose someday I’ll be a Master of Potions like you as well, and brew a potion so strong it knocks you off your stool.”
She pretended to clutch her heart. “Oh, I won't doubt you do, you knocked the roof off the last time you brewed with bane's kelp. My own son, mastering the craft before his mother. But go on, add the dragon breath. Show me you can do more than just tease me with your pointless jokes"
“Now,” Asenath instructed, ladling the mixture into the cauldron. The brew hissed, bubbling from slate‑gray to molten amber. “Speak the ward as you stir.”
Together they intoned:
"By earth’s gray skin, by moss’s cold breath,
By the thorn’s red tear, by the flame’s dark death,
Shield this flesh, this bone, this blood,
Turn fire’s anger to the taming flood."
Silver sparks danced across the surface. Asenath poured the shimmering liquid into a crystal vial, corking it with a flourish.
It was a quiet night in the family's land, the sheep closing their eyes, the wind blowing a cold breeze that makes the grass swing back and forth, the wolves howling from a distant place, the bark of the tree hard and though, the leaves bristling because if the winds as well as Raguel's brown hair.
"Drink only when fire seeks to kill, not merely to challenge.” she said, eyeing Raguel's style of fashion from top to bottom.
"And do change into better clothes, your choice of style irks me deeply." She teased.
Raguel sighed as he weighed the vial in his palm, its warmth seeping through the glass. Fenris leaned forward, nose twitching at the ember‑scented steam.
He sat beneath the lone willow tree on the highland's grass, a simple wooden harp resting on his knee. The moonlight gilded the grass, and the sheep and lambs clustered around him, lulled by the soft music of his fingers dancing over strings.
Fenris lay at his feet, only a handful bigger than a lamb yet still, as loyal as a pup, ears alert to every note, tail thumping a gentle rhythm on the earth. The boy’s pale skin and dark hair, lit by the dying moonlight, bore the hint of his exile, a tunic patched with well‑worn stitches, leggings showing signs of mending, and boots shined only by effort rather than luxury. Yet in his violet eyes blazed a determination no hardship could extinguish.
He plucked the first notes of his song, an old lullaby Asenath had taught him when Uriel was born. The melody wove into the air, a soft tapestry of memory and longing. His slender fingers danced across the strings, each note trembling with unspoken questions.
“Beneath the hawthorn’s bough you lie, Silent moss and moonlit sky. Sleep my lamb, your fate unknown, In exile’s arms you stand alone.”
A chorus of bleats rose as the sheep paused to listen, an audience of innocent and unwitting. Fenris’s tail tapped the ground in time. For a moment, the world felt as it once had: simple, protective, unmarred by prophecy.
But twilight yielded to shadow, and shadows carried secrets.
A wind stirred the hawthorn’s blossoms. A single petal drifted down. Raguel paused mid‑note, eyes snapping open. All at once, the air grew still, as if the world held its breath.
Raguel’s song waned as a cool breeze rose, carrying the faintest whisper, his own name.
He looked around
“Ra‑gueel…” The voice screeched.
He paused, breath catching. Fenris lifted his head. Raguel glanced down at the folded scroll at his side: sealed with the sun‑etched wax of Caelestis, its leather cover crackling faintly in the wind. As he reached for it, the seal flared gold, and the ink of the prophecy inside began to shift, words bleeding like fresh blood into the parchment:
“Seek the Vaults of Ash in Thoborn’s depths. Face the truth you have read. Meet me there, Tom Heron awaits.”
"Why.. why do you need me there?" Raguel wrote back in the parchment.
"The answers you seek, are in Thoborn's depths"
“Fenris,” he murmured, voice hushed as if the world itself might overhear. “They call me.” The pup just nuzzled his nose on Raguel's boot.
Raguel’s heart thundered. The scroll—Tom Heron’s own, spoke to him as though alive, as though Amun himself had left his voice trapped in every line. His pulse quickened, images of dark tunnels and serpent‑guarded chambers flickered in his mind.
He closed the harp’s lid gently. Fenris rose and padded forward, nose nudging Raguel’s hand.
That night, long after the sky had bled its final light, Raguel slipped through the simple house door. He paused by Uriel’s cradle, her chest rising in steady slumber, blankets pulled close by Asenath’s careful hands. He bent and brushed a curl from her temple. Her little fist curled around his finger in a dream, she grows too fast, already being 8 months old.
"Sleep well, sister." He pressed a light kiss to her forehead and rose, heart heavy with resolve.
Fenris followed silently as Raguel crept through moonlit corridors. The hearth was banked low, casting only a handful of dancing sparks. He ducked beneath the lintel and into the cool night air, scroll clutched against his heart.
Behind him, the cottage held its breath, it took a few minutes of him walking down the Highlands with his companion that howled at the high moon.
Ahead lay the ragged entrance to the Thoborn Caverns, the ancient Vaults of Ash where no light shone and no lie could hide. Raguel shouldered his cloak, tightened his grip on the scroll, and stepped into darkness, guided by a voice written in ink and iron.
His mind tumbled with questions:
Why here, beneath the grounds of Thoborn? What awaited in caverns deep? Most of all—why had Tom Heron, the nameless scribe of lies, reached out to him now?
He paused at the edge of the wood, where a path of worn stone slabs led to the Caverns of Thoborn. The slabs were ancient markers: a wolf howling, a griffin's claw, a serpent’s eye and a dragon's fire, symbols of houses who once dared the darkness.
Fenris sniffed at the first marker. Raguel felt a tightening in his chest, as if the stones themselves remembered blood. “Be brave, Fenris.” he told the pup. “The vaults await.”
They pressed on, the path curving toward a yawning black entrance. No light spilled from its mouth, only an echo of stillness.
Raguel took a torch from his belt and kindled it. The flame sputtered, then bloomed, casting long shadows.
He stepped forward, torch held high, Fenris at alert. Every breath tasted of stone and damp air as if blood was threatening to pool out of his mouth. He marched into the mines and went down deeper via the stairs of the dark cavern,
The air closed around them like a shroud. Heavy. Damp. Ancient. Raguel’s footfalls echoed along the tunnel floor, soft but lonely in the hush of the deep. Each step stirred the ash that lay thick like snowfall, fine and black as crushed obsidian. The scent of old stone and something far older curled through the air, like forgotten incense or a prayer sealed shut.
His torch sputtered once. The flame weakened momentarily dimming before flaring again, casting shadows that danced like ghosts on the vaulted walls. He reached into his satchel and lit another from the first, the second flame springing to life with a brittle crackle. The tunnel bloomed with broken light.
Symbols carved into the walls loomed from the dark. Stars torn in half by tongues of fire. Crowns twined with serpents. Wings folded inward like a mourning gesture. Beneath them, the ledges were thick with dust and forgotten offerings: shattered candles, melted glass, a single child’s shoe.
A growl shattered the silence. Fenris stiffened, his fur bristling. The pup’s ears pressed flat, eyes locked on the tunnel ahead. Raguel halted mid-step, his breath catching in his throat.
“Welcome, Raguel Astyrax,”
came a voice from the void, Raguel fell silent, his two wings folding inwards in fear as he clutched the scroll tightly.
It didn’t echo. It didn’t need to. It slid from the walls like a sigh, like mercury poured across glass. Cold, smooth, emotionless. It coiled around his name and held it there.
“You stand in the catacombs where truth is laid bare.”
Raguel spun, torch held high. “Who’s there?” His voice cracked, louder than he meant like a bark. “Show yourself!”
Only ash met him. Only the shadow answered.
"You seek Tom Heron." The figure chuckled, evil and unyielding.
the voice continued, slow and deliberate, like it was savoring each word, a snake coiling on its victim. "I have waited long… for someone brave enough to read between his lines.”
His torch trembled in his grip. “I said show yourself! Show yourself or I'll force you to!"
Then the runes responded.
Carved into the bones of the tunnel, the ancient symbols began to shimmer, gold and scarlet and silver. They twisted and turned as if re-writing themselves in real time. An alcove near the far wall pulsed with breath. The stone rippled like water disturbed.
And from the ripple, a figure emerged.
He wore ink-black robes that glimmered like wet oil in the torchlight, trimmed with edges like written script. His eyes glowing yellow as his shaved stubble made him look like a gentleman. Not skin. A mirror. His face was a reflection, perfect and unblinking. And in its surface, Raguel saw not only his own terrified eyes, but flickers of memory, of dreams, of fire.
"I am what you imagined, bastard of Metatron."
the figure said, voice low and slick as oil. "I am also what you feared. I am Tom Heron… and I am more.”
Raguel staggered a step back, his mind whirling. The way the man spoke, the calm venom in his voice, it was unmistakable.
“Amun,” Raguel breathed. “Amun Caelora. Talk about bastardry and I'll cut off your snake tongue.” he threatened.
The figure smiled. Not warmth, not amusement. It was a mathematical curve, cold and perfect.
“Sassy little bastard.” he said, “My name is a vessel, and vessels can be shattered. But my words remain. You read them well. Too well, infact.”
"Is that supposed to be one of your shit poems or is it supposed to mean something?" Raguel asked, his patience threading thinly.
"I will not have my honor questioned by a bastard of barely 9 years who's been running cowardly because of his own mother's guilt in the castle of Caelestis" Amun barked, not tolerating the child's nature.
"Sorry, did I offend you, pardon me, but what did I come here for? To get insulted and not get a chance to hurl at your abnormally large nose who sticks itself at people's business?" Raguel looked at the mirror with a glint of fire in his eyes.
"Shut it if you want what's good for you, you came here to die in my hands, boy." Amun growled each word was if a wolf of two winters hungry was upon prey, which was an 8 year old.
"Spectacular." Raguel said sarcastically while rolling his eyes. "Couldn't kill someone your own size, lord Amun the coward?"
Lord Amun just cackled like the lord of trickery he was, a fool indeed, a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Fenris snarled, a low warning tremble in his chest. Raguel drew the obsidian-handled knife from his belt, the blade catching the firelight with a flash.
“Do you think you can trap me with steel, boy? When you barely have a weapon and not even awakened your magical mana!" He exclaimed, the mirror cracking in the corners. “I wrote these runes! I wrote this prophecy. You cannot unwrite it.”
His hand lifted, stabbing the mirror in the middle, cracking it vigorously until the image of Tom Heron disappeared. His fingers like pale quills scribbled across the air.
The tunnel groaned as the ground trembled beneath their feet. Dust spilled from above. The carved runes sparked to life, flaring red and golden lava like molten veins.
A sound like thunder split the silence.
With a deafening crack, the ceiling behind them collapsed. A wall of stone and earth slammed down, cutting off their retreat. The impact sent a shockwave through the corridor. Raguel shielded Fenris with his wing as rock and grit rained around them.
"Fenris.. Fenris, you okay?" Raguel asked, retrieving his wings as he pet his wolf's head as it whimpered.
When the dust settled, two paths remained, One swallowed in perfect silence. The other lit faintly, but something moved at the far edge of its light. Something slow, serpentine, vanishing before the eye could hold it.
Raguel’s heart thundered in his chest.
He turned, ready to confront the figure in the mirror again, but the man was gone. Nothing remained but dust and flickering light. The echo of his words still clung to the stone.
“Fenris,” Raguel whispered, dropping into a crouch beside the pup. “We go first. Stay close to me, do not chase rats again.”
The little creature huffed, pressing to his side.
Torch in one hand, knife tight in the other, Raguel stepped into the shadowed corridor, his feet clacking into the cavern floor, the sounds echoing.
Behind them, the cave mouth stood sealed. Ahead, fate waited, burning in the ink of a false prophet’s scrolls.
And somewhere deep below, something moved in the dark.
He went deeper in the caverns, until he walked to a dead end, the vault's steel doors opened with only a little swing of the wheel knob.
As the metal door opened, Fenris growled, his tail laying low, Raguel knew there was something wrong, he put his gloved hand on Fenris' head, the catacomb of ash is occupied with stacks of gold coins, gold bars, iron bars and gemstones of the Thoborn's land.
The lair stank of scorched marrow and old magic. Ash pooled knee-deep in some places, a graveyard's worth of bone half-buried in the shadows. As Raguel stepped forward, the wind itself grew still, the kind of silence that comes before a name is carved into stone.
Fenris growled low, barely more than a breath of sound.
"Show yourself, Amun." Raguel said, sensing the atmosphere, Fenris barked angrily at the torch, in which Raguel looks and finds a ghost like shadow, he assumed it was Amun.
The walls narrowed, curling downward like the throat of some beast. Raguel’s torch flickered violently with each step, as if fire itself feared what lay ahead. The deeper he went, the more the stones wept, thin trails of black moisture staining the walls like veins. Fenris padded close behind him, unusually silent, ears pinned back and fur thick with unease.
The cavern floor began to slope, shifting from stone to dust to something that crunched softly beneath his boots.
He stopped and lowered the torch because his wings felt unbalanced, it felt cold as the sudden breeze slipped through each of his white feathers, his eyes widened.
Bones. Thousands of them.
Ribcages spanned like broken wings. Skulls gaping in eternal screams. Armor warped and melted, fused with fossilized flesh. The air was thick, like breathing through smoke and rot.
"And you said it'd be safe." Raguel scoffed, knowing Amun was watching him somehow.
“You smell of fire unborn.” someone said, like a hiss. It didn't sound like Amun, more like someone who had a deeper and scaly voice.
Raguel gripped the torch tighter. “Show yourself, coward. Before I burn this place down.” He turned slowly, his shadow cast in ten directions against the dripping walls. Each echo of his movement stretched and warped, like the cave itself watched him. Fenris whined low, his tail stiffened. Then the bones below his feet began to move.
From the cavern’s depths, something stirred.
Weapons rusted to their sheaths. Shields bent into ruin. Human and inhuman remains, some with wings crumbled against their backs, others with horns still fused to their shattered skulls.
“The faster we know the answer, we can go home faster, Fenris." Raguel groaned.
Raguel stepped forward. And the moment his boot touched the floor of bones, a vibration hummed through the cavern.
Low and ancient. Felt more in the ribs than heard by the ears. As if someone had plucked a thousand harp strings tuned to death.
Then came the scent, sulfur, venom, rot. Heavy. Smothering. It clogged his throat and brought tears to his eyes. The air warmed, then boiled. The fire in his torch flared a violent green before snapping back to yellow. He realized, the smoke was making him feel sleepy.
From somewhere beyond the veil of shadow, a scale slid across stone. Once. Twice. A slow, deliberate sound, the scrape of a body too massive for mortal halls.
And then, that voice again. That irritating voice.
Not spoken, breathed into his thoughts.
"I smell the boy who reads forbidden names. The marrow of prophecy sings in your blood."
Raguel jerked, spinning in all directions. "Damn it, stop saying useless things in my ears, show yourself!” His eyes widened, alerting himself. The air making him feel tired and sleepy, Fenris barked, understanding what was happening, he nuzzled his nose to his feet.
"You carry the fire that should not be kindled. The spark the lords fear. The soul the flames envy."
The torchlight's flames seemed to turn into a laughing joker, his eyes rolled back. A loud bark from Fenris snapped his mind back to reality, the torchlight came back to orange, yet A presence filled the space.
And then he heard it, closer now.
Scales. Green scales.
Scales dragged across rock, below the bones. With a hiss like silk torn from flesh, A huge basilisk emerged from its shadows, a serpent the size of a temple tower, its mouth lined with teeth like shattered spears, a black crown of bone curling from its skull.
“The bastard of the tyrant... the boy touched by chains... the brother to the flame,” it murmured, voice both deep and dry, like stone grinding stone. “You have come as it was written.”
It had yellow snake eyes, a dragon like head, sharp rows of teeth, scars in its scales proving of its age. It chuckled, whisker like skin by his mouth swaying as it spoke, horns on the side of his heads sharp enough to be able to penetrate iron armor.
Raguel froze, knife in his hand, torchlight shaking in his hand. “What do you know about the prophecy?” Fenris growled back as it hissed.
The basilisk’s milky, lidless eyes fixed on him. They did not need to see to recognize him.
“I have devoured kings who sought to escape it. I have made saints bleed who swore to rewrite it. But you… you are a contradiction. The parchment bleeds your name in ink that will not dry.”
It uncoiled further, circling him now like a serpent of scripture, ash curling at its belly.
“The flame-girl will burn the skies… the flame-born of Eden. But you will choose who she becomes. You are the hinge. The wound. The one who weeps and does not know why.” It laughed. "Pathetic!" It continued. A long tongue flicked toward Raguel’s chest, sensing his heartbeat.
"And so I will feast on you, little hinge. Snap your spine, and watch the flame burn wild without a leash. You will not be the one who remembers. You will be the one forgotten.”
The serpent reared back. Then it lunged.
The world became a blur of scale, firelight, and fury. With his breath, he rolls away, guiding Fenris away,
Raguel barely screamed before its coils enveloped him. A monstrous, crushing force of scale and muscle, the breath was driven from his lungs. The torch clattered to the stone floor, its light dancing wildly as it rolled. Darkness surged in, only broken by the basilisk’s glimmering eyes, twin voids of ancient hunger that longed to feast on him.
“You were never meant to wake the prophecy,” the basilisk hissed, tightening its hold, “but the words branded you. You are a flame that never should have burned. Let me return you to ash.” It chuckled, before opening its mouth wide.
"Brag all you want, slimy meat head" Raguel gasped angrily, his ribs creaking. The pressure was unbearable. His vision blurred, both from exhaustion and the heavy smoke that causes illusion. He reached for the obsidian knife at his belt,
He clenched it in white-knuckled fingers, gritting his teeth against the pain. Somewhere inside him, a flame cracked.
"This prophecy is mine to wield—” he growled through his teeth, “not yours to end.” Raguel threatened.
He drove the knife into the coil binding his chest.
The blade pierced not just flesh, but also the veil,
the walls of the cavern cracked, his wings pulsing and his halo shining brighter than ever, and behind his gaze, something ancient stirred.
A ripple of power exploded through the chamber, as if something inside him had opened its gates, like a lion ripping open a sacrificial gazelle.
The basilisk reeled, its body lurching back, stunned. Raguel tumbled to the ground, coughing violently, blood on his lips. His fingers burned, but not from the knife. From within.
His blood shimmered. His heartbeat thudded like a war drum. Something had changed. Everything had. His eyes flashed white.
Around him, the cavern lit with invisible energy, lines, threads of force suspended in the air, twisting around the basilisk strings tied to a puppet.
He saw them, he saw a pattern. He could manipulate energy, and as long as there is motion, he can control.
He understood them, since he's always had a shepherd's slingshot, he knew the importance of power.
And, with a flick of his fingers, he moved them.
The basilisk lunged to strike again, but halted mid-motion, its jaw hanging open, eyes flickering in confusion.
Raguel stood, his eyes glowing white-gold, his aura unfurling in radiant waves.
His hands twitched. The serpent’s head snapped back. Its body coiled, twisted, crashed into the wall, not by its will, but his.
“You just had to attempt to kill me so I can get stronger, huh?” Raguel said, his voice rising like thunder, “I understand it now.”
The basilisk screamed, an ear-splitting shriek that shattered bone fragments across the floor.
Raguel took the knife, crushing the obsidian in many pieces and lifted the hundreds of sharp shards with energy manipulation, hurling it towards the basilisk, which pierced through the thick scales deeply.
The Basilisk still lunged forward, mouth wide open. Raguel dashed to the right, bashing its head on a sharp rock as it wriggled out of his control, Raguel flew up and stabbed the eyes of the beast with its own sharp tooth.
"Give me one good reason to not skin you alive." Raguel said angrily, still not happy that the beast insulted him and his beloved sister, Raguel forced the snake down.
And then Fenris barked, emerging from the shadows.
The wolf barked defiantly, its legs scrambling across the stone. In its mouth, it dragged a long, tarnished iron great sword with a simple hilt. The hilt glowing faintly from its proximity to Raguel’s awakening, sensing the rightful master.
Raguel reached out. The moment his hand wrapped around the hilt—The sword changed.
Its aura blazed and smokey white. Pure, divine, angelic. Light surged through the blade like lightning given shape. Its edge sharpened with holy wrath, runes carved in the handle.
"Energy is a double edged sword" was written into the hilt right before the red gem on the edge of the hilt.
The basilisk roared and lunged one last time, its fangs glistening, its crown crashing toward him like doom.
But Raguel spread his two wings, brilliant and newly unfurled.
The basilisk screeched, blinded, recoiling. It never saw the strike coming, Raguel ran forward, making sure not to be hit by the falling rocks, Fenris hopped and took down the neck of the Basilisk
He swung the sword in thin air, making air slashes that carry physical damage to the barriers, enabling Raguel to control the energy stored in it, cutting effortlessly from a range.
A flash of white, then silence.
The basilisk’s head struck the ground, and crumbled into thin ash. The body followed, unraveling like smoke, dissipating into the air as if it had never existed, only a memory, only a lie.
Fenris barked once, proud and happy he gets to see his master alive.
Raguel stood amidst the vanishing remnants, sword in hand, heart pounding. The lines of energy only he could sense still danced around him, but now, they answered him.
Raguel put the sword back into the hilt as he put it in his belt as he sighed, hand going to Fenris' head, limping his right leg as they both walked out of the tavern.
Amun Caelora looked at the boy walking away from the shards of his broken knife, grinding his teeth angrily. "It appears we are testing a prophecy set to come true."
..................
The sky was bleeding pink and orange by the time Raguel returned.
Its first light brushed the edge of the eastern hills, painting the sky in soft bands of rose and gold. The valley below shimmered with dew. Birds stirred in the olive trees, their songs tentative.
Dust clung to his boots. Blood streaked down his wrist, drying into flaked rust. The white of his hair was dulled by soot. Fenris padded quietly beside him, tail between his legs, the hilt of a sword dragging in his small jaws. Raguel’s wings were folded low, heavy with fatigue and fear of facing his mother.
He stepped over the last ridge into the yard.
The world was waking, but in the quiet highland house nestled against the edge of Eden’s wildlands, one soul had not slept, and the air shattered.
"Good heavens—RAGUEL!” Asenath stormed out of the house like a tempest unleashed. Her hands were trembling, wings spreading out angrily like an angry peacock showing frills and feathers, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles paled, a mother's concern was never wrong.
“Where have you been? Where—” Her voice broke. She seized his collar with both hands, shoving him back a step. “Do you know what you’ve done to me? I thought you were dead!”
“Mama—” Raguel hesitated, scared of his mother's wrath.
“Don’t mama me, you reckless, gods-forsaken—” She shoved him again, eyes glassy with rage. “I stayed up the whole damned night! I lit every candle, every lantern, and called your name until my voice broke! I searched each room, the forest, the well—I thought something had taken you.”
“I left a scroll—”
“You left nothing!” she snapped, breathing hard. “A glowing paper with riddles and ink isn’t a message. It’s a curse. It’s the same curse that killed your father’s council, and nearly burned the East to the ground. You vanished chasing ghosts, and you came back looking like you’ve clawed your way out of hell!”
Raguel couldn’t meet her eyes.
Fenris whined quietly, weeping as he looked up at Raguel and whimpered as he looked at Asenath.
She grabbed his face in both hands, searching for him. “What happened to you? Tell me the truth, all of it—did someone hurt you? I found you no where, all I could find was Uriel crying, your pup nowhere to be found and your sheep and lambs not sleeping!" Asenath said, hugging her precious boy tightly.
He flinched. “I went to the catacombs.”
Asenath froze. Her hands dropped, her voice dropped to a whisper. “You went into Thoborn’s vaults? Alone?”
He nodded in reply.
She stepped back slowly, as though she might fall over. “That place is cursed. The dead whisper there. Even the lords won’t set foot in those tombs. you went alone?!”
“I had to,” he murmured. “The scroll… it spoke to me. And I had to know.”
“You had to know?” she spat. “You had to know?”
She pointed a shaking finger at him. “You are my son, Raguel Thoross Astyrax. You are not some pawn of prophecy. You do not get to go off risking your life in the dark while I sit here wondering if I’ll bury my child!”
“I’m sorry…” he replied, a little bit more of sermon from Asenath, he'll whimper like Fenris eventually.
“No, you’re not.” Her voice cracked. “Because you’d do it again.”
Silence fell between them. The only sound was the morning breeze, rustling the olive leaves above.
Then softly, brokenly, she added, hands in Raguel's shoulders as Asenath looked him directly in the eyes. “You’re all I have. I won’t lose you to prophecy. I won’t lose you to that cursed name.”
Raguel stepped forward and hugged her. She resisted at first, arms stiff, breath shallow, but then eventually collapsed into him, trembling.
“I killed the illusion,” he whispered. “I destroyed it.. I'm sorry"
She didn’t answer, just held him tighter.
Asenath’s breath had only just steadied when her gaze dropped lower, past Raguel’s ash-marked shirt, past the bruises blossoming on his arms, to the sword strapped to his waist.
The light caught the blade’s hilt: wrought in iron but the ruby gleaming faintly with a soft white aura, like moonlight kissed with starlight.
Her eyes narrowed. "What is that?” she asked, her voice was suddenly low and sharp, eyeing the iron greatsword.
Raguel stiffened. “It’s... it was Fenris’s.” he explained, not being able to find the proper words to explain what happened in the catacomb vaults.
Asenath blinked. “What do you mean it was Fenris’s?” she asked curiously, eyes fierce like fire and eyebrows raised, her veil swaying in the winds.
“He found it for me. In the basilisk’s lair.” Raguel explained, tears already forming in his eyes, looking like a child who was caught red handed in the act of breaking a glass vase.
“You went into a lair of a basilisk now?” she asked, voice raising once more "You're telling me you went into the mines, entered the lair where no one dares to enter and you killed the said basilisk with the sword you randomly found? What next? You're the heir to the throne?" Asenath asked, voice a mix of concern and anger.
He looked terrified and tired, “It’s a long story.” he tried to explain.
She didn’t speak. She stepped forward, fingers hovering just above the sword’s handle. The white light pulsed gently beneath her palm like a heartbeat.
“This isn’t just iron,” she murmured. “There’s mana in this… old mana. Ancient.” Her eyes flicked to his. “Did you almost lose your life for this, Raguel?”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly. “It happened when I fought. When it was… when I needed it most, I awakened something.. something akin to telekinesis, but I saw lines in the air.”
Her lips pressed into a line. “You awakened something?”
She exhaled sharply and turned away, rubbing her temple. “Of course you did. You awaken ancient mana of physical energy bending, crawl out of death, and come back to give me gray hairs before I’ve even grown old. You really are his damned son."
He chuckled. “You already have two strands, mother. And didn't you say wisdom can be seen with old grey hairs?" He teased.
She spun and shot him a glare, but it cracked with reluctant affection. “Keep talking and I’ll double it.”
Fenris yipped and pawed at Raguel’s boot. “Oh, right,” Raguel grinned, crouching to reach into the basket by the door. “You earned this, little beast.” He tossed a strip of lamb meat, which Fenris snapped midair with a victorious bark before settling near the hearth with his prize.
Then soft feet padded against the floor. Uriel toddled from the hallway, wrapped in a too-large tunic, her curls haloed by morning light. She blinked sleepily, rubbing one eye with a small fist. Raguel stood to meet her.
She stared up at him, then toddled forward and grabbed the hem of his cloak.
“Raggie.” Uriel mumbled as she embraced his legs, smiling happily, her wings spreading.
Asenath smiled, chuckling as her son froze like a statue in Caelestis' castle. Raguel blinked, stunned.
“Did she just—?” Raguel stared in disbelief, laughing happily as he made sure it wasn't a dream or dead in the caves.
“Raggie,” Uriel repeated, tugging his cloak gently, then beamed with a gummy smile.
"She was crying last night and was mumbling, until I realized she was calling out broken versions of your name, that's when I found out you were missing. You were her first words." Asenath explained.
A warmth bloomed behind Raguel’s ribs, he crouched and scooped her into his arms, spinning her once as she squealed.
“She spoke,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “She actually—!”
"Raggieee" Uriel called happily, wrapping her arms around Raguel's neck, wings flapping in delight.
“Close enough,” Raguel laughed. “It’s perfect.”
Uriel giggled and rested her head against his shoulder. Fenris thumped his tail near the fire, eating lamb meat happily.
For the first time since the sun rose, peace settled across their home.
Even if it was just for now.
Notes:
Big bro Raguel doesn't know how to brew potions, I stand by the fact Raguel is sassy in this fic
Chapter 6: Greenery with children, Child Of The Prophecy (5)
Summary:
I don't even know what I wrote anymore, this is just a filler chapter, but the Lords here battle and Raguel, Uriel and Asenath has family bonding time, Raguel and Uriel talks of the girl from the Northern prophecies, and they get too creative, hmm, foreshadowing at it's finest. Author is most likely wine drunk while writing 😭
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It was a cold night in the Council Chambers, Gardens of Myrrh, beneath the twilight veil of Eden.
A heavy fog settled over the marble floor of the ancient round table, encircled by thrones shaped in likeness to the realms they ruled. Stone twisted with fire, ice, metal, light, and mirrored glass, all gathered in tension, veiled by the perfume of myrrh and venomous patience.
Lord Maelion arrived first, where high judge Vhalor was waiting, he was dressed in a simple evening blue and evening robe and his light blue eyes feigning mischief, with his house sigi. An eagle with an arrow engraved in his cape, his lengthened tousled blonde hair framing his lightly bearded face, he is what you'd call a wise looking man. His footsteps echoed in the ground. His two wings glowing ominously.
Lord Dravon followed, his footsteps blazing as he walked and his tall stature towering over most of the other lords, the sound of armor clanking heavily as he made movement, he had blazing red hair and a puffy beard, a manly angel if you'd ask, he offered a gentle smile with his chapped lips. His six wings closed on his back, making people remember of his pure holy blood status. The sigil of his family house is engraved in his armor, a griffin with opened wings.
Lord Caelora walked in next, his footsteps unusually quiet since he knows the meeting is held because of his blunder, he—as usual, has short slicked back dark hair, wise glasses on his tall nose and clean handsome face and eyes shining in crimson red—but it's most likely pure illusion anyways, his two wings were closed humbly, his family sigil— a mirror with a feathered pen on the center.
Lord Aurelius walked last, fashionably late, his footsteps commanding attention and entered with fashion, his white hair gleaming white despite in the dark,—fashionably slicked back but a strand sticking out that adds on to his face of perfection, his grey eyes glinting and his almost grey eyebrows carved his eyes into a hunter's gaze, he was wearing thick leather armour and a winter bear's hide and fur on his back the Aurelia way, his chest armour displaying a wolf and a star as a halo. His six wings glowing brightly which proves he is of holy blood.
Ithrial Vhalor, Lord of Eloen, broke the silence, voice low and iron-tipped. "So… the sword of Eidolon was real. Buried beneath your very bones, Amun. And you—lord of illusion, architect of riddles—did not see it?"
Amun Caelora, seated in the throne of Ophire with a smile like oil slick on water, tilted his head lazily. "See it? I wrote the bones of that mine. Yet something... rewrote them. I suspect divine meddling—or perhaps your laws of chain have rusted, Ithrial."
Caelus Aurelius, Lord of Frost and North, dressed in pale furs and plates of starlit ice stood abruptly, his fists cold enough to frost the air. "You fool. You risked the prophecy falling into a child’s hands, that sword wasn’t forged for peasant blood. It was meant to be sealed and entombed, and now that boy holds it."
Amun raised a brow, unconcerned. "A charming twist, isn’t it? The shepherd boy who stole fate. Perhaps Eden will thank me when he stabs Metatron with it."
Rhogar Dravon, Lord of Fire and Thoborn, slammed his molten gauntlet onto the table, causing it to splinter. "You mock prophecy?! That mine was my dominion. You were to keep the news from spreading, he was your bait, not mine!"
The flames in Rhogar’s pauldrons roared to life, smoke wafting between his teeth.
Maelion of Vireon, clad in blue cloth and veil of crimson silk, leaned forward with slow, surgical disdain. "You all speak as if the boy is the problem. The real concern is Amun’s negligence. He played too long in his mirrors and riddles to the point he forgot that illusion cannot bury destiny. I wonder… were you hoping he would find the blade?—or were you playing with the boy for your mere entertainment?"
Amun’s smile thinned. "Careful, Maelion. My illusions may lie, but I do not."
Ithrial rose now, voice ringing across the chamber like judgment. "Enough of your slippery words! The chains are binding because chaos reigns without them. And you—all of you—let your petty wars and bruised egos rule you. Eden’s foundation cracks. One more fracture, and it falls."
Caelus huffed which released a cold smoke in the air, which was probably the first time the other lords heard him do. "You speak of order, yet you write laws in blood and silence."
Rhogar, rising as well, stepped across the marble toward Caelus. "You want another war in Thoborn, frost-lord? I’ll melt your towers into ash."
With a swing of his hand, flame coiled in his palm. Caelus met him halfway, drawing from the glacial sheath of his belt a blade of frozen silver—the sword was named Astherox, the ceremonial blade of house Aurelius. The air between them hissed, fire against frost.
“You threaten me in front of the Prophets’ table, Rhogar?” Caelus murmured, barely turning.
Rhogar Dravon, still seething, bared his molten teeth. "I should’ve burned your daughter to cinders when she stepped foot in Thoborn. Perhaps your bloodline’s frost can’t save her from hellfire—”
He never finished.
In an instant, Caelus lifted his hand.
Frost exploded across the chamber.
The floor cracked with the scream of splitting stone as an arc of glacial wind howled toward Rhogar, encasing him from throat to waist in jagged, unyielding ice. His arms were pinned to his sides. His fire guttered instantly, snuffed by a cold so complete it stole the light from the air.
Rhogar choked as ice clawed into his lungs, his body seizing in frozen agony.
Ithrial stepped forward in fury.
"This is madness! Cease, Caelus—this is council, not execution!"
Caelus didn’t even look at him.
He turned a single frigid eye, paler than moonlight—and with a flick of his other wrist, the chains of the floor shattered as a spike of ice erupted beneath Ithrial’s feet.
Before the Lord of Eloen could draw breath, a hand of frost snapped shut around his throat. He was yanked from his place, suspended in the air! choking, iron skin turning blue where the cold kissed it. "You presume to chain me?" Caelus’ voice rang with the ghost of glaciers, emotionless and inexorable.
"Your laws do not bind me, Ithrial. I am not your kin. I am the white silence between heartbeats—the one you never hear coming."
Ithrial raised his hand and in that moment, iron chains erupted from the floor, binding their feet to the marble. Time halted.
"You forget yourselves." Ithrial’s voice echoed like thunder in a temple. "Fight again, and I swear, not even prophecy will weep for your ashes."
Amun's laughter was like venom slithering across marble, smooth and slow, dripping with contempt as he planned to tease a certain Lord in that very table.
“How amusing,” he said, pacing before the table of Lords, his voice the silk of a spider’s web. “That you, Caelus Aurelius—the Butcher of the North, the King of Ice, should speak of order and sacrifice. As though your hands are not bathed in frostbitten corpses.”
The chamber of Myrrh darkened with tension.
Lord Rhogar folded his arms, eyes alight with interest. Lord Maelion smirked. Lord Ithrial stood still, as though waiting for a sword to draw itself.
Caelus did not rise. He merely turned his gaze to Amun. It was like being stared at by a glacier. Eyes that did not blink, did not flinch, only calculated how long it would take for your bones to break.
“Speak carefully, illusionist,” Caelus said, low and guttural. “You lie too often to hear your own voice without poison."
"How would you like to die, lord of the North?" Amun laughed, looking at each of every other lord's faces.
"In my bed at the ripe age of 500, after I outlive your abnormally large nose and that lying crippled mouth of yours." Caelus said coldly.
Amun tilted his head mockingly.
“I should have written the truth in the scrolls of the First War,” he said, stepping closer. “That the true villain who shattered the peace of Eden was not ambition or rebellion… but you, Caelus. You, who turned the winds of Aurelia into blades, and pledged a dire wolf as a gift to your recently terminally ill wife." He laughed.
Caelus stood from his ice throne.
The air dropped ten degrees. The flames of the council torches hissed and dimmed. Frost spidered across the marble floor with every step he took.
“Finish that sentence,” he said, now a whisper. “And I will carve out your tongue and freeze it in your throat." The wolf of the North said, his power threatening to be unleashed.
Amun smiled in reply.
“You’ll never silence me. I am the writer of memory. I write the truths the world believ-”
CRACK.
Caelus’ fist struck like a falling star. Amun’s head snapped sideways, a streak of red blood spattering the wall. He collapsed to one knee, teeth crimson.
Caelus drew no blade. He didn’t need to.
Caelus kicked his head forcefully, making his nose bleed, but Amun lifted his hands—and the chamber filled with the twang of a dozen phantom bows, all pointed at the Lord of the North.
“Then die forgotten.” Amun snarled.
The arrows loosened and fired swiftly at Caelus' flesh.
Caelus raised one hand, a glacier erupted before him, a wall of eternal ice that devoured the arrows mid-flight. Then he stepped through the frost, sword in hand.
“You would strike down a god with illusions? I have killed stars colder than you." They clashed, grabbing one of the arrows and stabbed it in Amun's side, earning a groan of pain from him. "Say another damn thing about my family and you'll see yours beheaded in my spears."
Amun blurred with illusions and knives, but Caelus moved like a beast unshackled—his blade dragging sparks with every swing, every strike a punishment. He didn’t fight to subdue. He fought to maim.
Amun faltered, retreating under the onslaught, and still Caelus advanced. Silent. Deadly. Unyielding.
He desperately tries to shoot Caelus down, but Caelus formed an ice block into a shield, the iron tip of the arrows sliding away at the slippery ice despite the forceful impact.
Caelus advanced. Threateningly.
Amun conjured up another hurl of magical arrows again, this time it was flaming blue, Caelus barely broke a sweat, summoning his spear in his many arsenal, he tore each one in half during the arrow's short and forceful flight.
The last arrow flew like a meteor, which Caelus only tore in half with his white spear, he looks at the lord of illusions, and with a whisper, he summoned three greyhounds, flaming eyes and thick fur like they've grown up with him on the North, the sizes of a war horse.
Amun wiped the blood off of his nose and stood up, his mana burning up to make a holographic giant with rows and rows of armour, Caelus huffed, looking up at the coward who hid himself in illusion.
"This is the lord of Ophire? Pathetic." Caelus said, his eyes staring daggers yet looking bored at the giant, as swift as a flash, he flew up, freezing the giant's weapon on the ground, cutting through the thick armoured hand and obliterating it with a mere strike from his spear.
He then switched to his sword—the one he named Astherox, teleporting in the air and blocking the moon out, he flew down with a crash, cutting the giant in half.
When Caelus slashed across Amun’s ribs, blood sprayed the black stone. Amun gasped for air, whatever he may have done, he can never run from the lord of Frost now.
Behold, Caelus The Cruel.
Not called the "Warlord of Eden" for no reason.
Not appointed as general for no reason.
“You’re a relic,” Amun spat. “A ghost in a crown of frost." Desperately, Amun conjured up a spell, but he was too late, he couldn't dodge an ice trident being thrown at his arms to pin him down.
Caelus pressed the tip of his sword to Amun’s throat, it was ice cold.
“And you,” he said, cold breath fogging, “are the last whisper before silence." He said coldly, raising his sword up in the air.
Only Ithrial's chains saved Amun, bursting from the floor to drag them apart. But even bound, Caelus did not flinch.
He turned to the others, his presence like a blade at every throat.
“Let the council remember,” he said. “That I do not need armies. I am the North. And if one more lie is spoken of Aurelia, I will return here—as long as there is a wolf, sheep will not be safe"
Lord Rhogar just smirked and laughed at the scene that unfolded infront of him, a little bit more blood from Amun and he could've clapped.
Lord Elrik sat down in his chair peacefully, drinking his drink unbothered as he shrugged once Lord Rhogar looked at him, looking at the beaten up lord Amun, his expression feigned pure disgust.
Lord Ithrial solemnly sighs, shaking his head softly, looking at Amun like he was fed up by now, the chains of justice slightly loosened up once Amun stopped struggling through the restraint, but Caelus only stared at him quietly— menacingly, even.
The chains receded from Caelus' side, Lord Rhogar stroked his beard. "Let's make this night a lesson, yeah?" Rhogar said, attempting to lighten up the mood as he raised his cup.
Lord Elrik chuckled before he nodded, levitating his cup to clang into Rhogar's cup as he smiled "yes, It's better not to get on the Ice King's nerve"
He said, drinking his wine with a smile.
Lord Caelus no longer responded, only staring at Ithrial coldly, like a wolf that's about to feast on a snow rabbit— which totally threatened Ithrial a bit, he sighed and looked down.
Eight summers had passed.
The winds of Thoborn no longer howled as loud in the valley beneath the cliffs, though the memory of old wars still trembled in the stone. Seasons turned, kings postured, and fires slept. But deep in the highlands, where sunlight kissed the meadows and river song whispered through the birch, a flame quietly grew.
Uriel Celeste Astyrax was now eight years old.
She now has long majestic blonde hair, flaming green eyes, pale skin and light freckles—barely noticeable on her cheeks, her bangs framed her features perfectly, wild blonde would dance around the air. Her wings growing rapidly and feathers already molting for her first sprouting phase, halo already blessed with sanskrit writing and glew brightly.
She raced barefoot through the hill gardens Asenath had cultivated with devotion, her fingers stained green from leaf-work, her eyes alight with wonder. Her laughter echoed through the hollow trees, chasing sparrows from the eaves.
Under Asenath’s teachings, Uriel had memorized the names and temperaments of over two hundred plants—witchgrass, moonvine, starleaf, and saltroot. She could identify medicinal fungus by smell alone, could crush bark into healing pastes with a mortar no bigger than her fist, and mix a sleeping draught strong enough to silence a mountain lion.
Animals loved her. They followed her like shadows—crows on the roof, foxes beneath the porch. Even the stubborn goats had grown gentle under her hand. Fenris, no longer sheep-sized, had become her guardian spirit—still fiercely loyal to Raguel, but obedient to the soft touch of the girl who fed him berries and combed the burrs from his thick fur.
At her side, always, strode her brother.
Raguel, now sixteen, towered beside her with a quiet protectiveness. His dark brown hair was short yet slicked back fashionably. His purple eyes like lilac itself. His shoulders had broadened with swordwork, but the gentleness of his heart had only sharpened. The fire from his journey through the catacombs no longer lived only in his blade—it gleamed in his resolve.
He had become a man, but when he spoke to Uriel, there was still a softness in him, untouched by politics, unmarred by prophecy.
Asenath, ever vigilant, stood by the copper cauldron at the side of the garden, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows as she stirred a thick brew.
“You’ve crushed the fire leaf wrong again,” she muttered, not looking up. “You’re bruising it, not unlocking its essence. Again, Uriel.”
Uriel groaned but obeyed, pulling another leaf from her basket. She crushed it between fingers like Raguel had shown her, precise, patient, with just a little warmth in the palm. The scent rose sharp and sweet.
“Better,” Asenath admitted. “Maybe this time, the tonic won’t melt the cauldron.”
"What's the use of a cauldron if it's not going to withstand the procedure of making the potions itself anyway?" Uriel whispered to her brother, in reply he just chuckled.
"Why are you asking me? Last time I recalled brewing a shape-shifting potion, I set mom's orchids on fire." Raguel whispered back.
"I can hear you both, you know? Oh and Raguel, don't think I didn't know it was you who set my beloved orchids ablaze, you and your negative level of potion making, you never took after me in potion making, huh?" Asenath said.
"It only melted the edges,” Uriel said after laughing cheekily, trying to get his brother out of trouble "And the grass under it— And Fenris’s tail.”
At the mention of his name, Fenris who was now the size of a small horse, snorted from beneath the table, his tail flicking as if in dramatic recollection. Raguel chuckled from where he sat sharpening Uriel's training blade. “I told you not to feed a fire tonic to a warm blooded creature, it's like eating a hot pepper with allergies to them.”
Uriel wrinkled her nose. “But it made him faster.”
"Temporarily, yes." Raguel said.
“And hairless for a week.” Asenath added dryly.
"My poor boy lost his chance of getting a girlfriend that week" Raguel joked, head locking his direwolf playfully and knuckle petting its head as the animal groaned in frustration and embarrassment.
"As if you'd do any better, whether you'd be hairless or not. That's why you and that pup gets along so well." Uriel said to her brother.
"Oh please, let's not talk about romance right now, as if you'd get a boyfriend at your ripe age of eight." Raguel said, joking back Uriel's offensive joke which most probably did hurt his inner angel.
"A boyfriend..? Eugh." Uriel said, rolling her eyes. Raguel looked at her suspiciously, nothing malicious though— she'd still love Uriel if she grew up to be a homosexual, atleast that's what he thinks.
"Uriel has a point, you won't always be young. And you still owe me grandchildren." Asenath joked, Uriel holding a laugh in reply while Raguel just sighed, at least he's not a womanizer.
"Better to be single than have two." Raguel said, rolling his eyes playfully."Hey! Don't get that cauldron an inch nearer to me, I'll haunt this house with my ghost."
"You already haunt this house with your constant whining." Asenath said, sipping her herbal tea.
Lessons in botany became meditations. Potion-making was a test of balance, intent, and instinct. Spellcasting was cautious—Asenath allowed no reckless flicks of the hand, no muttered Latin without purpose.
But Uriel learned.
She learned of plants that could cure blindness, leaves that could soften steel. She learned how to coax fire from stones, how to read the stars, how to speak to birds with the right mixture of berries and breath. She memorized the names of every goat in the pasture, and which of them faked limps for attention.
Raguel trained her hand with blade and wand-less spell casting—never to strike first, but always to know how to strike.
And though Uriel was still a child, her gaze carried weight.
Sometimes Raguel would pause and watch her from the rise of the hill, her free blonde hair catching the sunlight like a torch. He would catch her murmuring to a wounded fox, or drawing sigils in the dirt with a stick when she thought no one was watching.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the lattice of birch trees, turning Asenath’s herb alcove into a shifting tapestry of gold and green. Uriel Celeste stood at her mother’s side, apron pockets heavy with sprigs of lavender and belladonna. Fenris lounged in the dappled shade, tail flicking lazily at drifting petals.
Asenath knelt beside a twisted bundle of vines whose leaves gleamed with dew—even though no dew had fallen.
“This,” she said, brushing back Uriel’s copper curls, “is devil’s snare, an ancient vine born of wild magic. It seeks warmth and light, and it senses those who carry flame in their blood.”
Uriel crouched, eyes wide, as one slender vine lifted with subtle grace and tilted toward her, trembling like a curious hand.
“See how it leans?” Asenath murmured. “It’s drawn to you, utterly. Most who approach are ensnared, but you must learn to command it with your calm. Speak to it softly, and it will relax.”
Uriel reached out tentatively, her fingertips brushing a glossy leaf. The vine quivered, bending closer, as if exhaling relief.
“Hello,” Uriel whispered, voice small. “You’re very pretty, miss snare." she said, smiling as she pet the vine who bore flowers.
The vine slackened, coiling at Asenath’s direction into a gentle spiral rather than its usual grasping twist. The vine tilted growth to Uriel like it's curious about the child.
“Excellent,” Asenath smiled, placing a soft hand over Uriel’s. “You have a gentle touch. One day, you’ll be able to direct its growth—bend it to your will or soothe its hunger.”
Uriel’s gaze wandered beyond, to a cluster of blooms standing serenely in the sun: stargazer lilies, their snowy petals tipped with starlight.
“Look—” she breathed, stepping toward them. Uriel’s small fingers reached to caress a single white petal, translucent as ivory.
“Stargazers,” Asenath named. “They open only at dusk, calling the first stars to the sky. Their petals drink moonlight; their perfume calms even the darkest fever. Unusual that it blooms during the mid-day.”
Uriel closed her eyes to inhale the gentle scent, a smile spreading across her face. “They’re so… soft,” she murmured. “I want to have these near my room, can I?” she asked, touching the pollen of the lilies.
Asenath stood, brushing earth from her hands. “You see beauty where others see only night, I do believe the lilies mistook you for a star. That is your gift, Uriel, but also your responsibility. To bring light where darkness would claim it.”
Uriel plucked a fallen petal and tucked it into her apron. “I promise, Mama. I’ll learn everything so I can help.”
The vine curled playfully around Asenath’s wrist, and Uriel laughed, a clear, ringing sound that echoed through the garden. Fenris lifted his head, ears perking, as if in approval.
And in that golden hour, under the watchful eyes of mother, brother, and guardian, Uriel’s world bloomed with magic, promise, and the soft power of flowers.
That evening, after the last of the petals had fallen from the stargazers, Uriel tugged Raguel’s sleeve and pointed to the lowing flock grazing just beyond the garden wall.
“Teach me how,” she begged.
Raguel smiled, looping an arm around her slender shoulders. “All right. First, let’s learn to shear.”
They slipped through the gate and into the twilight-scented pasture. Fenris bounded ahead, but the sheep, accustomed to Uriel’s gentle voice, did not scatter. Instead, they huddled close, bleating softly.
Raguel knelt beside a patient sheep named Clover. He held out a pair of curved shears, blunted for safety. “Hold her still,” he instructed, showing Uriel how to cradle the sheep’s head gently under her arm so it felt secure, not trapped.
Uriel mimicked his stance. “Like this?”
“Perfect.” Raguel guided her small hand to the shears. Together they made the first snip, a soft piece of wool parting from skin. The lock fell away in a floppy tumble. Uriel’s eyes grew wide as she gathered the fluffy mass in her lap.
“Wool is magic,” Raguel said. “It keeps them warm, rain-proof, and safe. But it must be done kindly, no pulling.”
He demonstrated the rhythm: smooth, patient strokes along the ewe’s back, never pressing too hard. Uriel followed, her cheeks flushed with concentration, the soft wool brushing against her dress. The sheep blinked and nuzzled Uriel’s coat.
“There,” Raguel said when most of the fleece lay piled like snow at their feet. “Good as new.”
Next, he showed her how to skirt the fleece—removing the narrow, discolored edges and lift it to the wash trough. The lambs, curious, nosed at Uriel’s pockets, sniffing for scraps of grass.
When the wool was collected, they washed it in cool creek water. Uriel dipped handfuls under the flow, gently kneading out the lanolin and dust until the wool gleamed white. She giggled when Fenris stole a dripping tuft and trotted off, leaving a trail of woolly footprints.
Fenris padded beside them, trailing a wisp of wool from his mouth out of curiosity and trying his best to help.
As Uriel laid the last batch of wool across her lap, Raguel dipped his hand into the creek’s cool water and flicked a spray of droplets at her.
“Hey!” she squealed, clutching the wool to her chest as huge beads of water caught in her hair. She lunged forward and scooped up a handful of creek water, splashing him back.
“Amateur!” Raguel laughed, but didn’t pull away. Instead he knelt and scooped up another handful—then let the water run through his fingers like silk, letting a gentle stream trickle down Uriel’s arms. “You missed a spot!”
Uriel giggled and chased him along the bank, her bare feet stirring pebbles in the shallows. Fenris barked and bounded into the shallows too, sending ripples across the surface. He nudged Uriel’s ankle, making her shriek and leap to dry land.
“Got you!” Raguel teased, tagging her shoulder with a gentle poke. Uriel spun, eyes bright with challenge. She dashed around a boulder, dragging Raguel in hot pursuit, their laughter echoing against the hills.
When they collapsed breathless on the grassy bank, Raguel reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “You’re getting fast.”
Uriel panted, hair plastered to her forehead. “You’re just getting slow and old, big brother.”
He feigned offense. “Slow? I’ll have you know I outran two wolves just last week.”
She rolled her eyes dramatically. “Fenris outran three yesterday.”
"Good point." Raguel laughed, exhaling sharply as he looked up at the stars silently, laying down on the fields of their home.
It had been a good minute of silence until Raguel closed his eyes, letting the cold air hit his face and feel the grass brush his skin.
"You're doing that weird thing you always do, you know? Think of something and keep it a secret when you're quiet" Uriel said, looking at him.
"Can't help but think about it.. There’s something you should know,” he said while he closed his eyes, trying to find the right words about the things he found in Asenath's library. “About the North, house of Aurelius. About a girl, really."
"And you're into this girl?" Uriel teased as she laughed. "Sorry, was that not funny?"
"Offensive, rather. She's your age, I believe.
“She is the daughter of Aurelius, Forged from frost itself. Said she was sired of the highest and holiest blood, raised under blood moons and already titled as daughter of the North the moment she cried. The prophecy says she will… simmer the flame of Eden down.”
Uriel’s smile faltered.
“That means us, doesn't it?” she said, yet Raguel didn’t answer. The silence stretched between them, sharp as the grass beneath them.
“But…” Uriel wrapped her arms around herself. “Why would she want to destroy us? We’ve never done anything to her.”
“It’s not about what you’ve done,” Raguel said quietly. “It’s about what people believe you'll do.”
"I'm going to die by her hands aren't I?" Uriel joked. "Are you concerned? Please, name a single minute in my life where I'm not in trouble" she said, scoffing. "Glad I'm not being publicly executed by now." She added.
"Glad I'm not put in prison yet." Raguel joked back, laughing with Uriel
Uriel pulled away from Raguel’s embrace after a moment, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic. Her cheeks were still wet, but her voice tried for levity.
“So…” she sniffed. “This girl of snow. Think she’s pretty?”
Raguel blinked, dumbfounded. “What?"
“Well, if I’m supposed to duel her someday, I just want to make sure I don’t lose to someone unfashionable,” she said, giving him a crooked grin. “Imagine being frozen in ice by someone who wears fur all year. Embarrassing.”
Raguel laughed, shaking his head. “I think you’re missing the point.”
“I think you need to teach me how to win a dramatic standoff,” she said, sticking her tongue out. “If she’s going to come for me with her ice and destiny and dramatic hair, I need to have better lines.”
Raguel groaned, “Gods help her if she tries to take you seriously.”
Uriel stood, puffing out her chest, then tried to mimic a dramatic battle stance. “I am Uriel of Eden! Scorcher of Cloaks! Wearer of Very Soft Socks!”
Raguel collapsed back onto the grass, laughing. “She’ll run from the battlefield in secondhand embarrassment.”
“Exactly my plan.” Then, softer, she added, “If she really comes… I want to be ready. But I want to be me. Not just… someone the world is afraid of.”
Raguel looked up at her, heart full. “Then we’ll make sure the world sees you for who you are. Not for what they fear you might become.”
Uriel sat on a haystack, swinging her legs. “You think she cries in the mirror because her reflection won’t tell her she’s the chosen one fast enough?”
Raguel snorted into his sleeve. “She cries in cursive, I'm sure of it"
“Ah yes, and she probably collects her teardrops in a jar and freezes them for fun." Uriel laughs "No, seriously, what if she's really nice?"
“Then you'll regret what you're saying now.” he said, grinning. “But don’t worry. I’ve seen your potions. You’ll probably set her hair on fire accidentally and win that way.”
"Gee, I wish the world did work like that" Uriel flopped backward onto the grass again after laughing, arms stretched wide, staring up at the clouds. “So, when do you think she’ll come? The Snow of the prophecy?”
Raguel lay down beside her, smirking. “Hard to say. Maybe when you're both grown and brooding. You know, stomping through snowstorms and glaring at the sun.”
Uriel turned her head toward him, eyes wide. “Ooh! What if she has a tragic backstory? Like… her pet polar bear ran away and now she hates fire because it reminds her of warm hugs she never got since she's so cold in the North.”
Raguel snorted. “That’s oddly specific. Are you saying you'll supply her need of warm hugs?” Raguel laughed, mentally imagining the picture.
“I’m just saying! These prophesied rivals usually have a reason to be all moody and sword-swingy. What if she’s super serious and I show up with my hair full of leaves and a potion that smells like burnt mango? And for the record, yes, if I need to go to extreme measures of hugging her in the middle of the fight in order not to be beheaded, I will.”
Raguel looked skyward dramatically. “You’ll clash swords dramatically beneath the moonlight. She’ll say, ‘I’ve waited my whole life for this battle.’ And you’ll be clueless of what's happening because you don't sleep.”
Uriel giggled. “And then we’ll duel, but in a really intense way, with slow-motion sparks and emotional piano music.”
Raguel grinned. “And then! Plot twist, during the duel, your hands touch accidentally.”
Uriel rolled over, gasping with laughter. “No! Stop! She's a girl that's trying to stab me but pauses because she sees I have a scar and realizes I need immediate care.”
Raguel fake-gasped. “She drops the sword, falls to her knees and cries, ‘We’re not so different after all.’”
Uriel clutched her ribs, wheezing. “Then we run away together and open a tea shop in Myrrh."
“With matching cloaks,” Raguel added solemnly. “And a cat named Karl or something.”
Uriel threw a handful of grass at his face. “You are unhinged.”
“You started it!” Raguel smiled.
“You encouraged it!” Uriel fired, pointing at Raguel's face.
They both dissolved into laughter again, tangled in their own ridiculousness. After a while, Uriel caught her breath and whispered, “But… do you think I’ll really have to fight her? Like… for real?”
Raguel glanced at her, then gently bumped his shoulder against hers. “Maybe. Maybe not. But if she tries to duel you, I’ll just dramatically leap in and say, ‘You’ll have to go through me first.’”
“Then she’ll fall for you instead,” Uriel said with mock betrayal, sitting up with scandalized eyes.
Raguel pointed at her. “Yes, I'll steal her away from you and you'll leave Eden to marry a man you despise.” Raguel laughed.
"You know.. we're here talking about nonsense when she's probably in the Northern mountains training to take my head." Uriel said solemnly, thinking about this Northern girl.
"You can't be talking, at your age I have already slain a basilisk" Raguel said jokingly.
"Talk one more time and I'll slay a brown haired angel with purple eyes at the ripe age of eight." Uriel said, tackling Raguel down to the grass.
"Ahhh no, oh how can I ever break free from this woman's grasp, oh the agony I feel when she's torturing me!" Raguel said in a high pitched voice, hand folded on his forehead dramatically.
"You look like a damsel in distress" Uriel mocked, sticking her tongue out.
They both laughed again, the shadows of fate temporarily forgotten beneath the sun-dappled sky, where siblings told stories louder than destiny’s whisper.
Notes:
Post-war Uriel infact did supply the daughter of Aurelia with the warm hugs she deserved lmao, i just love writing enemies to lovers, wasn't supposed to write Raguel saying allat but the tags gave out the ship I was supposed to hide but hell, it is what it is now 🗣️
Gabriel: *exists*
Uriel: Is she Elsa?
Chapter 7: Solas, Child Of The Prophecy (6)
Summary:
Another filler chapter but Uriel's new found pet phoenix will play a really important role in this story, Uriel feels really comfortable in her newfound family. She finds a baby phoenix and not even a week later it bursts into flames and grows magical already, Raguel gives up of his hopes and dreams of being the weirdest in the family—he couldn't blame anyone though, Uriel was indeed his sister. Raguel the biggest greenflag.
Author wrote this wine drunk and edited sober, might have a few errors I didn't see 😭
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun spilled across the hills of Thoborn like melted gold, turning the dew-streaked grass into a sea of shimmering light. The air was crisp, full of the scent of wild mint and the sound of distant sheep bleating lazily from the pastures. Uriel wandered past the old stone fences barefoot, a crown of dandelions crooked on her head and her arms full of wildflowers she insisted were not weeds. Her tunic bore the proud stains of the morning’s adventures—mud, sheep wool, and what might’ve been blueberry jam.
Fenris trotted alongside her, his height reaching hers, his thick black coat bristling with burrs, his nose twitching with every odd scent the breeze carried. He looked like a wolf and walked like a shadow.
Uriel glanced down at him. “You think if I braid flowers in your fur, Raguel will finally admit you're prettier than him?”
Fenris snorted and gave her a sideways look that clearly said try it and you'll lose a finger.
“Okay, okay,” she laughed, ruffling his head. “Grumpy.”
She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, just letting her curiosity tug her along like a string. Fenris paused at the base of a weather-worn ash tree, ears flicking. That’s when Uriel heard it—a soft, reedy chirp. Weak. Fragile. Like the whisper of flame before it dies.
She wasn’t looking for anything. Just wandering, as she often did when her mind got too loud and the house too quiet. The wind tugged her along like a patient friend, brushing through her unruly hair and whispering secrets in a language only curious children understood.
A chirp again, soft, wheezing, like a matchstick struggling to light in the rain.
She froze. Her ears twitched. It came again, faint but unmistakable. Not the cry of a lamb or the squawk of a crow. No. This sound was… lonelier.
She followed it, stepping off the narrow path and into a thicket of swaying nettles. A crooked ash tree stood bent over itself on the ridge, like an old man in prayer. Its roots cracked the earth like lightning, and beneath them, nestled in a bed of charred moss and brittle twigs, lay something small. Trembling. Alive.
A baby phoenix.
It was pathetic. Not much larger than a fist, its feathers were patchy and scorched, dulled to a grayish soot. One wing was bent, maybe broken. Its beak opened in a tired chirp, too weak to protest her approach. Uriel’s heart lurched. She dropped to her knees beside it, not daring to reach out yet.
“Raguel,” she whispered. “Come here. Please.”
She didn’t shout. She didn’t need to. He always heard her when she needed him most.
A moment later, boots crunched on the grass behind her.
Raguel appeared, sword slung over his back, hair wild from training. “You better not be calling me for another beetle with a leaf on it.”
“It looked like a hat,” she muttered.
“You named it Sir Crunchalot.” Raguel groaned
“He was a knight in bug armour.” Uriel chirped
Then he saw the nest. The phoenix. The breath caught in his throat.
“Oh no.” Raguel yelped as he looked at the creature
Uriel looked at him. “Oh no what?”
“That phoenix... it’s a runt,” he said, crouching beside her. “It wasn’t supposed to hatch. And if it did, its mother should’ve eaten it and flown. They don’t stick around for the weak ones, especially if it's siblings are grown."
She frowned. “That’s rude.”
“It’s nature.” he replied
“So is me dunking your head in the sheep trough. But I don’t do it.”
“You tried to yesterday!”
“I missed.. and besides, wasn't Fenris also the runt of the wolf litter too?" Uriel asked, earning a soft huff out of Fenris, God he really was Raguel's pup.
Raguel sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uriel, this isn’t a lamb with a limp. That phoenix is dying. Phoenixes don’t cuddle. They combust. And this one... it doesn’t have long. Phoenix's are supposed to burn everything it touches."
She didn’t say anything. Just stared at the tiny creature, its breath rattling like leaves in winter. Then she whispered, “That’s what they’d say about me too, right?”
Raguel blinked. “What?”
“You know. Too small. Too weak. ‘Won’t last.’ Burn everything it touches.” She glanced sideways at him. “But I had someone who didn’t give up on me.”
Raguel’s mouth opened, then closed. He stared at her. And then, with the softest sigh, he said, “You’re not about to guilt-trip me with a dying bird, are you?”
She didn’t answer. She was already lifting the baby phoenix into her hands. It didn’t flinch—just curled closer, as though her touch reminded it what warmth was.
And then... a flicker.
A faint glimmer of orange beneath its skin. Like the first breath of a campfire, she smiled, feeling the bird's flame radiate on her hand. it nestled deeper against her skin and released a puff of smoke, faint but real. The scent was that of old incense and firewood.
Raguel recoiled slightly. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” Uriel said with a grin. “He likes me.”
“He? Uriel, you won't know the gender of a phoenix until first feathers, It's a magical creature made of immortal fire, Uriel. It's not supposed to like you.” Raguel said, Fenris sitting down at his side, his ears pointing up as it barked, already the size of a large sheep.
“Sounds like me, doesn't it?" Uriel said as she giggled, transporting bits of her flames in her hands so the phoenix could grow.
Raguel crouched beside her, watching the frail creature with a mix of wonder and pity. “It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “Phoenixes only bond with those they see potential in. Real potential. Their flame only returns when they feel something to rise for.”
Uriel furrowed her brow, holding the phoenix against her chest. “Maybe I’m just warm,” she joked half-heartedly.
But the phoenix blinked, once—twice—and let out a soft croon. Then it did something that made both children freeze: it nestled deeper against her skin and released a puff of smoke, faint but real.
“Uriel,” Raguel whispered, eyes wide. “He’s… he’s heating up.”
A spark glimmered beneath the baby phoenix’s translucent skin. A second later, the faintest glow of amber embers shimmered across its back. And then, from nothing, three delicate new feathers sprouted—golden at the tips, with a sheen like sunrise.
She beamed. “He’s just like me—grumpy, abandoned, weird hair.”
“You literally just compared yourself to a half-dead chicken.”
“He’s not a chicken. He’s a phoenix. And I’m naming him Solas.”
Raguel groaned. “You gave it a name without even knowing it's gender. Gods help us.”
"Actually, Solas can be interpreted as both, smart-ass, the same thing as Fenris." Uriel countered "And before you're thinking anything, no, I'm not a sexist." Uriel said, rolling her eyes.
Three days passed.
Uriel hid Solas from the others with the kind of seriousness most children reserved for secret treasure maps and stolen sweetcakes. Behind Asenath’s greenhouse, she’d built him a nest using scraps of wool she sheared herself—though half of it ended up tangled in her hair—and old cloak linings she stole from the laundry pile. Every morning and night, she snuck him water, scraps of meat, and once even a half-burned sweetbread she'd stashed under her bed since yesterday’s supper.
Fenris, of course, was in on it. The hulking hound played lookout, blocking Raguel’s path with deliberate yawns or fake injuries whenever Uriel needed time. Raguel eventually caught on—not because Fenris was a good actor, but because Uriel was a terrible liar.
“Don’t give him too much lamb,” he’d warned her, helping stitch a tiny sling for the phoenix’s healing wing one night. “He’ll get spoiled and start demanding roast.”
Uriel grinned. “Says the boy who ate two honey rolls before dinner.”
“You fed me the rolls!”
“You accepted them. We all make choices.”
But phoenixes grow fast when their spirit awakens—and Solas was no exception.
On the dawn of the third day, Uriel stirred awake to the scent of woodsmoke. At first, she thought it was Raguel burning breakfast again, but then the smell thickened—richer, spiced with the tang of magic. She sat up, the bedsheets falling away, her heart pounding.
Then she saw it: smoke curling in from her open window.
Panicked, she bolted from bed, bare feet smacking the cold stone floor as she rushed outside.
And stopped dead in the garden.
There, perched atop a pillar of charred stone rising from frost-bitten earth, stood a creature out of legend.
Solas had grown.
Gone was the palm-sized fledgling. Now he stood proud and tall as a hawk, his wings stretched wide and gilded in firelight. Wisps of flame danced from his tail, curling upward in lazy spirals that shimmered above the scorched grass without burning it. His eyes glowed molten gold, filled with life and ancient knowledge, and his plumage gleamed with the light of a dozen dawns.
“Solas?” Uriel breathed, stepping forward slowly, as if afraid he’d vanish like a dream.
The phoenix turned. For a heartbeat, nothing moved.
Then he trilled—a sound clear and bright, like morning bells echoing through the highlands. The air shifted with warmth as he beat his wings, sending a ripple of golden wind through Uriel’s tangled hair. She gasped.
In that moment, she felt it.
A bond. Not just affection, not even loyalty. Something deeper. Elemental. Written in the fire of creation.
He had chosen her.
From the cliffs above, Raguel stumbled out of his training shed, sword still strapped lazily to his back, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “What in Skagos’ scorched beard—?”
He froze mid-step as the phoenix’s glow caught his face.
Uriel turned to him, her eyes wide, her cheeks lit by firelight.
“I think he found his fire,” she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips.
Raguel gaped. “He’s… majestic. That’s not supposed to happen this fast. Uriel—he’s not just any phoenix. That fire... it’s..”
“I know,” Uriel whispered, and as Solas bent down to nuzzle her cheek, she rested her hand against his warm feathers. “And he’s mine.”
Raguel smiled, he tried touhing the bird but it the warm sensation in his hand crept up faster than he expected, looks like Uriel was his only chosen.
The dawn was thin and gray when Asenath finally dragged herself awake—eyes bloodshot from a sleepless night spent wrestling with tax ledgers, royal edicts, and the weight of every unpaid coin. Her temples throbbed; her hair was a riot of tangled curls; her slippers slapped the floor as she staggered toward the hearth.
One urgent thought pushed her forward: Tea.
She yanked down her battered copper kettle—her favorite, the one that had coaxed more perfect mornings than she could count—and tore off its lid.
Empty.
She blinked again, still empty.
Her jaw snapped shut; teeth clicked together. She slammed the kettle on the hearth. “Of all mornings,” she snarled, voice raw, “I wake up to this—no tea, no breakfast, no sanity!”
A curl of smoke drifted through the open window. Asenath’s nostrils flared. Burnt herbs.
She stormed outside in her robe, heart pounding, robe hem catching on rose thorns. The chill bit her ankles, but she barely felt it.
Her gaze swept the garden, her beloved rosemary became blackened stems, her thyme purely dusty and her lavender hardened to stone.
And atop it all stood a phoenix, wings outstretched in newly born glory, embers dancing from his tail. His molten eyes met hers without apology.
Uriel crouched below him, cradling the fledgling in her arms, her face alight with wonder. Fenris, the dire wolf, sat loyally beside her. Raguel had vanished somewhere behind them, only his shock-brown hair betraying his hiding spot.
Asenath’s eye twitched once—twice—so violently her head stung.
She hoisted the empty kettle like a cudgel. “What in Eden’s scorched name is this?!”
Uriel’s voice trembled. “Mom… I found him. He was dying. I saved him.”
Asenath gaped. “You saved him by turning my herbs into ash! Some kids sneak in frogs, but my kids sneak in a dire wolf and a phoenix—and leave me without tea or breakfast or an ounce of sanity!”
Solas trilled, smoke curling from his beak as if mocking her.
Raguel peeked from behind Uriel, voice small: “We thought you’d like him.”
“Oh, I’d love him,” Asenath snapped, “if he came with a side of tea and toast! But no—here I am, tax‐ridden, bleary‐eyed, and phoenix‐fried!” She jabbed an accusatory finger at Solas. “You—flame‐feathered menace—you better not scorch one more leaf of that lavender!”
Uriel dropped to her knees, gathering soil with trembling hands. “I—I’ll replant them, mom. I promise.”
“And you,” Asenath jabbed Raguel with the kettle, “you fetch water for my tea. And find something to eat—anything! Because if I don’t get breakfast soon, I’ll have to start invoicing mythical beasts for damages!”
Fenris gave a sympathetic whine and padded off toward the well, Raguel scrambling after him.
Asenath took a deep breath—taxes, torture of garden, and a phoenix, then exhaled a weary laugh that cracked the tension. She shook the kettle in surrender. “All right, you glorified turkey, you win—for now. But by midday, I want a cup of tea in my hand, a hot meal in my belly, and not a hint of smoke in the air. Understood?”
Uriel nodded fiercely. Raguel and Fenris called back from the well.
Solas gave a final triumphant trill as Asenath turned back into the cottage, plotting her revenge—which would definitely involve a very large mug of tea and perhaps a stern invoice to every creature with wings.
Asenath settled deeper into the armchair, cradling her teacup as steam curled around her fingers like ghostly fingers. Fenris lay at her feet, and across the low coffee table, Uriel and Raguel perched on the sofa’s edge, eyes bright and expectant.
Uriel cleared her throat. “mom… tell us about our father again.”
Raguel nodded. “King Metatron Astyrax. The real story.”
Asenath’s lips tightened. She folded the morning paper and set it aside, folding her hands over the teacup as though bracing herself. “All right,” she said softly. “But these aren’t bedtime tales. This is the truth—and it’s bitter.”
Uriel swallowed. Raguel uncrossed his arms, leaning in.
“As king,” Asenath began, “your father ruled from iron, not compassion. He had at least half a dozen mistresses at any given time—ladies from every corner of Eden, brought to the castle under promise of favor, only to be discarded once his appetite waned.”
She paused as Uriel’s small hand found her own, giving a gentle squeeze.
“He never bore feeling for any of them. For anyone. Metatron’s heart was a stone locked in a vault—and he sold the key.”
Raguel’s eyes narrowed. “And he left us here.”
Asenath nodded, voice steadier now. “He claimed it was for your safety. But the truth was simpler: you were illegitimate heirs, complications to his line. You represented weakness he refused to acknowledge... God knows even if he has other living bastards.”
Uriel’s brow furrowed. “Did he ever… miss us?”
“As much as a man who sleeps with strangers and never looks back misses anything,” Asenath said, bitterness surfacing. “He spent his nights in his dead Queen’s Chamber with new faces, yet never once thought to pen a letter here, to see if his children lived or died.”
Raguel’s jaw clenched. “He has no heart.”
“No,” Asenath agreed, taking a slow sip of tea. “He has ambition and desire—but not love. To him, feelings were liabilities, and compassion a weakness to be stamped out.”
Uriel’s eyes glistened. “That’s… so cruel.”
Asenath tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes. Cruel and calculated. He married for an alliance, courted for power, and discarded loyalties like empty goblets. That is the legacy you escaped when you came here—to a home of warmth instead of a throne of iron."
Asenath leaned back in her chair, the tension in her shoulders finally easing. She set her teacup on the saucer and let out a soft, almost mischievous chuckle.
“You know,” she said, eyes glinting, “there’s a rumor I once heard in Caelestis—that your father had a soft spot not only for women, really funny, because the moment I heard those rumors, I agreed.”
Uriel’s eyes went wide and covered her mouth in shock, Raguel raised an eyebrow at that.
"Pfft, Homotron." Uriel joked.
"Not homotron, dear. More like Faggotron." Asenath smiled as she drank her beloved tea, in which she earns a laugh from Raguel in reply.
Asenath wagged a finger. “Oh yes—queer customs run deep in the Astyrax bloodline. Metatron himself was said to have danced with princes and poets alike.”
She laughed, a warm, genuine sound. “So who knows? Perhaps you two inherited more than just my stubbornness. Perhaps you’re destined to break more than one heart in Eden—regardless of a person’s station... or gender.” She lightheartedly joked, rolling her eyes.
"We already have your stubborness, mother" Raguel replied.
Asenath’s chuckle faded into a sly smile. “You know, Raguel, with your soft voice and that habit of fussing over flowers, I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned out to prefer lords to ladies.”
Uriel burst out laughing, her shoulders shaking. Raguel’s cheeks tinted pink. He shifted in his seat, gaze darting away from his mother's teasing.
“M-mom, I—” he began, stammering.
Uriel snorted, rolling her eyes. “Please, he’s as straight as my knitting needle.”
Raguel shot her a mock glare. Then, with a sudden spark of mischief, he blurted, “Honestly, if anyone here's going to turn out like father, it’s you, Uriel. You and your sparkly potions and despise of relationships.”
Uriel froze, cheeks flushing deeper, as she ducked her head. "Is that supposed to be a bad thing? I-i'm not saying I am though."
Asenath leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Well, well—looks like the truth comes out.” She gave Raguel a playful shake. “But you two are still far too young to worry about any of this. Right now your biggest concern should be finishing your tea before it gets cold.”
“Oh, you haven’t heard this one,” she said, leaning forward. “Your father’s wedding night—Metatron Astyrax, freshly crowned king, married to the lovely Queen Veridiana in a ceremony that nearly toppled the spire from the weight of nobles’ jewels.”
Uriel and Raguel exchanged amused glances.
“As the orchestra struck its final chord,” Asenath continued, “everyone expected them to retire behind the silk‐draped dais. Instead, Metatron vanished. Queen Veridiana, dressed in pearls and panic, waited alone—until dawn. Meanwhile, your ‘faithful’ king slipped off to Lady Jovienne’s chamber halfway down the East Wing.”
She paused for effect. Raguel’s eyebrows shot skyward.
“Lady Jovienne was known for her delicate harp playing,” Asenath continued with a wicked smile, “and Metatron apparently found that far more compelling than his new bride’s vows.” She laughed. “By sunrise, two ladies were left in tears, and Queen Veridiana—magnanimous or perhaps mortified—hosted the first breakfast of her reign alone.”
Uriel covered her mouth to stifle a laugh. Raguel shook his head in disbelief.
“But the family tradition didn’t end there,” Asenath said, straightening. “Enter Michael Astyrax—your half-brother, Metatron’s only legitimate son. He’s only just come of age, but he’s already mastered the art of the midnight invitation. Lady Vivienne isn’t the only one receiving his handwritten notes in invisible ink—maids, nobles, even the captain of the guard’s widow. Even until now gossip in the market still says he's a stalker.”
She sighed theatrically. “Michael’s charm is said to be irresistible—kind eyes like his mother's and soft words like his father. Yet by morning, half of the court is left rustling satin and sobbing into handkerchiefs. He’s young, handsome, and utterly shameless—a true chip off his father’s old block.”
Raguel laughed, "Ew." He said, rolling his eyes, was that really the prince that his father chose instead of him or Uriel?
"Even if he is smoking hot he shouldn't be out cheating" Uriel said, rolling her eyes, she hated the system of concubinage and unfaithfulness.
Asenath set her teacup down with a decisive clink, eyes sparkling at the chance to unload more dirt on Metatron’s legacy.
“Did I ever tell you about the Grand Masquerade of Verion? Metatron arrived masked as a silver swan—stole the marquess’s wife’s dance card, then spent the rest of the night waltzing with the crown jewels!” She leaned in. “By dawn, half the court believed he’d spirited the Dowager Duchess to some secret union—and the other half were convinced she’d spirited him away!”
Raguel coughed. Uriel’s eyes widened.
“As if that wasn’t enough,” Asenath continued, wagging a finger, “he convinced the head librarian of Ophire to let him read in the forbidden wing—so he could swipe a love potion recipe off the shelf. The next morning, three pages were gone, and the librarian of Ophire was lovestruck.”
She sipped her tea, savoring the looks on her kid's faces. “And remember Lady Dorothy, the poetess? Metatron wrote her a sonnet in his own blood—yes, his blood—promising eternal devotion. She spent a fortnight searching for Caelestis for her ‘true king,’ only to find him canoodling with the captain of the guard. He left her with a final stanza scrawled on her pillow: ‘Your heart remains the sweetest conquest.’”
Uriel shuddered. Raguel’s jaw clenched.
“Oh, and let’s not forget”—Asenath’s voice turned conspiratorial—“the little secret balcony off the East Wing. B-but, I'm afraid you're still too young for this story"
She leaned back, folding her arms with a self-satisfied smirk. “Your father saw love affairs as strategic maneuvers—another alliance to broker, another secret to keep. He never stayed long enough to care."
Raguel shook his head. “I can’t believe he treated people like chess pieces.”
Uriel muttered, “And we thought our morning was chaotic…”
Asenath laughed softly. “My dear, that was just the tip of the iceberg. But you—” she ruffled Uriel’s hair and tousled Raguel’s—“you’re different. You’ll learn that love isn’t about conquest. It’s about trust, kindness, and… well, not burning down the garden.”
Asenath gave a low hum, barely above the rustle of the parchment-thin newspaper on her lap. The flames in the hearth snapped softly, casting shadows on the faded floorboards. Her tea had long gone lukewarm, but she hadn’t noticed—her eyes were lost in the distance, in the memories far too heavy to float.
Raguel shifted across her. He hadn’t meant to ask it, but the question had lodged itself in his throat ever since they were children sneaking peeks at history books with pages that never spoke of her.
He cleared his throat.
“Mother,” he said softly. “Why did you leave him then?”
She looked at him. Really looked, into those eyes that mirrored his father’s, but held none of his cruelty. She exhaled, slow and deliberate, and set the paper down.
“You want the truth?” she asked. Uriel glanced up from where she sat cross-legged with Solas in her lap. Raguel nodded.
Asenath leaned back into her chair with a sigh sharp as a dagger.
“Because I was tired of bleeding for a man who never once looked back to see the wound.”
Raguel’s brow furrowed.
“Your father,” she said, “was a man built of ambition, not love. I was young, clever, and stubborn. Thought I could change him. Thought if I was loyal enough, useful enough, maybe even magical enough, he’d see me. But you can’t pour water into a cracked goblet and expect it to hold. His heart was a vault—locked, rusted, and full of ghosts I was never meant to compete with. He was both a walking red flag and a walking paradox.”
She scoffed, more bitter than amused.
“He loved power. Worshipped it. He loved the chase, not the catch. And the moment I gave him children, the moment I became real, I stopped being excited. He moved on—to prettier things. Shinier things.”
Uriel hugged her knees tighter. Raguel’s jaw tensed.
“He didn’t even look surprised when I walked away,” Asenath said. “No pleading, no rage. Just nodded once and told me to leave the castle. Like I was dismissing myself from court.”
“Why didn’t you hate him?” Uriel asked suddenly.
Asenath smiled, but it was sharp and tired.
“Oh, darling. Who says I didn’t? I hated him so much it nearly ruined me. But I had Raguel. And hating Metatron wasn’t nearly as powerful as raising something better than him. And now I have you to learn with Raguel.”
She reached over and took both their hands.
“You both were the only good thing I ever got out of that house of smoke and mirrors.”
There was silence again. Then Raguel, softly: “Would you ever go back?”
Asenath raised a brow.
“Go back?” she echoed. “To that gilded hellhole with its serpents and sycophants? I’d rather drink cold tea for the rest of my life.”
Uriel grimaced. “That’s a bit much.”
Asenath chuckled. “Fine, fine. Maybe not cold tea. But still, no. Never. I made my peace the day I walked away in heels that I thought i couldn't walk with through the dirt with Raguel in my arms like a little grumpy sack of potatoes.”
Uriel snorted. Fenris barked. Solas let out a flaming chirp of indignation.
Asenath took another long breath. Her voice softened.
“That man may have a crown, but you two? You’re my empire.”
Notes:
Uriel: "I bet that girl of Snow doesn't have a cool pet like me yet, how's she going to kill me?"
Raguel: "She's of Aurelius blood."
Uriel: "can't believe the world sends a snowcone after me, boring."
Chapter 8: Immaculate Conception, Child Of The Prophecy (7)
Summary:
This chapter is crack treated serious and I probably will regret writing this chapter but this too, is for the plot 😭🙏🏻, so basically, Asenath finds her ex gf— which is Metatron's older sister (Evangeline) knocking on her door, and she lied about not having a home anymore (In truth Metatron bribed her so she can keep an eye on Rag and Uriel), but suddenly she has a change of heart.
(Question is, will she still spy for Metatron?)So yeah uhm, in short, speedrun on how to get your ex girlfriend back (who is also trying to murder you) but she feels guilty for it anyways and you live happily ever after (or do they?) -unreliable wlw author
Notes:
Don't even take this chapter seriously if you don't like old woman toxic yuri 😭🙏🏻
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Far from the distant hills and chittering song of phoenixes, King Metatron Astyrax sat upright in bed, bathed in the pallid gray of pre-dawn.
Metatron dreamed.
He stood alone in the Gardens of Myrrh, but they were not as he remembered them. Once, they had been the pride of Caelestis, lavender-stained skies above, crystal-petaled trees bending gently in the breeze, the air perfumed by rosemary and white hibiscus. Now, they were ash.
The marble statues that once lined the garden paths lay toppled, shattered, their faces eroded by flame or time. The ornamental pools ran dry and cracked. Cinders floated like soft snow through the dead air.
He walked slowly, his boots crunching on burnt petals and bone dust. Something pulled him forward. Through the gate that no longer bore Eden's sigil, through the great arch of the ruined palace.
Caelestis was gone.
In its place stood a new citadel—warmer, taller, forged from white quartz and glacial silver. It looked like it had grown straight from the bones of the land. Unwelcoming. Alien. And atop it, flanked by twin banners—one of fire, the other of frost—was a throne room he did not recognize.
He entered it.
Everything inside was vast and echoing. The walls flickered with phoenix fire, but the light was refracted by towering spires of ice growing like veins along the pillars. Two thrones sat atop a high dais. One burned; one shimmered with winter’s breath.
The dream clung to him like smoke, two thrones—one forged from holy fire, the other chiseled from ancient ice. Together, they loomed above Eden, their shadows long, their reign absolute.
Crowned in living flame, her robes dark as embers, her eyes glowing not with innocence, but judgment. She sat with regal poise—older than he’d last seen her, no longer the little girl who chased stars in the greenhouse or clung to Asenath’s hand. No, this was a queen. A woman made of wrath and warmth.
She looked at him.
As if she could see through him.
As if he were not her father, but a trespasser. A usurper. A man who once ruled and now stood trial.
“Uriel,” he called, but the name echoed and died in the vastness of the hall.
The throne beside her remained occupied, but faceless. The "man" beside her sat still, crowned in frost. His form was blurred in snowlight, his silence absolute. But Metatron could feel it—his presence, as heavy as judgment.
They said nothing.
Uriel’s gaze didn’t flicker, but something in it burned. Not affection. Not even hatred.
Pity. And that, somehow, was worse.
Metatron tried to speak again, but his voice cracked. The halls began to twist. Ice encroached on the walls. The flames turned blue. His throne, once the seat of stars and sword, crumbled beneath his feet.
His bastard daughter.
Metatron scoffed aloud and rose from bed, the silks falling away like the stars falling after a war. He didn’t want wine. He wanted answers.
Throwing on a lion fur-lined cloak, he stalked to the hearth, though the warmth did nothing for the chill worming into his bones. He stared into the flames like they might tell him something. They remained stubbornly mute.
Uriel.
She’d always been strange. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. Born under a blood eclipse and cursed with her mother’s fury. But she was a girl. A nameless, titleless girl. The court barely remembered her.
She posed no threat.
Or so he had thought.
He muttered a curse and paced.
The fire throne made sense. That was her—if the dream spoke truth. A child of prophecy, forged in shadow and rebuke, rising with wings of flame.
But the ice…
What was the ice? Who?
He began ticking through names, titles, houses.
“The North,” he muttered, voice hoarse. “The Aurelius line? They’ve always been cold-blooded, but they bend the knee when crushed.”
He dismissed them.
“Caelora? No. Too clever. Not enough teeth.”
The Dravons were too loud. The Maelions too loyal.
But something about the North still nagged at him. Not its nobles… but its wilds.
“There’s old blood there,” he whispered, narrowing his eyes. “Beyond the wall. Beyond the reach of titles.”
He remembered the tales: of white wolves with blue eyes, of snow-born witches who spoke to the stars, of exiled sons raised by spirits.
Something ancient. Something forgotten.
Could she ally with them? Marry into one of those frost-bitten tribes? Breed an heir with blood old enough to claim the world in song of ice and fire?
The thought turned his stomach.
“My blood is fire,” he snarled. “No frost-born puppy from Aurelia will outmatch me.”
But still the image returned: the ice throne, jagged and still, seated beside the blazing one, and both looked down upon him.
He sat at the edge of his bed and let his face fall into his hands. For once, there was no mistress beside him to soothe his ego. No wine to dull the edge. No prophecy to twist in his favor.
Only the truth was he refused to speak aloud, he was growing old. And Eden was beginning to forget his name.
The cold in Metatron’s bones would not leave him.
Not even with the lionfur cloak draped across his shoulders, thick as a siege banner and stitched with the gold-threaded sigils of Astyrax victories. Not even with the fire roaring in the hearth behind him, flames leaping high as if to ward off something unseen. It clung to him like guilt, creeping up his spine in brittle fingers. He had seen blood in dreams before. He had dreamed of war, of betrayal, of the faces of the sons he buried and the daughters he denied. But this… this was different. This dream had not threatened him with steel or shadow—but with judgment. With something older. Inevitable.
And so, in the hours before dawn, he walked.
He passed no servants. No guards. Only echo. The corridors grew narrower the deeper he went, the tapestries older, the dust heavier. He descended down the ancient stone staircases beneath the royal library, spiraling into the forgotten bones of the palace, past the torn tapestry of the First Crown, its fabric faded with time and moth-bitten with silence. At the end of the hall stood a rusted iron gate, sealed not with lock nor chain, but with memory. Most in Caelestis did not know it existed. Most, he had ordered not to remember.
He pressed his palm to the door.
The gate creaked open.
The Mirror Room.
It was a circular chamber carved into the mountain’s heart, ceiling domed with obsidian, the air thick with the metallic taste of old enchantments and the silence of centuries. No one had stepped here since Metatron’s coronation night. Not even he. The room had a way of speaking truths he had long since buried.
He raised a hand, whispering an incantation taught to him in his youth by a warlock who had no name. The sconces lining the chamber flared to life with reluctant flame, casting long shadows on the walls—shadows that moved when he did not.
At the center stood the Mirror of Morrakai.
Ancient.
Its silver frame rippled with carvings, the figures so detailed they seemed to move: wolves and phoenixes, thorned roses, coiled serpents, stars trapped mid-fall. Its surface was neither glass nor water, but something between—a window, perhaps, not into the world, but into fate itself. It had been forged when the stars were still children, when Eden was only an idea whispered by gods who no longer answered prayers.
Metatron approached it like a soldier walking into battle.
He stared into his reflection—warped and distorted. His face, lined by years and rule. His crown, duller than he remembered. His eyes, rimmed red not from sleep, but from fear he refused to name.
“I’ve had the dream again,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent.
The mirror did not stir.
“I saw her.” His jaw tightened. “I saw Uriel.”
Still, the mirror was silent.
He exhaled slowly, the air shaking in his lungs.
“Tell me the meaning of the ice.”
The surface shimmered like disturbed water. His reflection dissolved. In its place rose constellations, ancient and alive, twisting through the mirror like dancers. They pulsed in rhythm with a voice—low, eternal, neither male nor female. Not even human. A voice that echoed in the walls of his soul.
“The stars have written the future in frost and flame.”
The constellations shifted, twining into two figures: one cloaked in fire, golden hair like a war-banner, eyes searing through darkness; beside her, a being of silver silence, crowned in pale antlers, hands veiled in snow. They stood side by side upon twin thrones—one smoldering, one glacial.
“The girl-child,” the voice whispered, “born of sacred flame and bitter womb. The son of snow—unclaimed, unbroken, born not of royalty but of wilderness and silence.”
Metatron’s breath hitched. A fist clenched at his side.
“They will rule?” he asked, barely above a whisper. “Together?”
The mirror pulsed again, casting light across his face like starlight through stained glass.
“The fire shall bring fury. The frost shall bring peace and simmer the fire. Together, they will unmake your kingdom and build a better one. A song of flame and ice.”
His face twisted. He stepped back, shaking his head.
“No,” he snarled. “No bastard daughter of mine will wear my crown. And no—no ice-born peasant will ever—”
The words trailed off, hollow.
The mirror shifted again, now revealing two sets of eyes. Uriel’s—familiar, fierce, divine. And beside hers, a pair of pale blue eyes, unreadable and steady. Not cruel. But old. Older than they had any right to be.
The figures returned, seated upon the twin thrones—Uriel in robes of flame, the faceless snowborn beside her, ruling as one. Eden bowed before them, not in chains, but willingly.
Metatron’s voice cracked. “Who is he?” he demanded. “The frostborn. The one beside her. Tell me his name!”
The mirror dimmed.
And then the voice came again, soft as falling snow.
“Winter is coming.”
Metatron stumbled back, crown slipping askew, breath ragged. His pulse thundered in his ears. His hands trembled—something that had not happened since the day his brother died.
“Give me a name!” he roared, fists striking the pedestal.
But the mirror only stilled. His reflection returned, wild-eyed and pale.
And for the first time in all his reign, the King of Kings, the Lord of Flame, Metatron Astyrax—felt the weight of inevitability pressing down on him like a judgment he could not outpace.
Far away, in the direction of the forgotten North, a phoenix cried.
And somewhere in the frost-laced mountains beyond the reach of fire, the silence stirred.
He did not sleep.
The rest of the night was spent in the libraries of Caelestis, pacing between scrolls that smelled of dust and ink, pages that crumbled under the brush of his fingertips. He tore through treatises written before the founding of Eden, histories of ancient bloodlines, of elemental births, of omens seen in firestorms and auroras. He pulled every star-chart from the Tower of Vireon, every tome on Northern folklore, every prophecy smuggled from the East.
But nothing spoke of the frost born.
Nothing gave him a name.
The morning bells tolled hollowly above as golden light slid through the high stained-glass windows. The mirror’s prophecy echoed in his mind—"Winter is coming"—like a fevered chant. He tried to dismiss it as metaphoric, as superstition. But the dream lingered. The feeling lingered. The cold would not leave his bones.
When he could endure the silence no longer, he sent for her, his elder sister.
The one he had not spoken to in months. The one who had once been called the most brilliant mind of the bloodline before he had taken the crown from their father’s corpse.
Evangeline Astyrax, his older sister was once called the Morning Star of Caelestis—the brightest mind and most beloved soul among the old blood of Eden. She is a woman of beauty, carved from the same marble as her brother Metatron but worn softer by sorrow. Tall, with an elegant build wrapped in flowing, muted gowns, Evangeline moves like a woman who has been taught her entire life to hide the weight of her own steps.
Her hair is a cascade of white-gold, like the first frost of winter kissed by morning sun, braided loosely down her back. Her skin is pale, almost luminous in certain lights, and her features are striking—sharp cheekbones, hydrated lips often pressed into a patient line, and eyes that mirror Metatron's almost exactly, bright and light purple, piercing and unreadable. Looking into her face is like seeing the twin of the king, but without his brutality; hers is a colder sadness, a quieter fall from grace.
Evangeline carries the regal bearing of a queen who was never crowned. She dresses in layered robes of Astyrax Regal Red, deep blue, and dusk-violet—colors that mark her as a trueborn Astyrax yet mourn her lost claim. Every ring on her fingers, every delicate embroidery on her sleeves, speaks of old Edenic craftsmanship, pride, and ancient sorrow.
He found her in the Winter Garden at the edge of the upper wing—still wrapped in shawls, sipping her usual cup of jasmine and pine. Her silver hair was twisted in a lazy braid. Her posture, as always, was dignified, even in sleepwear. She had not aged much since the coronation. Some said it was alchemy. Others, revenge. Metatron had never dared to ask.
She did not rise when he approached.
“You look like hell,” she said, without looking at him.
“I had a dream,” he answered simply, dragging the nearest chair across the frost-laced tiles.
“Of course you did.” She poured him a cup of tea without asking if he wanted one. “You always come crawling to me when something threatens your crown.”
He didn’t take the bait. Not this time. He sat stiffly, eyes dark and unfocused.
“There was a girl on the throne,” he began, voice quieter now, as though confessing to a priest. “Uriel. She sat above Eden as queen—but not alone. There was another. A man, faceless in the dream. His throne was made of ice.”
Evangeline’s brow lifted slightly, but she said nothing.
“They ruled together. And the people… bowed. Gladly.” His hands gripped the cup, unmoving. “I saw Caelestis in ruins. I saw my face reflected in her eyes—and she looked at me as if I were the villain. As if I had failed her.”
There was silence between them, thick with old wounds. Evangeline stared at him for a long moment, then took a slow sip of her tea.
"By Uriel of prophecy, you mean your daughter?" She asked, her white eyebrows raising.
“The mirror confirmed it,” he added, voice tight. “The flame is Uriel. But the ice... he is still unknown.”
“Winter is coming,” Evangeline said softly, reciting the words as though she had heard them before.
Metatron flinched. “You know it?”
She didn’t answer. Her gaze flicked to the horizon, where the morning sun had begun to rise over the mountains of Eloen.
“You always hated the North,” she said instead. “Even when we were children. You hated how silent they were. How unreadable. You hated their cold. Their detachment. Their women.”
Metatron said nothing.
“You called them wolves dressed in snow,” she continued, setting her teacup down with a graceful clink. “But I think, deep down, it wasn’t their mystery that frightened you. It was their memory. They remember things Eden prefers to forget.”
He stiffened. “If you know something, tell me.”
Evangeline turned to face him now. Her eyes were sharp. Calm. The same kind Uriel had in his dream.
“You wouldn’t believe me,” she said with a smile, “because I’m a woman.”
He scowled. “Don’t start.”
“No,” she said, softly, yet unyielding. “You started this when you decided your daughter could not rule. When you let fear dictate succession. You should be proud. She’s the fire you lacked, Metatron. And now the frost is coming to meet her.”
He rose to his feet, agitated.
“I won’t let this prophecy destroy what I built.”
“You can’t stop a season from changing,” she replied, folding her hands.
He turned away from her and looked out the window. His eyes drifted toward the North. Beyond the wall of clouds. Beyond the range where the sun struggled to reach. Beyond Aurelia.
“Then I will change it first,” he whispered.
Evangeline remained seated, her eyes never leaving him.
“You cannot kill winter, brother,” she said, almost pitying. “Only delay it.”
Metatron said nothing for a long while. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting only a dull orange glow across the frost-kissed tiles. Steam curled from the untouched tea in his hands.
Evangeline watched him. Her gaze, for once, was not cutting.
“You know,” she said softly, “when you were little, you used to sneak into my study at night just to watch the stars. You’d tug on my sleeve and ask what each constellation meant. You used to think the whole sky was a storybook, written just for you.”
He looked away.
“You were kind then,” she went on, her voice laced with something fonder, something more painful. “Gentle. Too gentle, our father said. He thought you’d grow out of it. That a son of Astyrax needed fire in his hands, not dreams in his head.”
She lifted her teacup, letting the porcelain warm her fingers.
“And you did grow out of it. Didn’t you?”
Metatron’s jaw twitched.
“Do you remember when he named you heir?” Evangeline asked. “You cried. You came to my chambers with tears on your face and told me it was a mistake. You said I should have been chosen. You begged me to take the crown for you.”
He didn’t answer. His eyes were on the distant mountains again.
“And I didn’t,” she said, almost wistfully. “I told you it was yours. I believed you’d become a good king.”
She set the cup down and folded her hands, as if in mourning for a version of him that no longer lived.
“But now… Now I’m just your counsel. Your quiet little shadow. The clever sister you fetch when you’re too scared to tell the truth to yourself.”
He turned back to her, eyes flashing. “That’s not—”
“Yes, it is.” Her voice didn’t rise, but it struck all the same. “You don’t want my thoughts. You want my permission. You want someone to say that killing Northern boys is destiny, not madness. That burning down your daughter’s future is patriotic, not pitiful.”
Metatron opened his mouth, but the words dried in his throat.
“I loved you once,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Not as a king. As a brother. But you buried that boy years ago, when you crowned yourself in gold and fear.”
A silence passed between them like a sword sliding into its sheath.
Then she rose. Smoothed her shawl. And walked past him without a bow.
“Enjoy your tea, Your Grace,” she said, with just the slightest bitterness curling at the edge of her tongue. “And if you truly wish to stop what’s coming… then maybe you should stop making enemies of the very blood that might save you.”
And with that, she left him in the garden, alone with his silence, the last dregs of cooling jasmine, and the ghosts of stars he used to believe in.
But before she could reach a distance far from him, Metatron's voice stopped her. “I need a favor,” he said.
The way he said it—quiet, desperate—made Evangeline stiffen. She didn’t turn around.
He stood now, the golden trim of his cloak brushing the floor. “You were always good at listening. At seeing what others missed. I need you to go to Asenath’s household. Watch them. Watch Raguel. Watch Uriel.”
Finally, she turned—slowly, like the earth turning towards a storm. Her eyes were molten iron.
“You want me to spy on them?” she said.
Metatron didn’t flinch. “They’re still young. Too naive to know when they’re being... led astray. I need someone I can trust close to them.”
Evangeline let out a low, humorless laugh. She took a step closer, enough that he could see the fury trembling in her fingers.
“Metatron,” she said, voice trembling between rage and disbelief, “you know damn well the feelings I carried for Asenath.”
The memory hung there like smoke between them.
Before the wars, before the throne, before Metatron’s coronation—there had been Evangeline and Asenath. Bright and inseparable. A promise made beneath the White Cedars of Eloen, a bond neither politics nor prophecy was meant to touch.
And then Metatron, in his hunger for legitimacy, had shattered it.
"You shattered everything between us," she spat. "You made her carry your child, your heir, because Father wanted it so. Because you were too much of a coward to tell him otherwise. You used her, Metatron—and now you want me to dance to your tune like nothing ever happened?"
Metatron’s face hardened. "It was duty."
"It was theft," she snapped. "You stole her from me and crowned yourself in the ashes of what we had."
"You think I had a choice?" His voice cracked for the first time in years. "You think I wanted that life? Every path was close to me but one. I did what I had to do—to survive. To reign."
"You chose survival over love," Evangeline said. "You chose power over us."
For a long moment, neither spoke. The crackle of the hearth filled the silence like the snarling of wolves.
Metatron ran a hand down his face, suddenly looking tired. Older.
"I need your eyes, Evangeline," he said again, softer now. Almost pleading. "Uriel... Raguel... they are everything Eden will be when I am gone. I can feel it slipping through my fingers. I can feel the North rising against us. I need to know they will not betray me."
"You want my loyalty," she said coldly. "But you threw away my love."
He flinched as if struck.
Evangeline's hands clenched at her sides.
"I will not be your spy," she said, and her voice was final. "Not for your crown. Not for your fears."
She stepped back, a queen in her own right without a throne.
Metatron stood motionless for what felt like an age.
The shadows thickened around him, clinging to the folds of his cloak, gnawing at the fading light.
At last, he moved.
He reached in his pockets of his royal red robes, his hands holding a key, together they went up to his chambers, toward the old oak cabinet tucked behind the hearth, he opened it with the key.
Inside, wrapped in white velvet, was a circlet.
Not a king’s crown. Not a prince’s diadem.
A slender, ancient coronet of woven gold and ironwood, inlaid with three star stones—the ancient Heirloom of Caelestis. A relic predating the Astyrax dynasty itself. A symbol of Eden’s true sovereignty.
A symbol their father had intended for his "true" heir.
For her.
Evangeline turned, stiffening when she saw what he held.
“This was meant for you once,” Metatron said, his voice low and hoarse. “Father gave it to me after he chose me. Said the realm would not survive a queen with your... ideas.”
He crossed the distance between them, lifting the velvet-wrapped circlet in his scarred hands.
“I will give it to you," he said, almost choking on the words. "All of it. The right to the old line. The right to the ancient claim. Yours alone. Not for Raguel. Not for Uriel. For you. Only you."
Evangeline’s breath caught.
She stared at the circlet—the weight of history, of what was stolen from her long ago—and for the first time, hesitation bled into her anger.
"You swear it?" she whispered.
"By my crown, my blood, and my final breath," Metatron said, lowering his head. "Swear loyalty for this one task—and it is yours."
The old longing clawed at Evangeline’s chest like a beast awakening after long captivity.
Not because she craved a throne.
Because she craved what had been denied—the choice. The acknowledgment. The justice.
She closed her eyes briefly. When she opened them, they were cold as winter glass.
"Very well," she said. "I will go."
Metatron let out a breath—half relief, half defeat.
"You will not harm them," she said sharply. "I will not deliver them into your hands. I will only watch."
He nodded. "Then we are agreed."
She took the circlet, wrapping it carefully in its velvet once more, hiding it beneath her cloak as if it were a wound.
Without another word, she turned from him.
And this time, Metatron did not stop her.
........
Snow crunched beneath Evangeline’s boots as she stood at the threshold.
She hadn’t knocked. Not really. Just a soft tap, like she might turn and run if no one answered. But the door had opened before she could finish drawing breath.
And there stood Asenath—older, sharper, colder than the girl she remembered, yet every bit the same where it mattered. The same watchful eyes, the same defiant posture that made even mountain winds part around her.
“You’ve got a hell of a nerve,” she said, arms crossed over her chest like armor. Her breath curled in the frigid air. “Coming here. After everything.”
Asenath looked directly into Evangeline's purple eyes that reflected Metatron's like a mirror and she tries her best not to slap her then and there.
Evangeline didn’t look away. She was tired. Too tired to lie with her usual grace.
“I had nowhere else to go,” she said, voice flat, frayed at the edges. “Metatron cast me out. Said I was no longer of use to the Crown.”
It was a clean lie, well-practiced—but one Asenath had once read like scripture.
Asenath tilted her head, unconvinced. “He sent you here, didn’t he?”
Silence.
“I knew it,” she snapped, taking a step forward. “You expect me to believe you were tossed out like kitchen ash? After years on his council, after every decision you bled for?”
“I didn’t come here to play games,” Evangeline said. “I came here because—because there’s no one else I can trust.”
“No one else you can use, you mean.”
The wind picked up behind her. Snow flurried past the doorway, clinging to Asenath’s shawl like pale moths. Still, she did not let Evangeline in.
“You could’ve come years ago,” Asenath continued. “When he made me his concubine. When he wanted a child born of my blood, not the spoiled little wretches from the Court. You could’ve stood beside me then.”
“I tried— He only wanted you to get pregnant with his child because of a petty bet he made with our father—"
“No,” Asenath cut in. “You stood beside him. You watched as he ruined my name, my home, and my body. And you said nothing.”
Evangeline's face didn’t flinch, but her throat tightened.
“I didn’t stay silent because I was weak,” she said. “I did it to keep you alive.”
Asenath scoffed. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep?”
“He knew, Asenath. My father. The King before Metatron. He knew about us.”
Asenath froze.
Evangeline went on, voice low, almost trembling: “He found the letters we exchanged. The lockets. The sketches. All of it. And he called me into the throne room one night. Said, word for word: ‘I will tolerate many sins from an Astyrax—but not this one.’ He said that to me as a threat, he threatened me with your life, Asenath.”
A gust of wind slammed against the cottage. Neither woman moved.
“He said if I so much as reached for my birthright, he’d have you killed. Quietly. Without pain, if I cooperated. Without mercy, if I didn’t.”
Asenath’s eyes were wet, but no tears fell.
“You never told me.”
“I couldn’t.” Evangeline’s voice cracked. “Not then. You would’ve fought back. You would’ve died for pride.”
Asenath’s face turned away, but her voice still held steel. “And you would’ve let him do it.”
“I didn’t,” Evangeline said, desperate now. “I stepped aside. I gave up my claim. I became Metatron’s shadow, not because I believed in him—but because I thought I could buy time. Keep you safe.”
“You kept me invisible,” Asenath spat. “You let them shame me in every court, every whisper. I wasn’t a lover. I wasn’t a concubine. I was a ghost with a royal bastard in my womb.”
“I loved you, I loved you so much I begged my father to kill each and every one who spoke of your name.” Evangeline whispered, and her voice cracked open.
The snow was falling heavier now, like the skies themselves couldn’t bear to witness this reunion.
“I loved you more than the crown. More than my own name,” she said. “And I lost you because of it.”
Neither moved.
Then Asenath turned back to her fully, and for a moment, something softened behind her eyes.
“I should shut the door on you,” she said, quietly. “But I won’t.”
She stepped aside.
“Get in. You’ll freeze to death.”
Evangeline hesitated just a second, then stepped inside. The heat of the hearth embraced her like a forgotten memory. She removed her snow-crusted cloak, letting the scent of firewood and cloves and rosemary wrap around her like a balm.
Asenath poured cider from the kettle. No words. Just two mugs. No ceremony.
When she handed one to Evangeline, their fingers brushed. The contact lingered. Not enough to mean forgiveness—but enough to mean the past wasn’t finished speaking.
They sat, slowly, on the chair and tea table before the fire. No court. No thrones. Just a hearth, and silence, and the hum of something unspoken beneath the ash.
Evangeline curled her hands around the warm mug.
Asenath stared into the flames.
The snow outside had turned to sleet, tapping softly against the windows like a lullaby for the damned.
Evangeline sipped absently from her mug, though the taste had long faded. Her fingers brushed over the rim, over and over, as though she could smooth away the awkward weight in the air.
Asenath hadn’t spoken in several minutes. She sat cross-legged, one hand cupping her chin, the other playing with the silver ring around her thumb.
“You still do that,” Evangeline murmured.
Asenath looked up, brows faintly arched.
“The ring,” she explained. “You spin it when you’re thinking.”
Asenath didn’t smile, but her hand stilled. “You always noticed too much.”
A soft breath passed between them.
“You haven’t changed much,” she added, quieter now. “Same voice. Same eyes.”
Evangeline looked at her then—truly looked.
Asenath’s gaze, sharp as ever, held her for a beat too long.
“You know what I hate?” Asenath asked. “Your eyes are still his.”
Evangeline blinked. “Metatron’s?”
Asenath nodded, slow and quiet. “You two always looked like mirrored versions of each other. The same cheekbones, same lashes. It used to unnerve me—how different you were, despite looking like… copies.”
Her fingers drummed against her mug. “Sometimes I’d wake next to him, and it’d take a moment before I remembered whose bed I was in. And gods help me, Evie, I hated that. I hated how his face could wear your softness, but only in sleep.”
The silence after that was jagged.
“I’m not him,” Evangeline said, voice hoarse.
“No. You’re not.”
“But I still wear his face.”
“Yes,” Asenath whispered. “And it breaks something in me every time.”
Evangeline looked down. She wanted to reach across the gap between them. Wanted to say something simple and stupid and gentle, like I missed you, or I’m sorry. But none of it felt true enough to undo what had been done.
So she said, “He never loved you.”
And Asenath, eyes dry and blazing, whispered back, “I know.”
They stared at each other for a long while.
Asenath’s breath slowed. Her fingers curled tighter around the mug—then let go, setting it down with a faint, deliberate clink against the table.
Evangeline felt the shift.
“Asenath?” she asked quietly.
But Asenath’s eyes were already shut, her face turned toward the fire, as if listening for something far older than words.
“I wanted to believe you,” she said softly. “I really did.” Asenath said coldly.
Evangeline straightened.
“You were always the better liar,” Asenath continued, still not opening her eyes. “Even when we were children. When I got bruised sparring with the tower guards, and you said the scar made me look noble.”
There was a faint smile on her lips now. But it didn’t reach her voice.
“And now here you are again,” she whispered. “The same voice, the same eyes. Spouting exile and betrayal and broken ties like a lullaby. But you forget, Evangeline.”
She opened her eyes and stood up from the chair she was sitting on.
“I was there when Metatron turned cold.” And in one fluid, terrifying movement, Asenath’s hand darted across the table.
The knife, she reached for it.
Evangeline managed to stand up but flinched back too late—the steel gleamed in the firelight, and Asenath was on her in a heartbeat, the blade to her throat, her other hand seizing her collar.
The knife pressed harder against Evangeline’s collarbone, enough to draw a single bead of blood that welled up like a ruby.
"Asenath," Evangeline said, voice cracking slightly, but she held her ground. Her hands stayed lowered, open at her sides in surrender. "Please."
"Don’t," Asenath hissed through her teeth. Her hand was steady despite the rage trembling through her body. "Don’t you dare say my name like you still have the right."
The fire crackled in the hearth. Somewhere outside, the wind howled down from the mountain peaks, but here, there was only the two of them — the boiling pot of everything they never said, everything they once were.
"You were sent here," Asenath said bitterly. Her eyes—those deep, unforgiving storm eyes—searched Evangeline’s face like she was trying to find a lie buried in the shape of her mouth. "He sent you, didn’t he? Your king. Your beloved brother."
Evie flinched. The blade nicked a little deeper.
"You think I don’t know?" Asenath spat. "You think I can’t smell Metatron on you like rot on a dying tree? You think I forgot what it was like—to wake up in his bed, with his hands on me, pretending—" her voice cracked, broken and furious—"pretending he was you?"
Evangeline’s breath caught.
Asenath shook her head, furious tears gleaming in her eyes. "You let it happen," she snarled. "You, who stood in the council chambers and smiled when they crowned him heir. You, who stayed silent when your father found out about us and ripped us apart like we were filth."
The knife dug in harder. Evangeline gasped.
"You don’t leave this room alive," Asenath whispered, voice thick with grief. "Not unless you tell me why you're really here."
Evangeline squeezed her eyes shut, the words ripping out of her throat like a confession from a dying priest.
"He fears the North," she said hoarsely. "He fears Uriel. The boy from the prophecy. He sent me to...to spy. To watch for signs. To betray you."
Silence. A terrible, terrible silence.
Asenath’s hand trembled now, for the first time.
"You always belonged to him in the end," she said, voice breaking. "No matter how many nights you promised otherwise."
The knife slipped away from Evangeline’s throat, falling with a dull clatter against the table.
Evangeline staggered back, clutching the bleeding line at her collarbone, but she made no move to run. She simply stood there, like a statue crumbling slowly in the salt air.
Asenath turned her back on her, walking toward the window. The light of the dying fire painted her silhouette in gold and crimson. But to Evangeline, she never looked so prettier.
"You’re lucky," she said, staring out into the snowy dark. "I’m too tired to hate you properly." Asenath whispered, Evangeline was still bleeding heavily, but the fire was dim enough so Asenath couldn't see.
She walked away, away from Evangeline.
The wind howled against the stone walls, rattling the loose shutters. Snow seeped in through the cracks, settling like a thin ghost across the floorboards. Somewhere deep in the mountains, a wolf howled, long and mournful.
..........
Asenath hadn't slept.
She lay in bed, staring at the heavy coes of owls outside, her heart still thundering with guilt. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Evangeline's body crumpled on the floor, saw the blood, smelled the coppery tang in the cold air.
At last, just before dawn, she rose.
The house was silent, save for the creaking of the timber and the whisper of the blizzard outside. She wrapped herself in a thick fur cloak, feet bare against the freezing stones, and descended the stairs slowly, torch in hand.
The lower hall was empty. No Evangeline.
A sliver of panic gnawed at her stomach.
She pushed open the front door, and the cold hit her like a slap. The snow had piled high overnight, burying the steps, blanketing the fields in a perfect, deadly white.
And there — half-buried beneath the falling snow — she saw her.
Evangeline.
Curled up on the frozen stone courtyard, her great golden wings folded around herself like a shroud. She had wrapped them tight against the cold, feathers turned stiff and silvered by frost. Her hair was a tangled halo around her head. Her skin, what little was exposed, had gone pale blue in the dawn light.
For a moment Asenath couldn’t move.
Could only stare — at the woman who had once traced dreams across her spine, once whispered forbidden promises under the birches of Caelestis.
The woman she had nearly murdered last night.
The woman who had still stayed.
“Asenath,” Evangeline whispered, barely audible. Her voice was hoarse, her lips cracked from the cold. “I didn’t want to go... I'm sorry, I-I'll go.”
Asenath dropped to her knees beside her. The snow bit into her skin through the cloak but she didn't care.
“Idiot,” Asenath breathed. Her hands hovered uselessly before she forced them into action — gathering Evangeline into her arms, pulling the frozen wings closer to shield her from the snow still falling from the broken sky.
“Gods, Evie, you could’ve died,” she muttered, rocking her slightly. “You almost did.”
The torch fell from Asenath’s hand and hissed out in the snow. She didn’t care.
All she could think about was how easily she could have lost her again.
And how easily Evangeline had let herself be lost. Not as a spy. Not as a weapon. Not as a pawn of Metatron’s games.
But as someone who still, somehow, after everything, wanted to stay near Asenath.
Even if it killed her.
“Come on,” Asenath said, voice cracking. “Come inside. I’ll warm you up. I’ll—I'll fix this.”
She didn't know if it was a promise or a prayer.
But she helped Evangeline walk back inside the broken little house, protecting her from the past, from all the wars they had been forced to fight against each other.
Asenath’s room was warm, if barely. She had stoked the hearth with trembling hands until the flames roared up, casting flickering gold across the stone walls. She laid Evangeline carefully on the bed, as if she might break apart at any rough touch.
For a moment, Asenath just stood there.
Looking at her.
Evangeline, shivering and unconscious, her golden hair damp from melted snow, her wings limp at her sides.
Asenath gritted her teeth against the lump rising in her throat.
With painstaking care, she peeled the frozen, blood-crusted garments from her body. The tunic stuck to old wounds and fresh ones alike; she winced every time Evangeline twitched or murmured.
And then she saw it.
The full map of pain.
Whip marks, brutal and precise, crisscrossed her back, some faded to white, others still angry and red. A long, cruel scar arced from her left shoulder to the base of her spine — old, too old to blame on anything recent. Near her ribs, a stab wound, its edges rough, barely healed right. Across her stomach, thin lines, like the marks of a dagger dragged in a moment of slow violence. Some scars were layered over others, telling stories Asenath didn’t even want to imagine.
And at her throat — Asenath’s own doing.
A thin, fresh gash, cruelly shallow but furious, where the tip of the knife had broken skin.
Asenath’s hands trembled as she cleaned the blood away with warm water. The cloth stained pink, then red, then dark crimson as she pressed it against each wound.
Evangeline stirred slightly, her lips parting, a faint whimper escaping — not of pain, but of habit. As if her body had long since learned to suffer quietly.
Asenath squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the cloth to her forehead.
What had they done to her? What had she done?
"You stubborn, stupid, beautiful fool," Asenath whispered. Her fingers brushed gently across the old scar near Evangeline’s heart, feeling the way her ribs rose and fell in shallow, broken breaths. "What have they made of you?"
She cleaned the last of the blood, wrapped her in furs, made sure the fire wouldn’t die before dawn.
Still, she couldn’t bring herself to leave.
She sat on the edge of the bed, watching Evangeline breathe. Watching her fight to stay alive, even now.
It was like looking at a fallen star, battered and broken but still burning somehow.
Asenath reached out, hesitated, then finally brushed a hand through the damp strands of Evangeline’s hair, careful not to wake her.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, so quietly it barely crossed the space between them. "For all of it. For leaving you to fight alone."
And this time, Asenath swore to herself, she wouldn’t let her go. Not again.
......
The first light of dawn poured like molten gold across the room, casting long, gentle shadows over the stone and fur.
Evangeline stirred.
Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, her body sluggish and weighted by pain. For a moment she knew nothing but the warm cocoon of furs around her and the aching throb of her wounds. Then a faint breath caught in her throat — a name, tender, barely a whisper.
“Asenath…”
The name slipped free before she could think to hold it back.
She blinked, the world slowly coming into focus. The hearthfire had burned down to glowing embers, but the room was still wrapped in a heavy, golden warmth. She shifted slightly and winced as pain lanced through her side — but then she stilled.
Someone was there.
Next to her.
Asenath.
The proud, sharp woman she had once loved with every reckless, foolish part of her soul.
Asenath was sleeping beside her, one arm half-draped across the furs, her face turned toward Evangeline as if even in sleep she had been standing guard. Her hair tumbled in dark rivers across the pillows. Every so often, she shifted, murmuring something inaudible under her breath, the lines of anger and suspicion that usually tightened her face softened now into something unbearably vulnerable.
Evangeline’s breath hitched.
Slowly, carefully, she raised a trembling hand and brushed a lock of hair from Asenath’s brow, her fingers so light they barely touched.
Gods.
She had forgotten how beautiful Asenath was like this — unguarded, dreaming, alive.
Something old and dangerous ached deep inside her chest.
Without thinking, without daring to give herself time to regret, Evangeline leaned closer, her heart hammering painfully in her ribs. She pressed the gentlest kiss to Asenath’s forehead — a barely-there touch, a prayer more than a kiss.
Evangeline had almost drifted back into a shallow, uneasy sleep when she felt it — a slow, steady shift beside her. A faint stirring of breath against her collarbone. The tension in the bed shifted as Asenath stretched beneath the covers like a great, lazy cat.
“You know,” Asenath’s voice rasped low against the stillness, dry and teasing, “if you wanted to kiss me properly, you could’ve just asked.”
Evangeline froze.
Her golden eyes snapped open in horror, meeting Asenath’s half-lidded, wicked grin. That sharp, wolfish grin she knew too well. The kind that once meant trouble on warm summer nights long ago.
“You were awake?” Evangeline croaked, her throat still raw from the wound.
Asenath yawned, stretching her arms above her head with infuriating ease. "Long enough to feel you hovering over me like a lovesick bird."
Evangeline flushed crimson, scrambling to sit up, only to hiss sharply as her bandaged side protested. Asenath clicked her tongue and grabbed her gently by the shoulders, pushing her back into the pillows with a firm but careful hand.
“Easy, Evie,” she said, and for once, there was no mockery in her voice — only an exasperated fondness. “You're stitched together by willpower and spite right now. Don’t test it.”
Evangeline scowled, though it lacked any real heat. “I wasn’t— It wasn’t—”
Asenath raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t what? Sweet? Sad? Pathetic? God's you're such an idiot, Evie. My damn idiot."
Asenath held her hand to Evangeline’s cheek for a heartbeat longer than she meant to. Her thumb brushed faintly against the edge of an old scar near her jaw, as if trying to trace the years that had passed between them.
Evangeline didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe. Her eyes — those same silver to lilac purple irises, twin mirrors of Metatron’s — watched her, open and unguarded for the first time since they’d reunited.
And that was the problem.
Because for a single flicker of a second, Asenath saw him there.
The cruelness. The ambition. The fire beneath a crown that had scorched so many lives.
But then she blinked — and it was Evie again. Not the king. Not the brother.
The girl who used to read her poems beneath the night bloom trees. The girl who once kissed her fingers before war and whispered, “Come back with your wings intact.”
The girl who had tried to disappear for her.
Asenath’s throat tightened. Her hand curled slightly, brushing back a loose strand of Evangeline’s hair, and then settled behind her neck.
“You have his eyes,” Asenath murmured, voice hoarse.
Evangeline’s lips parted, but no sound came.
Asenath’s fingers trembled — not with fear, but with fury, with heartbreak, with shame. "Metatron's?"
“But I know they’ve wept for me longer than his ever did.”
And then she leaned forward, slow and certain, and kissed her.
It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t timid.
It was a claim of time lost, of grief swallowed, of everything they were never allowed to be.
Evangeline let out a shuddered breath, one hand fisting in the back of Asenath’s shawl as if she were drowning and this — this — was the only breath of air in all of Eden.
When they parted, Asenath’s forehead rested lightly against hers.
“I don’t forgive you,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
“I know,” Evangeline said, her voice thin and trembling.
“But gods help me,” Asenath murmured, brushing her thumb against Evangeline’s lip, “I’ve never stopped loving you.”
Asenath leaned in for another kiss again, this time using her hands to guide Evangeline.
Evangeline groaned and buried herself under the covers.
"Gods, Asenath, when did you get so clingy?"
"Your fault for coming back to me."
..........
The front door creaked open and footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Raguel, polishing his sword by the hearth, looked up—and froze.
Uriel, sprawled across the rug with Fenris's massive head in her lap, froze too.
Even Solas, perched lazily by the fire, tilted his bright head.
There, descending the steps in a simple red night gown with long white hair tangled from sleep and a faint scowl of confusion on her face and 9 wings on her back—stood what looked exactly like Metatron Astyrax.
Raguel leapt to his feet so fast he nearly knocked the sword from his lap. "BY THE STARS, HE FOUND US—"
Uriel gasped and scrambled behind Fenris.
Fenris let out a low, warning growl, muscles coiling like springs.
Even Solas, usually too dignified for mortal affairs, started sparking at the tips of his wings.
Evangeline froze halfway down the stairs, arms half-raised like she was facing a firing squad. "What—? No—!"
Raguel pointed a shaking finger at her. "GET BACK! MOTHER, HE'S HERE!"
Asenath came storming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a rag. "What in the nine hells are you screaming about—"
She caught sight of Evangeline. Her mouth twitched, and she gave a long, exasperated sigh.
"Stars save me," Asenath muttered under her breath.
"Metatron is in the house!" Uriel wailed, grabbing Solas by the tail feathers.
"That's not Metatron, you fools!" Asenath barked, slamming the rag down on the table.
There was a beat of confused silence.
Evangeline, looking deeply miserable, mumbled, "Good morning?"
Raguel narrowed his eyes, chest heaving. "Then who the hell is that?"
Asenath marched over and practically yanked Evangeline the rest of the way down the stairs by the sleeve.
"This," she snapped, "is Evangeline Astyrax. Metatron’s sister. My guest."
Uriel peeked out from behind Fenris, eyes wide. "They look the same."
"Exactly the same," Raguel added suspiciously.
"Siblings," Asenath said through gritted teeth. "Which should tell you everything about how annoying they are."
Raguel still looked deeply unconvinced, hand drifting toward his sword hilt again. "You sure it's not Metatron wearing a dress to mess with us?"
"RAGUEL!" Asenath shouted, throwing her arms up.
Evangeline, deadpan, added helpfully, "I can’t shapeshift. Or cross-dress well."
Uriel, still blinking rapidly, said, "That’s a suspiciously specific denial."
Fenris, sensing the danger had passed, gave a long, dramatic sigh and dropped his giant head back onto the rug.
Raguel finally sank back into his chair, muttering, "I’m getting too old for this."
Solas, offended by the noise, ruffled his wings and turned his back on everyone.
Asenath buried her face in her hands. "I swear to the gods, if one more person accuses me of sleeping with Metatron, I will personally burn this house down."
Evangeline coughed awkwardly. "That... um... wouldn't be the first time."
Uriel immediately perked up. "Wait, what?!"
Raguel groaned. "I'm gonna need, like, a year of therapy."
Fenris thumped his tail in agreement.
And somehow, through the utter chaos, Evangeline smiled — a small, reluctant thing — because despite the madness, the shouting, and the accusations of cross-dressing… this was already starting to feel more like a home than Caelestis ever had.
........
Raguel stabbed another piece of bread with unnecessary aggression as they dined for breakfast. "So," he said, glancing sideways at Evangeline, "do you also have a God complex or is that just your brother?"
Evangeline sipped her tea with the air of someone who had survived much worse. "Please. I'm more of a... disillusioned saint."
Uriel snorted into her cup. "Saint Evangeline of Bad Decisions."
"Patron of Awkward Family Reunions," Raguel added.
"And tragic hair," Uriel said brightly.
Evangeline arched a brow at her. "My hair is not tragic."
"Your whole aesthetic screams 'I started a holy war over bad poetry,'" Uriel insisted.
"It does not!" Evangeline protested.
Raguel leaned back in his chair, surveying her with a kind of smug judgment. "Mmm. No, Uriel’s right. You do look like you’d declare a crusade because someone criticized your handwriting."
Evangeline, exasperated beyond words, turned pleading eyes to Asenath.
Asenath just sipped her coffee in complete, traitorous silence.
"You're all insufferable," Evangeline muttered.
That night, the hearth fire crackled low in the cottage, painting everything in lazy amber. The blizzard outside had gentled to a soft whisper against the windows.
Evangeline sat cross-legged on a worn rug, a cup of warm milk cupped in her hands. She stared into the flames, lost somewhere far away, while Solas dozed with his head tucked under a wing and Fenris the wolf snored like a mountain behind them.
Uriel plopped down beside her with a thud, knocking their knees together.
"You look like a widow," Uriel said cheerfully, reaching over to poke her side.
"Charming," Evangeline deadpanned, not moving.
"No, really. The tragic far-off stare, the milk instead of wine—" Uriel squinted at her. "*—the permanent air of 'I have loved and lost and now the gods mock me.' It’s a vibe."
"You’re a menace," Evangeline muttered into her cup.
Uriel grinned, undeterred. "So..." she said, drawing the word out like a bowstring, "...tell me. Did you ever fall in love? And don't lie. I can smell guilt."
Evangeline rolled her eyes but didn’t answer right away. The firelight caught the sharp ridge of her cheekbones, the tired amusement around her mouth.
"Once," she admitted finally, voice soft.
Uriel's eyes lit up like a fox spotting a henhouse. "Spill. Immediately."
Evangeline, very slowly, tilted her head toward the kitchen.
Toward where Asenath was humming quietly to herself, drying herbs at the counter.
Uriel blinked.
Looked at Evangeline.
Looked at Asenath.
Looked back at Evangeline.
"No," she breathed, grinning wider than the moon. "You did not."
Evangeline shrugged with the weariness of someone halfway to martyrdom. "She had a sword. And opinions. I didn’t stand a chance."
Uriel wheezed, practically falling sideways into the rug. "You— you fell for Mother Wrath Incarnate herself? That explains so much about you!"
"Careful," Evangeline warned, dry. "I’m still holding a cup of hot milk and a lifetime of poor impulse control."
"It’s okay," Uriel said between gasps of laughter. "This is the healthiest thing about you. You fell for someone who could kill you at any moment. Honestly, inspiring."
Across the room, Asenath glanced up at them suspiciously.
"What’s so funny?" she asked.
"Nothing!" Uriel and Evangeline chorused — a little too quickly.
....
The next morning with the small home cleaned and Uriel had skipped off triumphantly toward the woods with Fenris at her heels, Evangeline trudged back to the house with hay in her hair and murder in her heart.
She shoved open the door — only to find Raguel sitting at the table, sharpening a knife with leisurely strokes, a knowing glint in his purple eyes.
"So," Raguel drawled, not even looking up, "how’s domestic life treating you, Auntie Evie?"
Evangeline stiffened. "I will set the sheep on you."
"You know," Raguel said, smiling serenely, "if you and Mother are planning to make this official, I feel like I should get a vote. Or at least a warning."
Evangeline made a strangled sound.
"It’s just," Raguel continued, warming to his monologue, "you’re practically living here already. Fixing our hair, cooking breakfast, kissing people's foreheads—"
"That was one time," Evangeline snapped, cheeks burning.
"Sure," Raguel said agreeably. "One time... that we saw. Who knows what happens when the candles go out."
Evangeline grabbed a pillow from the nearby bench and threw it at him with deadly precision.
Raguel caught it effortlessly and kept talking like nothing happened.
"I mean, it's sweet," he said, tossing the pillow aside. "Really warms the heart. Especially after, you know, the murder attempts and political espionage and family betrayals. Cute."
"Raguel," Evangeline said in a voice of deep, infinite suffering, "I will throw you into the snow and leave you there."
"That's fine," Raguel said, standing up and stretching lazily. "I'll die happy, knowing my mother finally got over Father — by trading him in for a newer, angrier model."
At that precise moment, Asenath walked in with an armful of firewood.
She looked between them, arching an eyebrow.
"What did I miss?" she asked.
"Nothing," Evangeline and Raguel said — far too quickly and in perfect unison.
Asenath narrowed her eyes suspiciously.
"You’re all idiots," she muttered, setting the wood down.
"She means 'her idiots,'" Raguel whispered to Evangeline with a wink.
Evangeline buried her face in her hands, officially accepting her fate.
The door swung open with a gust of cold air, and Uriel tumbled back inside, brushing snow from her shoulders. She took one look at Evangeline — cornered between Raguel’s relentless smirk and Asenath’s suspicious half-smile — and immediately lit up like a torch.
"What’s happening?" Uriel asked, way too innocent.
"Absolutely nothing," Evangeline said, a little too quickly, sitting up stiff and straight like a soldier at inspection.
"Lies," Raguel said at the same time, folding his arms.
Uriel’s eyes gleamed. "Did Auntie Evie and Mother finally do something inappropriate?" she teased, dropping into a chair with a wolfish grin.
Evangeline almost dropped her cup. "NO."
"Mhm," Raguel hummed, way too amused. "You sure? It sounded like there was a lot of... negotiating happening upstairs."
Uriel gasped theatrically, throwing a hand to her forehead. "The betrayal! The scandal!"
"THERE WAS NO NEGOTIATING," Evangeline barked, her face now visibly burning, neck to ears scarlet.
"Sure," Raguel said, nodding solemnly. Uriel leaned closer, hands steepled like a gossiping priestess. "Be honest. Was there at least a cuddle? A snuggle? A shared blanket? A whispered promise under the moonlight?"
"WE SHARED NOTHING," Evangeline snapped, clutching her cup so tightly it was a miracle it didn’t shatter. "There was no touching. No whispering. No moonlight. I slept like a corpse."
"You sure?" Raguel teased. "Because corpses usually don't kiss people on the forehead at dawn."
Evangeline looked like she might combust. "IT WAS AN ACCIDENT."
"An accident," Uriel repeated, deadpan. "You 'accidentally' kissed her."
"I WAS ASLEEP," Evangeline lied shamelessly, voice cracking from the sheer effort. "I DREAM KISS ALL THE TIME."
Uriel collapsed sideways in laughter, clutching her ribs. "You— you're the worst liar I’ve ever met!"
Raguel leaned back, hands behind his head. "Honestly, Mother, you could do worse. At least she’s... passionate."
Across the room, Asenath (still pretending to focus on her herbs) gave a tiny, traitorous chuckle. She was absolutely listening — and absolutely not about to help Evangeline escape.
"Traitor!" Evangeline mouthed furiously at her.
......
Later that night, after the fire burned low and Uriel and Raguel had gone upstairs (still giggling obnoxiously, traitors the both of them), Evangeline was quietly rinsing dishes at the sink, trying to erase the memory of the whole disastrous breakfast conversation.
She didn't even hear Asenath approach.
Not until she was there — standing just behind her, arms crossed, voice smooth as riverstone.
"You dream kiss all the time, hmm?" Asenath said.
Evangeline froze, a dripping plate slipping from her fingers and clattering back into the basin.
"Y-yes?" Evangeline tried, voice cracking embarrassingly. "It’s... instinct! Survival instinct!"
"Interesting," Asenath said, tilting her head. "So if I stood here long enough, would instinct compel you to kiss me again?"
She backed up so fast she bumped into the sink, sloshing water all over herself. "NO. I mean—maybe. I mean NO—" She buried her face in her wet sleeves. "Divines help me, why are you like this." Then Asenath leaned in, close enough that her breath ghosted against Evangeline’s ear, and whispered,
"Next time, maybe aim for the lips, not the forehead." With a tease of fingertips tracing her jawline.
The blizzard howled like an old ghost outside, rattling the windows of the little cottage.
Evangeline huddled miserably on the narrow couch, bundled in a ratty old blanket, limbs curled stiffly, trying to make herself smaller. From somewhere upstairs, faint floorboards creaked.
Then— "You’re pathetic," a tea-drunk Asenath announced bluntly from the doorway, arms crossed.
Evangeline lifted her head like a cursed soul, her hair static and her dignity long dead. "I’m fine."
Asenath arched a brow. "Come upstairs, wife."
There was a beat of pure, stunned silence.
Evangeline blinked at her. "WHAT—"
"You heard me," Asenath said with a wicked grin, already turning on her heel.
"I am not—" Evangeline scrambled, red-faced, clinging to her blanket like a shield. "We are not married!"
From somewhere unseen, Uriel cackled,
"PAY UP, RAGUEL!"
"THIS DOESN’T COUNT!" Raguel bellowed back. "THERE WAS TEA INVOLVED!"
Evangeline groaned into her hands.
But... ultimately, she stood, dragging herself up the stairs in defeat.
---
Asenath was waiting at the top, one hand planted on her hip, the other holding a cup of spiced tea, looking every inch like a victorious lioness. The moment Evangeline reached the landing—
Asenath walked up to her.
"You made it, baby" she crowed—and immediately attacked Evangeline’s face with a barrage of sloppy, mischievous kisses.
One on the forehead.
One on the nose.
One on each cheek.
One on the chin.
"STOP—" Evangeline shrieked, trying to fend her off with limp-wristed slaps. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"
"Showing affection," Asenath said, utterly unfazed, landing another kiss just under her jaw.
"This is harassment!"
"It’s called marital bliss, love."
"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" Evangeline squeaked, turning redder by the second.
Asenath followed, smug as a cat, and casually yanked Evangeline down onto the bed with her.
They landed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, Evangeline's heart pounding so loudly she was sure the gods could hear it.
Asenath, entirely unbothered, slung an arm lazily around her waist and tucked her in close.
"There," she murmured, half-asleep already. "My wife's warm now."
"I hate you," Evangeline muttered, too exhausted to fight anymore.
"You’ll get used to it," Asenath said, voice smug and sleepy.
And somehow, despite the mortifying whirlwind of events, Evangeline drifted off — heart thundering, cheeks burning, tangled safe in the arms of a woman who kissed like she meant it and called her 'wife' like it was a blessing.
Meanwhile, Raguel was mourning his loss of money that he gambled which Uriel won.
Notes:
I'm with Uriel on this one tho, I am not seeing Asenath bottoming with either Homotron or Evangeline 😭🙏🏻 Raguel's happy for them tho, it's been ages since he hasn't seen his mother like that, he's happy his mom finally moved on from Metatron
Decided to write fluff because I just realized I can never write fluff in this fanfic once Velheim games arc starts
Chapter 9: Harmony of Fiasco, Child Of The Prophecy (8)
Summary:
MorningBrew is highlighted in this fanfic, please click off if you don't like old women yuri 😭🙏🏻. in summary, Evangeline reminisces about what happened between her and Asenath when Raguel was born, which they get a cool story from her which sends Asenath in a spiral of jealousy, Uriel gets a cool sword from Evangeline which she "borrows" from Astyrax's vaults, she duels Raguel and accidentally sets the garden on fire with Solas lmao.
Notes:
Toxic middle aged yuri on top, and this is probably the last chapter on the first section, whoohoo. Land of Aurelia is next and this is going to be one hell of a rollercoaster (this is going to be dark, full of gore and as cold as winter, so it's a privilege to write fluff and found family in this chapter lmao)
Forgot to post this, lmao I had a throbbing headache yesterday and I probably have some grammar errors, descriptive errors and both pronouns and noun errors here
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The rain came down in thick curtains that night, drumming a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the windows. Lightning crackled now and then, flashing the room silver-white before melting back to the warm golden glow of the hearth.
Evangeline sat curled in the great armchair by the fire, wrapped in a fur throw far too luxurious for a simple house. A steaming cup of tea rested in her hands, her long white hair braided over one shoulder, the firelight turning it almost gold at the ends.
Uriel and Raguel, sprawled dramatically across the rug like starving wolves, poked at each other and whispered conspiratorially.
Finally, Raguel whined, "Tell us a story."
"Yeah," Uriel chimed in, her chin resting on Fenris' thick, snoring side. "Tell us something scandalous. About you."
Evangeline raised a skeptical eyebrow over her cup. "Scandalous?" she echoed. "You already live with me. Surely that’s scandal enough."
Raguel grinned. "Come on. You’re old. You have, like, ancient dirt we don't know about."
Uriel poked the fire with a stick, mischief dancing in her eyes. "Were you always this mysterious and tragic, or were you... I don't know... a spoiled little princess once?"
There was a long pause.
And then, to their absolute delight, Evangeline sighed, dramatically and mournfully, like a queen surrendering to her fate.
"Fine," she said, setting her cup aside with a clink. "If you must know... once upon a time, I was supposed to be queen."
Both Uriel and Raguel immediately sat up straight, eyes wide.
"What?" Raguel barked.
"No way," Uriel breathed. "No— you’re lying."
Evangeline smiled, slow and wicked. "Oh, but it’s true. After the wars ended, I was named heir. I was good with the council, good at making alliances, good at not starting unnecessary wars. Which, evidently, was considered a bonus at the time."
Uriel snorted.
"But," Evangeline continued, tilting her head lazily, "Metatron— ever the dramatist— decided he wanted to be the one remembered for 'saving' Caelestis. So he... accelerated some political maneuvers. Painted himself as the war hero. Made me look like the soft diplomat. The one too gentle for a 'world in need of strength.'"
There was no bitterness in her voice — just dry amusement. Like it was a joke she’d long since learned to laugh at.
"So," she concluded, with a flourish of her hand, "he got the crown. I got... a very nice seat at council meetings where nobody listened to me unless I shouted."
Uriel’s jaw dropped.
"You got scammed," Raguel said, outraged.
"I got bored," Evangeline corrected primly. "And very good at card games."
Uriel burst into laughter, clutching her sides.
"And," Evangeline added, sipping her tea smugly, "I was also an insufferably spoiled brat. Silk gowns, court banquets, jewels I never wore. I used to make the kitchen staff prepare three different desserts just so I could decide which one I liked best."
"You," Raguel said, pointing dramatically, "are the villain in your own prequel."
"I never claimed otherwise," Evangeline said sweetly.
Lightning cracked outside, making the windows shudder. The fire hissed.
Uriel wiped a tear from her eye, still laughing. "So you're telling me... you were supposed to be Queen Evangeline of Caelestis but got dethroned by your baby brother because he was better at war propaganda?"
Evangeline raised her cup in a toast. "In one."
"And now," Raguel said, snickering, "you're here, living in a house in the middle of nowhere, where you live with the grumpiest woman alive, and gambling teenagers"
"Success," Evangeline agreed gravely.
Uriel shook her head, grinning ear to ear. "You're so unserious."
"You’re welcome," Evangeline said, sinking deeper into her chair. "Now hush. It’s storming outside."
Uriel and Raguel exchanged a look.
Uriel whispered, mischievous and reverent,
"Aunt Evie, do you think I can be queen someday?" Uriel asked, playfully, in reply Evangeline closer her eyes.
"well, you won't be queen until your half brother Michael dies. He's already came of age and when your father passes, the council will most likely appoint him as successor, despite of his.. unbalanced mana. Because that is simply the order of things." Evangeline sighed. "Don't tell him I prefer both of you more as my niece and nephew's over him though."
"When I am queen I will create a new order, an order where women won't be seen as mere wombs for heirs." Uriel said triumphantly, earning a smile from Raguel.
"Well, I wish it did work that way. The land of Eden already had the opportunity to crown a woman as ruler of the Iron Throne.. and to everyone's 'surprise' the council denied." Evangeline replied, her mind etching flashbacks of what the council said after she was supposed heir.
"They denied you, auntie. They denied you because they thought a woman can not lead." Uriel said, feeling that everything about her father's system is unfair.
"Men would rather see Eden burst in flames than see a woman ascending to the Iron Throne" Evangeline replied with a sigh, her purple eyes drifting down at the wooden floors. "And to be honest, Metatron and the other Lords have been talking of your prophecy. They're scared that a woman with hellfire will rule Eden."
And as the storm raged outside, the three of them — the fallen queen, the heir of fire, and the son of storms stayed warm and laughing by the fire, just a little less broken than they were yesterday.
Raguel was still howling with laughter at the idea of Evangeline as a spoiled brat when the cottage door swung open again, and Asenath stepped inside, peeling off her rain-drenched cloak.
"What’s this commotion?" she said, her voice rough with the chill, but her eyes warm.
"Learning about Auntie Evangeline’s villain origin story," Uriel said with a huge grin.
Asenath raised a brow and, after setting her sword aside, wandered toward the fire, pulling up a chair.
"So she finally confessed," she said, glancing at Evangeline, who looked pointedly away, bundled deeper into her blanket.
"Apparently she was supposed to be queen," Raguel supplied.
"Mmm," Asenath said, sinking into her seat. "The best queen Eden never had."
Uriel leaned in eagerly. "Wait, you were there? You knew her back then?"
"I did," Asenath said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "We were raised together. Played together. Trained together. Loved together."
The room stilled. Only the storm rumbled in the background.
"Loved?" Raguel repeated, blinking.
"In secret," Asenath said. "It wasn’t allowed. It never would have been allowed. But for a time..." She glanced at Evangeline, something ancient and aching in her gaze. "It was ours."
Uriel’s eyes were wide enough to swallow the room. "But... but what happened?"
Asenath leaned back, exhaling slow, bitter smoke from her memories.
"Metatron found out." Her voice darkened. "He told the king. And the king —" she spat the word, "— decided he needed to ensure my loyalty to Caelestis. So he ordered that I be bound to the royal bloodline."
Raguel's brows furrowed. "Bound?"
"Made to bear a child for them," Asenath said bluntly. "Which turned out to be this little brown haired rascal of a son of mine"
The horror in the room was palpable.
"To strengthen their rule," Asenath continued, her mouth twisting. "To humiliate Evangeline. To break us both."
Uriel's fists clenched in her lap.
Evangeline was silent, her face hidden by the fire’s shadows.
"She fought," Asenath said. "She argued, she plotted, she raged. But Metatron had already seized the court. Already crowned himself. There was nothing left to fight for. Only survival."
The fire cracked and hissed, as if mourning with them.
"She left," Asenath said, voice gentler now. "The night they announced my 'betrothal' to the royal heirloom line. She ran from the castle. Disappeared into the snow and the wilds and the world beyond Caelestis."
Uriel wiped her face, angry at her own tears. "That’s... that’s horrible."
"That’s politics," Evangeline said, finally speaking — her voice scraped raw, but steady. "That’s what you learn when you’re born into power. Nothing belongs to you, not even your own heart."
"But you found each other again," Raguel said stubbornly, staring at both of them like he could will it into a happy ending.
Asenath smiled, not a bitter smile this time, but a slow, wicked thing. She reached across the armrest, her fingers brushing Evangeline’s, light and deliberate.
"We always would," she said.
Uriel sniffled harder.
"And besides," Evangeline added dryly, "he never really got what he wanted."
Asenath chuckled low in her throat.
"No," she agreed. "He may have had the throne. But he never had me."
And that was when Evangeline started to look outside of the window, closing her eyes as she started to reminisce about the occurrences of her's, Asenath's and Metatron's youth.
...........
Evening in Evangeline's room.
(A few years earlier)
The wind outside howled fiercely, like a restless spirit trapped between worlds. Inside, the cottage was warm and peaceful — the fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls.
Evangeline was settling into her favorite chair, the one by the window that overlooked the snowy hills beyond. She hadn’t expected visitors, much less one like him.
When the knock came at the door, it was sharp and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world.
She hesitated. Then, with a resigned sigh, she rose to her feet and opened the door.
Standing there, in the doorway of her small home, was Metatron.
His presence was as cold and imposing as ever, though his expression seemed... softer. Less the ruthless king she had known, and more the weary man who had lived through too many battles, both internal and external.
Evangeline didn’t say a word. She just stood there, staring at him with a mixture of exhaustion and disbelief.
"May I come in?" he asked, his voice smooth, almost polite.
She said nothing, but stepped aside to let him enter.
Metatron walked in, the sound of his boots against the wooden floor like the ticking of an unwanted clock. He sat down at the small wooden table where Evangeline had already set two cups of tea.
"Tea?" she asked, though it was more of a formality than a genuine offer.
"Yes," he replied, his voice unreadable. "Please."
Evangeline poured the tea, the silence between them stretching like a taut wire. She placed a cup in front of him and sat down across from him, but neither of them drank yet.
The fire crackled louder now, as though even it could sense the tension in the room.
"How are you, Evangeline?" Metatron asked, his eyes softening as they met hers. "I mean it. How are you?"
It was almost an absurd question coming from him. She narrowed her eyes at him, unwilling to let him off so easily.
"You’re asking me that now?" she said, her voice laced with bitterness. "After everything?"
Metatron’s expression faltered for the briefest of moments, but he recovered quickly.
"I know," he said, and there was something in his voice — something that hinted at regret, though it was fleeting. "But I didn’t come here for small talk. I came to tell you something important."
Evangeline’s heart tightened. She braced herself, unsure what to expect.
"What is it?" she asked, her tone cautious.
Metatron’s gaze shifted toward the fire for a moment, his jaw tightening. "Asenath... is pregnant."
The words hung in the air, heavy and thick. Evangeline stared at him, unable to process what she was hearing.
"Pregnant?" she repeated, her voice trembling slightly, though she couldn’t tell if it was from anger or something else.
"Yes," Metatron said, his voice firm but with a strange vulnerability. "She’s carrying my child."
Evangeline felt the blood drain from her face. The world around her seemed to tilt, as if the ground was no longer steady beneath her feet. She blinked several times, trying to make sense of it.
"But—" she started, her voice faltering. "How could you— how could you do this to me?"
Metatron looked at her then, truly looked at her, and for a moment, the King of Caelestis seemed to fade into the background. There was only the man who had once been her brother — the one she had trusted, loved, and lost.
"I didn’t want it to happen," he said softly, almost as if he was admitting something he hadn’t been ready to say aloud. "But it did. And now… things are different. You’ve seen it yourself, Evangeline. I’m King. I needed to secure my lineage. I needed a backup heir. And Asenath…" His voice trailed off, but his eyes hardened again. "She is carrying my son."
Evangeline’s heart was a storm inside her chest. She clenched her fists tightly, the knuckles turning white.
"And what do you want from me, Metatron?" she asked, her voice ice cold. "To congratulate you? To tell you how happy I am for you and your new family? And what of Michael? Does he even know about this?"
Metatron’s face softened, though there was a weariness in his eyes. "No, Evangeline," he said, shaking his head. "I didn’t come here for that. I came here to explain. To make you understand."
"Understand?" she repeated, incredulous. "Understand what? That you’ve ruined everything? That you’ve taken everything from me, including Asenath?"
"Not everything," he said quietly, his gaze softening even more. "I never meant to take her from you, Evangeline. You have to know that."
Evangeline felt a sharp pain in her chest, as if the words he had spoken had ripped something deep within her open.
"Then why?" she whispered, barely able to control her voice. "Why her, Metatron? Why did it have to be her? You could have had anyone. Why did you take Asenath from me? Why did you make me watch?"
Metatron didn’t answer immediately. He stared into his tea, as if gathering his thoughts before speaking.
"I made mistakes," he said quietly. "But I’ve always done what I thought was best for Caelestis — for our kingdom. And that meant making choices, hard choices."
"And that’s all I ever was to you," Evangeline said bitterly. "A choice. A pawn in your game."
"Not a pawn," Metatron said, a flicker of regret in his eyes. "You were my sister. But I couldn’t let personal feelings get in the way. I couldn’t let my own desires destroy everything I’ve worked for."
Evangeline stared at him, her heart breaking all over again. "You don’t understand, do you? You never did."
"I understand more than you think," he replied, his voice low. "I regret it, Evangeline. More than you know. But I did what I had to do."
The room was silent for a long moment. Evangeline stared at him, her heart a tangled mess of emotions — anger, betrayal, hurt, and something else that she refused to acknowledge.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"I don’t need your regrets, Metatron," she said, standing up. "I don’t need anything from you. You’ve made your choice, and I’ve made mine."
She turned away, moving toward the door, but before she left, she glanced back at him one last time.
"I hope you’re happy," she said quietly, her voice breaking. "I hope Asenath and your son bring you the happiness you deserve."
Without waiting for him to respond, she left, the door closing behind her with a quiet finality.
............
Months passed by and the royal room was still, safe for the crackling of the fire in the hearth. The wind outside had calmed overnight, leaving behind a crisp, frosty morning. The rays of the sun filtered through the windows, casting warm light across the wooden floors.
Evangeline had woken early, her thoughts still tangled from the conversation from the royal council the night before. She needed to clear her mind, so she took a slow walk through the halls, hoping the familiar surroundings would offer her some peace.
It was then that she heard soft murmurs — voices coming from the small room Asenath had taken to stay in after everything had happened. The sound was gentle, comforting, like the low hum of a lullaby.
Curiosity tugged at her, though she wasn’t sure why. But she found herself walking toward the room without thinking, her feet carrying her down the narrow hall.
When she reached the door, she paused. She could see through the slight crack in the door that Asenath was sitting on the bed, cradling a baby in her arms — their baby.
She blinked, then pushed the door open ever so slightly.
What she saw made her freeze in place.
Raguel was in Asenath's arms, his tiny face pressed against her chest. And though he was small, so fragile and innocent in Asenath's protective hold, it was the eyes that made Evangeline’s heart stop.
They were the same piercing, cold eyes as Metatron’s.
Evangeline’s breath caught in her throat. The realization hit her like a wave crashing against the shore, swallowing her whole. This... this was the child of Metatron. The child who would carry his legacy forward somehow, whether they wanted it or not. Whether he was a bastard or not.
She stood there for a long moment, unable to move, her mind racing, the turmoil she’d felt the night before intensifying once more. She wanted to turn away. To leave. But instead, her gaze was locked onto Raguel’s face, the undeniable truth reflected in his eyes.
Asenath turned her head and caught sight of her standing in the doorway. Her lips curled into a soft, knowing smile. "Evangeline my love," she greeted, her voice warm yet quiet, like she’d expected her to come.
Evangeline didn’t respond at first. She just stared at the baby, her thoughts clouded with all the conflicting emotions she had bottled up. "D-Don't call me that anymore.. the wrong people might hear, Asenath." She said coldly, earning a frown from Asenath.
"So that's what concerns you? Evangeline.. you're not the wrong person to be called my only love. Evie.. Evie please, just because this baby is born means I don't love you anymore." Asenath answered.
Asenath shifted slightly, adjusting the baby in her arms. "He looks like him, doesn’t he?" she asked softly, though it was more of a statement than a question.
Evangeline nodded, her throat tight as she stepped closer, her feet moving against her will. She didn’t know what to say. There was so much she wanted to ask, but the words wouldn’t come.
Asenath sighed, her fingers gently stroking Raguel’s hair. "I know it’s difficult, Evangeline. But he’s... He's my son. And he’ll grow up with love. Not hatred. Not politics."
Evangeline swallowed, her heart aching. She wanted to say so much, to scream at the unfairness of it all, but something about the peaceful sight of Asenath with the baby made her pause. The raw emotion in the room, in both of them — was something she couldn’t ignore.
"I didn’t want this," Evangeline whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them. "I didn’t want him to be born into this life. Into that."
Asenath’s gaze softened, though there was a glint of something sharp beneath it. "I didn’t either," she said, her voice low. "But we don’t always get what we want."
Evangeline slowly sat down beside her, unsure of what to say next. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air thick with the weight of their shared history, the love they’d once had, and the complicated present they were now facing.
For a long time, there was nothing but silence between them. The only sounds were the baby’s soft breathing and the crackling of the fire.
Finally, Evangeline looked up, meeting Asenath’s gaze. "He really does have his eyes," she said, her voice tight, betraying the emotions she had yet to sort through.
Asenath nodded, her lips curling into a small smile. "Yes. And that’s all he’ll have of his father. The rest, Evangeline, is ours.. please."
The moonlight cut pale lines across the cold marble of the castle corridor. Evangeline stood there, her back pressed against a column, heart hammering. Across from her, Asenath clutched baby Raguel close to her chest, her face red with fury — and heartbreak.
"Come with me," Asenath begged, her voice a harsh whisper. "We’ll run tonight. Before they can lock me away for good. Before they force me to— to serve him."
Evangeline’s throat tightened. Her hands, hidden in the folds of her dress, curled into helpless fists.
"You know I can’t," she said, voice barely audible. "They'll brand me a traitor to the throne. To my blood. To everything."
Asenath stepped closer, the baby stirring sleepily in her arms. Her eyes — those desperate, pleading eyes — locked with Evangeline's.
"I don't care about thrones," Asenath hissed. "I don't care about kings. I want you."
"And if we run, they’ll find us," Evangeline shot back, struggling to keep her voice steady. "They’ll execute me for treason, and you— they’ll take Raguel from you. You’ll never see him again."
A strangled sound escaped Asenath’s throat. She turned away briefly, pressing her lips to Raguel’s tiny head as if to shield him from the weight of their tragedy.
"You always were the braver one," Evangeline whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "But I... I can't abandon him to them. I can't abandon you to them either. Not like this."
"So you'll just sit here," Asenath said bitterly, whipping around to face her. "You'll just sit here and watch them tear us apart?"
Evangeline bit down hard on her lip, tasting blood. The iron tang of it only made her stomach twist worse.
"I don't have a choice," she said brokenly.
"You always have a choice," Asenath cried, stepping forward. Her free hand gripped Evangeline’s sleeve fiercely. "But you chose them. You chose him. You chose this cursed throne."
The anger between them felt like a blade, sharp and bloody.
"I chose to keep you alive," Evangeline snapped. "You think I wanted this? Watching you carry his child? Watching you trapped like a bird in a cage he built?"
Tears streamed down Asenath's cheeks now, silent and shattering.
"I loved you," she whispered. "I still love you."
Evangeline shook her head, breath hitching painfully.
"And I love you more than anything," she whispered back. "That’s why I can’t be selfish. That’s why I have to let you go."
Asenath stared at her for a long moment, eyes shining with rage and devastation — and then, wordlessly, she turned and fled down the corridor, baby Raguel wailing softly against her chest.
Evangeline stood there, rooted to the spot, as the cold marble walls of Caelestis' castle closed in tighter around her.
The throne room of Caelestis seethed with tension.
The braziers burned low, throwing restless shadows against the stone pillars.
Evangeline stood rigid before the high seat, her fists clenched at her sides. Across the cold expanse, Metatron lounged on the throne he had stolen, looking down at her with icy disdain.
"You let her slip through your fingers," Metatron accused, voice heavy with contempt. "You helped her plan this, didn’t you?"
Evangeline’s lips curled into a scornful smile. "You have your heir," she said, voice sharp as a blade. "The boy you named Raguel is merely your bastard. A spare. Let them go."
Metatron rose from the throne with slow, deliberate movements, descending the marble steps with a dangerous grace.
"You dare call my son a bastard?"
"You dare call yourself a father?" she shot back, stepping forward. "Let me remind you that you yourself—a bastard of our father has usurped to the throne over me who is trueborn." She said with venom laced in her voice.
"Don't you dare call me a bastard ever again, I've been legalized by a royal decree, you know?" Metatron said.
"Still, a trueborn should have more claim than a bastard who's been born of adultery. You got your decree from uncle Haniel, the result of both Astyrax bastardry and is cowardly denying the claims of his inbreeding." Evangeline said.
Their faces were a mere breath apart now, the fury between them crackling like lightning.
"You’re a liar and a coward," Metatron snarled. "You ruined her. You twisted her against her duty."
"And you crushed her under yours!" Evangeline hissed.
Metatron's hand twitched like he might grab her — and that was the last straw.
CRACK.
The sound of the slap echoed through the empty hall.
Metatron reeled back, his head snapping to the side. A vivid red mark bloomed across his cheek, and for a stunned moment, neither of them moved.
Evangeline stood, chest heaving, her palm still tingling from the blow. Her eyes burned with unshed tears — but she refused to let them fall.
"You stole everything from her," she said, voice trembling with rage. "You stole everything."
Slowly, Metatron straightened, turning his face back to her — the mark stark against his pale skin, his silver eyes burning with something between hate and grief.
"You will regret this," he said, voice low and venomous. "You will regret choosing her over your blood." But Evangeline no longer looked back, but instead, she peaked inside of Asenath's room.
The next evening after that dreadful day, the grand council of Caelestis gathered in the Hall of Concord — a place of cold marble floors and towering stained glass windows, where light streamed in like judgment itself.
Nobles in rich robes murmured among themselves as Evangeline entered, head held high, her expression carved from ice. Her palm still ached faintly from the night before, but she gave no sign of it.
She walked to the center of the dais, a parchment scroll in her hand, and unfurled it with a snap.
The chamber fell into silence.
"By decree of King Metatron Astyrax," Evangeline announced, voice clear and resonant, "Lady Asenath of House Vaelen has been granted leave from courtly duties. She is permitted to depart Caelestis with her child, Raguel, with full honors and protection."
The gathered council members exchanged bewildered glances. Whispers rose like a restless tide.
"Effective immediately," she added, allowing no room for argument, "Lady Asenath shall no longer be bound to the obligations of the royal household."
A few councilors opened their mouths to question — but one looked at Evangeline’s face, at the glint of steel behind her steady gaze, and the words died in their throats.
"Is this really what the King would have wanted—or from you, her childhood companion?" One of the young men from the council asked, earning suspicion from the others.
"The King spoke to me personally." She turned sharply on her heel, her crimson cloak billowing like a flame behind her, and strode from the hall before anyone could raise a protest.
It was done. By morning's light, Asenath would be free. And Evangeline would be left behind — in the marble tomb of a kingdom that no longer felt like home without her.
......
Evangeline exhaled softly.
When she opened her eyes, the falling snow by the window greeted her, cold, white, and steady but the lighting of the fire made it warm, safe and well. The faces she had been chasing through memory, the corridors she once walked in her dreams, all faded like mist as reality settled back into her chest.
She was not in the marbled halls of Caelestis anymore. Not in the high courts, or among the ghosts of their youth.
She was here.
In Asenath's little home tucked safely into the woods and up on the mountains, where the furniture was worn but lovingly kept, and where the scent of brewed tea still clung to the air.
Across the room, Uriel was curled up with a book, her bare feet kicked over the armrest of a chair, reading lazily under the glow of the fire. Raguel, too big now to be called a baby anymore, was sharpening a dagger on the table with a concentrated frown that wrinkled his nose in a way that stung at Evangeline’s heart.
Evangeline wiped her palm against her skirts before they could tremble. She shifted slightly, drawing a hand to her forehead, suddenly aware of the way she had been still for too long — lost in the past.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Uriel called cheekily without looking up from her book, sensing the shift immediately.
Raguel glanced at her, concerned but hiding it behind his usual gruffness. “You were staring into the window for, like... an hour.”
Evangeline laughed breathlessly, shaking her head. “Forgive me,” she said lightly. “Old bones. Old thoughts.”
Uriel snorted. “Yeah, sure. You wished you had old bones, Evie. You don’t even have a single wrinkle yet. What’s your skincare routine, witchcraft? I'm sure you're older than Asenath.”
That earned a low chuckle from Raguel, who resumed running the whetstone down the blade with long, slow strokes.
Evangeline leaned back into her chair, exhaling deeply. The past had its ghosts, but tonight, tonight — they belonged to this quiet, stubborn, living world.
Uriel suddenly paused, a mischievous glint in her eye. She peered over at Evangeline, as if the question had just popped into her head.
“Hey, Evie,” she started, drawing the words out playfully, “we never really asked you... what's your full name? I mean, I know ‘Evangeline’ and ‘Astyrax’ are obvious, but... you always leave out the good stuff, the fancy parts.”
Raguel looked up briefly, curious. “Yeah. What is it? You can’t be just ‘Evangeline Astyrax.’ That sounds... too simple for someone like you.”
Evangeline chuckled, shaking her head, though the flicker of something ancient and noble behind her eyes made her appear a little more distant for a moment.
“It’s quite the mouthful,” she said softly, leaning back in her chair. “But if you must know... it’s Evangeline Cassiopeia Hanover Mountchristen-Astyrax.”
There was a pause.
Uriel blinked, her eyes widening, while Raguel’s turned his attention to her.
“Cassiopeia?” Uriel gasped, leaning forward, practically spilling her book on the floor. “Hanover? Mountchristen-Astyrax?!”
Evangeline only shrugged, a faint, amused smile on her lips. “Yes, well, I wasn’t always just an Astyrax. I’ve a heritage from several old families, and that’s just how it goes.” She glanced over at Raguel, her smile deepening with something fond but sharp, as if recalling a piece of herself she’d locked away for years.
“You wouldn’t believe how many times my full name caused problems,” she added with a chuckle. “Not quite as convenient when people are trying to assassinate you, and you’re busy explaining to them how you’re related to half the ruling families.”
"I can say that Evie here is sure of a mouthful." Asenath joked, earning a blush from innocent Evangeline.
Evangeline looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "I’m sure you could get used to calling me Your Grace instead, if you like."
Asenath just smiled, crossing the room toward the hearth. “I think I'll stick with ‘Evie,’ as always, thank you.”
The evening wore on, and the atmosphere was cozy, warm with the glow of the fire and the quiet hum of conversation. Uriel and Raguel were still eager for stories from their aunt’s royal life, leaning forward with wide eyes, completely captivated by her words.
“So, Aunt Evangeline,” Uriel asked with a teasing grin, “what were your suitors like? Surely you had a lot of them.”
Evangeline’s lips curled into a playful smile, and she leaned back in her chair. “Oh, there were a few,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Some were more amusing than others, and some were downright ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous how?” Raguel leaned in, clearly intrigued.
“Well,” Evangeline started, her voice filled with humor, “Lord Leander from Thalos, for instance. He serenaded me under my balcony—yes, with a lute and everything. He thought it was the most romantic thing ever. I’m pretty sure I spent half of it trying not to laugh, but bless his heart, he really thought he was impressing me.”
Uriel snickered, and Raguel laughed outright at the mental image. “Okay, that’s ridiculous,” Raguel said.
Evangeline continued, “And then there was a fine gentleman, Arvid from Vireon, a dancer. He was one of those men who could spin me around the dance floor all night as if we were the center of the world. A perfect partner, right? Except for the fact that he had two left feet and managed to step on my foot about ten times in a row during one waltz.”
“That’s painful,” Uriel said, grinning.
“Painful indeed,” Evangeline replied. “But, there was one man who truly stood out.” Her tone softened, almost nostalgic. She seemed lost in the memory.
“Who was he?” Raguel asked, his curiosity piqued.
Evangeline leaned back, her gaze unfocusing as she reminisced. “His name was Cassian, the son of a noble from the southern territories. He was... different,” she said softly. “Tall, dark-haired, with a presence that made everything else fade into the background when we were together.”
Uriel tilted her head. “Different how?”
Evangeline’s lips curled slightly as she remembered. “When we danced at the royal ball, it was like the world stopped. His eyes... they were so dark, but when the candlelight hit them just right, there were these golden flecks—amber. They were like... they were full of mysteries only I could understand. And when we danced, it was like no one else existed. He looked at me like I was the only person in the room.”
As she spoke, Asenath’s posture stiffened, and she crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly as she stared at the fire.
Evangeline didn’t seem to notice, continuing her story. “We spent the entire night together, spinning through the grand hall. His presence was intoxicating—like nothing I had ever experienced before.”
Asenath suddenly spoke, her voice cutting through the room with a sharp edge. “Are you finally done with your bragging?”
Evangeline blinked, surprised by the interruption. Her eyes flicked to Asenath, who was now standing near the fire, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Evangeline couldn’t help but smirk. “Your kids asked me a question,” she replied nonchalantly, “and it would be rude not to answer truthfully.”
She leaned back slightly in her chair, her voice teasing but not without a hint of something more. “Are you jealous, Miss Asenath of Vaelen?”
Asenath’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t respond immediately. Instead, her eyes flicked from Evangeline to the fire, her hands trembling just slightly. Evangeline’s words had struck a nerve, though the tension in the room went unnoticed by the two boys, who were still caught up in the story.
"Jealous?" Asenath’s voice was thick with sarcasm, though the faintest blush crept up her neck. "I should have known you'd bring that up. But no, I'm not jealous." She gave a long, exaggerated sigh, clearly trying to hide the fact that her feelings were far from neutral.
"Well," Evangeline said, voice dropping slightly, her teasing smile softening, "I guess you can’t help but be a little jealous. He was quite the handsome man." She glanced at Asenath knowingly, watching her reaction.
"Stop. Talking." Asenath said menacingly with an eye roll as an expression, everyone in the room knew how badly she pushed Asenath's cute little buttons.
...........
Morning light spilled lazily into the small home, casting golden beams over the stone walls and worn wood floors. The fire had long died to a soft glow, and the air was crisp with the scent of fresh morning dew.
Uriel rubbed her eyes as she wandered into the living room, still wrapped in a thick, oversized cloak that dragged behind her. Raguel was nowhere to be seen—likely helping Asenath with the morning chores. Only Evangeline remained by the hearth, quietly polishing something wrapped in worn velvet.
The air shifted when Uriel entered, and Evangeline looked up with a small, mischievous smile playing on her lips.
"Come here, little star," Evangeline beckoned, her voice warm and enticing.
Evangeline was lifting a sheathed sword with magic, it looked heavy and ancient.
Uriel’s eyes widened as the velvet cloth peeled away completely, Asenath's magic revealing the sword nestled inside — and it was nothing like the crude weapons she had seen before in the hands of castle guards or mercenaries.
The blade was long and perilously thin, built for precision and grace rather than brute strength. Its metal shimmered with a muted, smoky gleam — high carbon steel expertly folded and tempered, still sharp enough to cut the very air around it. The blade's body was elegant and almost reed-slender, but as Uriel tentatively reached for it, she could feel the immense weight hidden in its core — the quiet, dangerous strength that pulsed through it. She could barely lift it.
The hilt was wrapped tightly in supple black leather, worn smooth by years of care, and crowned with a single, flawless ruby set into the pommel. The gemstone caught the flickering light of the hearth and blazed like a captured star.
A twisted band of silver encased the base of the blade, swirling upward like a living thing — vines of metal forging a bond between blade and hilt. The crossguard, forged from burnt black Damascus steel, curved subtly downward, its pattern like smoke trapped inside iron. Where the blade met the hilt, the ricasso — a narrow unsharpened length — was so thin it almost seemed impossible that the sword didn’t snap, yet it held firm, whispering of the mastercraft that birthed it.
Uriel sucked in a breath. The sword looked ancient — and alive, somehow. As if it remembered all the blood and battles of the Astyrax before her.
It wasn’t just a weapon.
It was a legacy.
Evangeline watched her with a smug little smile, crossing her arms loosely over her chest.
Uriel’s breath caught in her throat. It was beautiful. Regal.
"This…" Evangeline said softly, lifting the sword carefully with magic and offering the hilt toward Uriel, "belongs to you now."
Uriel stared wide-eyed, hesitant to even touch it. Her fingers hovered over the hilt. "Wh-where did you get it?" she asked, blinking up at her aunt with innocent wonder.
"From the Astyrax vaults themselves," Evangeline added proudly, like she was telling a story of grand adventure. She straightened up, placing a hand on her hip, her smirk positively wicked. "Your precious father Metatron didn’t even notice until years later. And by then, well..." she shrugged casually, "it was much too late."
"Ah, s-so you borrowed it temporarily?" Uriel asked, which somehow, she knew Evie's answer.
Evangeline chuckled under her breath, that familiar impish glint returning to her eye. She leaned in as if to share a delicious secret and whispered dramatically, "No, sweetheart. Let's say I was a spoiled little brat when I was your age. My father gave it to me and I accidentally bonded with it better than Metatron." Evangeline answered.
"This sword is the ancient relic of our family, passed down for generations and have been said to be weilded by the great Aragon Astyrax the conqueror himself." Evangeline explained.
"The same Aragon that conquered the land of Eden and cleansing the land from demons who threatened to overtake it, the same one who enchanted the barriers of Eden." Evangeline continued.
Uriel’s fingers finally curled around the hilt, the metal shockingly cool and strangely comforting in her grip. As she lifted it, the blade seemed to shimmer slightly in the light.
"But why give it to me?" Uriel whispered, almost scared to ask.
Evangeline's smile softened. She crouched down to Uriel’s level, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Because it’s yours by right. Because you are the future of our line, not the relics that rot behind those castle walls. And because..." she hesitated, almost sheepish, "I promised myself once that I’d only pass it to someone who had the heart worthy to wield it."
Uriel’s chest swelled with something too big for words—something fierce and burning and tender all at once.
"And you," Evangeline said, tapping the tip of her index finger on Uriel’s nose, "are far, far more than worthy. Just don't tell your brother, will you?" Evangeline smiled.
Uriel smiled, gripping the sword a little tighter. "Thank you, Auntie Evie."
Evangeline grinned, ruffling her hair. "Don’t thank me yet, little star. You still have to earn it."
Uriel blinked. "Earn it how?"
Evangeline winked. "That, my dear, is a story for another day."
Uriel planted her feet apart, hands gripping the hilt of the newly gifted Sword of Astyrax. It was far too large for her—thin-built but heavy with history and power. Its black leather grip was rough in her small palms, and the crimson ruby on the pommel winked dangerously under the light of the rising sun.
Across from her, Raguel spun his wooden practice sword lazily. “You sure you can even lift that thing, kiddo?” he teased, an easy grin on his face.
"I can!" Uriel insisted, cheeks puffed in determination.
She straightened, her hands trembling slightly from the sheer weight of the blade. Evangeline watched from the porch, smirking into her cup of tea, while Asenath leaned against a stone column, arms crossed, an amused glint in her eye.
Uriel's brows furrowed.
She willed herself forward.
And then,
A pulse ignited inside her chest, bursting down her arms and into the blade like wildfire.
Hellfire Ignition.
The silver-encased sword flared, the metal turning molten red in an instant. White flames erupted along the edge, crackling hungrily into the morning air. The ruby at the pommel gleamed brighter, as if rejoicing in her power.
The ground beneath her boots blackened and burned, smoke curling up in angry wisps.
"URIEL!" Raguel barked, his stance shifting immediately from playful to serious.
Panicking but determined, Uriel lifted the sword and attempted a swing forward.
A wave of flame burst from the blade — not massive, but concentrated and fast — roaring toward Raguel.
But Raguel didn't panic.
He planted his foot firmly into the ground, digging in like a mountain refusing to yield.
When the flame wave neared, he stepped forward into it — and with a grunt of pure force, he slammed his palm forward, bending the heated air aside with raw, physical strength and a spark of his own bloodline's power.
The white fire parted around him like water hitting a boulder. Some of it singed the edges of his clothes, but the main force of the attack was deflected, carving two blackened scars in the ground on either side of him.
Uriel staggered back, the Sword of Astyrax buzzing violently in her grasp, still thirsting for battle.
She fell to her knees, panting, her arms trembling violently.
The courtyard was eerily silent except for the faint crackle of smoldering grass.
Raguel slowly straightened, patting down the smoking edges of his shirt. His eyes locked onto Uriel's wide, guilty ones.
The courtyard rang with the clash of practice swords, the cool morning air warping slightly from the lingering heat of Uriel's earlier Hellfire Ignition.
Uriel gripped the Sword of Astyrax tightly, her body straining under its weight. The blade was beautiful — blackened damascus guard, twisted silver casing, a blood-red ruby gleaming on its pommel. But it was still too big for her, every swing dragging her off balance.
Across from her, Raguel stood firm, a wooden training sword in hand, waiting.
"Come on, Uri," he teased, "show me what that relic can do."
Uriel gritted her teeth—and charged.
The first swing was heavy and clumsy, missing Raguel by a full step. But on the second strike, her stigma surged inside her like molten lightning. The sword flared red, white flames spilling from the blade and onto the grass below, burning it in quick, hissing patches.
Uriel gasped, instinctively swinging the sword forward to regain control—and a weak but clear wave of hellfire erupted from the blade, speeding straight toward Raguel.
Before she could finish, a massive blur of gray fur bolted into the corner of her vision.
Fenris — Raguel's enormous wolf — had been resting nearby until the heat and fire startled him awake. Now, rising to his full towering height, he bared his fangs and let out a low, rumbling snarl that sent vibrations through the courtyard.
Uriel took a step back instinctively.
Solas, the tiny phoenix, perched bravely (or foolishly) on her shoulder, sneezed — a little puff of flame shooting from his beak—
—and landed squarely on Fenris’s snout.
The great wolf froze.
The world paused.
Then, with an earsplitting roar, Fenris lunged.
"FENRIS, NO!" Raguel barked.
But the wolf was already airborne, massive jaws snapping toward Solas in a blur of teeth and fury.
Solas zipped upward with a delighted screech, flames trailing behind him like a comet, easily evading the giant wolf. He circled Uriel’s head in spirals, chirping mockingly.
Fenris landed heavily, snarling, and charged again, jaws snapping at empty air where Solas once was. His fangs gleamed menacingly, his paws gouging deep tracks in the blackened earth.
"By the gods—" Uriel ducked and nearly dropped the Sword of Astyrax as she dodged a stray leap.
Fenris howled in frustration, his massive frame of 3.5 feet in height and 6 feet in length made the earth quake with every bound. He wasn’t a mere pet; he was a weapon of war, bred and raised to tear through men and monsters alike.
And right now, he looked ready to do exactly that.
Solas, meanwhile, flitted higher, diving and perching neatly again on Uriel’s shoulder, looking immensely pleased with himself.
Fenris paced below, snarling and snapping his jaws in warning, his muscles coiled like a drawn bow.
Raguel finally moved, striding forward with a sharp whistle. "Fenris! Down!"
The wolf skidded to a halt, still growling lowly, then begrudgingly slunk back to Raguel's side, shooting glowering glares at the infuriating bird.
Uriel exhaled shakily, half-laughing and half-terrified. "You— you really need to control your wolf."
"You really need to control your bird," Raguel shot back, glaring at Solas.
The courtyard still smoked faintly from the scorched patches of grass, the scent of burnt earth hanging thick in the air.
Uriel and Raguel stood awkwardly in the center, covered in soot and sweat, while Fenris sat beside Raguel, tail thudding against the ground like a drum, still growling low at Solas. The tiny phoenix, utterly unfazed, preened himself on Uriel's shoulder with smug little chirps.
And before them stood Asenath, arms folded, radiating a cold, terrifying fury.
"I leave you two alone for five minutes," Asenath said, voice sharp as a blade, "and you manage to set the entire courtyard on fire, enrage a war-beast, and nearly burn your sister alive."
Uriel lowered her head guiltily, still gripping the heavy Sword of Astyrax.
"It was an accident," she muttered.
"An accident?" Asenath repeated incredulously, taking a step forward. "You unleashed hellfire on your brother!"
"I blocked it!" Raguel protested, pointing to himself. "Look, I'm not even singed!"
Asenath rounded on him next, eyes narrowing.
"And you — you thought it was a good idea to spar against your sister, when you know she's still learning to control her stigma?"
Raguel's mouth opened and closed — realizing there was no good defense.
On the side, Evangeline stood with a delicate porcelain teacup, nodding solemnly beside Asenath.
"Tsk tsk," she said sympathetically, voice syrupy sweet. "Children these days, so reckless."
Asenath shot her a withering glare.
"You—!" she snapped, pointing a finger at Evangeline. "You're the one who gave her the sword!"
Evangeline blinked, all wide-eyed innocence.
"I merely gifted a relic to the next generation. It’s called tradition, Asenath."
Uriel bit back a giggle. Raguel tried holding a laugh.
"You gifted her a relic that almost blew a hole through my courtyard!"
Evangeline sipped her tea primly, utterly unbothered.
"And what a marvelous demonstration of talent it was. You should be proud, really."
"Proud?!" Asenath looked moments away from combusting herself. "She's not even strong enough to lift the damn thing without summoning a wildfire!"
"Well, she is an Astyrax." Evangeline replied.
"You are impossible!" Asenath snapped, rounding fully toward Evangeline now. "You encourage them to set fire to my courtyard, gift them weapons of mass destruction, and then you stand there sipping tea like some sort of saint!"
Evangeline raised a brow, serene as a pond.
"I prefer the term 'patron of ambition,' thank you."
"Ambition?" Asenath sputtered. "You call almost incinerating Raguel ambition?"
Uriel, still holding the oversized sword, quietly tiptoed backward — but tripped over Fenris’ paw and stumbled. Solas let out a delighted chirp and fluttered around her head like a victory banner.
"And another thing!" Asenath continued furiously, "You didn’t even test if she could handle the sword first!"
Evangeline set her teacup down with an exaggerated sigh, stepping closer until they were practically nose-to-nose.
"You coddle them too much," Evangeline said coolly. "They are Astyraxes— they were born for greatness, not for bubble-wrapping."
"BUBBLE-WRAPPING?!" Asenath’s voice cracked slightly at the sheer indignity. "You almost bubble-wrapped my entire estate in hellfire!"
Uriel and Raguel exchanged a wide-eyed glance.
Fenris whined low in his throat, ears flattening as if even he knew not to get between the two women.
"You used to like my recklessness," Evangeline said with a sly smirk, crossing her arms.
"That was before you decided to endanger the next generation!" Asenath hissed, cheeks flushed — with fury or something dangerously close to affection, it was hard to tell.
"I thought you found it charming," Evangeline murmured, tilting her head, gripping Asenath's shirt collar teasingly.
"I find it infuriating!" Asenath snapped, fists clenching at her sides.
Evangeline smiled wider, like a cat who caught the biggest bird. "You’re adorable when you’re mad."
Uriel, who had been inching away, immediately lost it and let out a loud snort of laughter, trying to cover it with a cough. Raguel shoved a fist to his mouth to suppress a chuckle.
Asenath closed her eyes briefly, muttering something vicious under her breath in old Edenian, then threw up her hands in defeat.
"I am going to explode," she growled. "And when I do, you’re the first casualty, Evangeline Cassiopeia."
"I shall die beautifully," Evangeline said, placing a hand over her heart in mock solemnity. "As is my birthright."
"At least you’ll die guilty," Asenath retorted.
The children and beasts wisely remained silent as Asenath stormed off toward the house, muttering about "idiots" and "phoenixes" and "swords bigger than their wielder."
Evangeline lingered a moment longer, watching her go with a wistful smile.
"You know," she said aloud, mostly to herself and the sky, "I think she still likes me."
Uriel wiped tears of laughter from her eyes.
"Still? Auntie, I think she wants to throw you into a lake simultaneously."
"Hmm. How charming." Evangeline smiles.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden hues across the training grounds as Uriel struggled with the sword of Astyrax. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't even lift the sword more than a few inches. The heavy blade seemed to weigh far more than she could handle, and frustration crept into her voice.
“I can’t do it, Evangeline,” Uriel muttered, lowering the sword and resting it against the ground. She wiped sweat from her brow and gave the blade one last, defeated glance. “It’s just too heavy for me.”
Evangeline, watching her from a distance, strolled over with a light-hearted smile. “I figured as much,” she said, her voice dripping with playful mockery. “You’ll need some more training, sweetheart.”
Uriel sighed, feeling a wave of frustration build. She didn’t like being this weak, especially when the sword of Astyrax was meant for her. “I need to learn how to wield it. I’m not going to get stronger by sitting around,” she said, determination creeping back into her voice. “Maybe you can show me how it’s done.”
Evangeline raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by Uriel’s persistence. “Me? Lift that monstrosity?” she asked, gesturing to the sword with a sly grin. “You do realize I don’t do swords, right?”
Uriel crossed her arms, staring her aunt down. “Oh, come on. You’re stronger than you look. You could at least give it a try.”
Evangeline leaned casually against a nearby post, shaking her head. “I’ll pass. I prefer bows over swords, dear. There’s more elegance in them.”
Uriel frowned, clearly still unsatisfied. “Please, Evangeline. I need help. Can’t you just show me something? Anything?”
Evangeline looked at her with a soft smile, though it carried a teasing edge. “I suppose I could show you how to use a bow properly. But lifting that sword? Not my style.”
Uriel’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “A bow! Yes, please! Show me how you use your bow. Maybe it’ll help me with understanding weaponry, or at least help me understand the grace you keep talking about.”
Evangeline chuckled. “Alright, alright. I suppose I could indulge you.” She reached to her side, and in a swift motion, a bow appeared in her hand—a regal, beautifully crafted weapon with intricate dragon-winged designs along the limbs. The bow seemed to shimmer with magic, its black leather grip and red dragon string giving it a menacing elegance.
Uriel’s eyes widened as she stared at the bow, feeling a sense of awe. “That’s... that’s amazing. Please, show me.”
With a practiced hand, Evangeline placed three arrows on the bowstring. She stood tall, her posture elegant and confident, and with a single, fluid motion, she pulled the string back. The sight window on the bow opened and closed as she drew the bow, and each pull seemed to pulse with a red glow that matched the intensity of her focus.
Uriel stood motionless, mesmerized by the sight of the bow in action.
Evangeline aimed at the mango tree in the distance, her eyes narrowing in concentration. With a soft hum, she released the arrows in quick succession. The arrows whistled through the air like a war cry, flames trailing behind them as they soared toward their target.
The three arrows struck their marks simultaneously, each piercing a mango hanging on the tree with perfect precision. The impact caused a burst of fire to erupt from the tips of the arrows, scorching the fruit before it fell to the ground in a heap of burnt mess.
Uriel couldn’t help but gape in awe. “That was incredible! How did you do that?”
Evangeline lowered the bow with a satisfied smile. “Simple. You just have to trust in the weapon and let it work with you, with practice of course.”
Before Uriel could respond, a familiar voice called out from behind them.
“What have I told you about burning things down, Evangeline?”
Asenath emerged from the house, her arms crossed and her face set in a frown. She looked first at the charred remains of the mangoes, then to Evangeline, her eyes narrowing in annoyance.
Evangeline turned, her usual playful smile still in place. “Oh, don’t tell me you were actually planning to eat those.”
Asenath’s eyes flicked from the burnt fruit to her lover, her annoyance growing. “I've been working on those mangoes for months, Evangeline. MONTHS. And you just—what?—decided to turn them into target practice?”
Evangeline shrugged casually, her smile never fading. “They’re just mangoes. You’re always going on about how they’re ‘perfect’—I thought I’d help you get rid of them faster.”
Asenath’s expression turned from annoyance to disbelief. “You can’t be serious.” She stepped closer, pointing a finger at the charred remnants of the mangoes. “I’ve been nurturing those, keeping them safe from pests, from the weather, from everything. And you—” She looked at the arrows still glowing with red fire. “you just decided to burn them down for fun?”
Uriel, still standing off to the side, nervously shifted her weight. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
But Asenath cut her off with a wave of her hand, her attention fully focused on Evangeline. “You can’t just go burning crops like that for fun. Do you have any idea how much work I put into those?” Her voice softened, though there was still a trace of frustration. “I wanted them to be perfect.”
Evangeline stepped forward, her expression softening as she placed a hand on Asenath’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your hard work. I’ll plant more next season, I swear. I'll plant fireproof gardens for you. Just don't be angry on the child."
Asenath shook her head, letting out a soft sigh. “You always say that, but you never seem to learn.”
Evangeline grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Maybe next time I’ll aim at something less important. Like a tree that’s already been pruned.” She winked, her usual playful self coming back.
Asenath rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “You’re lucky I love you.”
Uriel watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement and confusion, still holding the sword of Astyrax at her side. “So… should I go help clean up the mangoes?”
Asenath turned to her, her expression softening as she looked at her daughter. “Yes, Uriel, I think that’s a good idea. And maybe next time, don’t let your aunt do all the damage."
Asenath turned away dramatically. "I swear, I'll crucify that annoying Evangeline later in the evening for degrading my mangoes into pulp."
Notes:
Poor Evangeline and Uriel tbh, it's unfortunate they were born as daughters and not sons— they could have ruled the entire world by now 😔, also, I love how mean Metatron is here, a lying snaking bastard lmao
Chapter 10: Holy Blood, Northern Throne (1)
Summary:
Finally on the second section of this fanfic lmao, never expected writing can be this hard and long but here we are lol, so in summary, 8 year old Gabriel meets with his cousins at castle of Snezhnaya and talk about their pasts in the crypts, learning about her own prophecies and growing hatred towards the bastards of the king.
Notes:
There might be many wrongs here but please do bare with me, I have a throbbing headache and editing this is a nightmare especially when you make ocs and plan ahead for what you want for the story line 😭💔 anywayss, enjoyyy!
Oh and also, to avoid confusion, Theon, Lucan and Selene are siblings, sons and daughter of Arwyn Aurelius who is the sibling of Caelus Aurelius who is the father of Gabriel Aurelius, making them cousins.
They only label Caelus Aurelius as "father" because he is lord of house Aurelius and warden of the North out of respect.Guess what? Author is once again wine drunk lol
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the cold forever frost Aurelia, the wolves howled and owls had chirped, and each treacherously long day of winter was no different from each other,
A girl, the daughter of Aurelia no more than 8 winters of age had snowflakes falling on her pure white, marble-like hair, her innocent grey eyes glistening on the scene in front of her, pale lips trembling from the cold frostbites and her nose that defies the very instrument of trigonometry itself had picked up the smell of iron, from the blood on snow.
Gabriel Launter Aurelius, the only daughter of Caelus Aurelius, can be compared to a blooming lily in the North. She now stands wide eyed in the cold winter lands, grey eyes focused on what's in front, her six wings that define her as a holy pureblood was folded downwards, shaking.
Her clothes were draping on the cold snow, fur coat too thick for her own good, black leather beneath it and the badge of Aurelius on her left chest, their sigil being a dire wolf with a star crown, same sign on the flags raised in the citadel.
"Why have you come back after exile, traitor?" Lord Caelus Aurelius had asked coldly, his voice piercing like icicles as usual.
"My Lord, I saw what I saw... The frost walkers are back, far North off of the wall.. please, please listen to me, they aren't just history anymore. They're back." The angel proclaimed, guards holding him down a wooden block.
Lord Caelus only looked at him barely with compassion, one of his eyebrows raised as if the angel on the wooden block was speaking of nonsense, Lord Caelus Aurelius was no doubtingly handsome, angles of his jaw perfectly aligned with his tall and perfect nose, proportions in a golden ratio, eyes the perfect shape that bore grey eyes and white wavy hair that reaches barely above his ear and swept back, his eyebrows seemingly straight and sharp like a hunter's gaze.
"Still doesn't justify you coming back, blood traitor. I have exiled you of this land because you taint holy blood." He said, looking down at the angel.
"T-tell my family I tried to come back.." The angel said, closing his eyes, shivering because he knows what happens next.
Lord Caelus Aurelius had drawn the sword—Sword of the North, the ancestral blade of house Aurelius made to pass ceremonies just like this.
"I, Caelus of house Aurelius, lord of Aurelia, warden of the North and star of Ever frost sentence you to die." He muttered coldly, as if ice had cracked beneath his feet.
"Don't look away, your father will know if you do." Theon Aurelius, Gabriel's cousin had whispered, his gaze staring into Gabriel's, making sure the Lord won't hear of their conversation from the start.
Lord of the cold had stepped back and with a fast swing in the air, the great sword fell down, cutting the angel's head, blood oozing out from the separation of the two angel body parts, Gabriel barely flinched, but she stared terrified at the sound of blood dripped into the snow and the sound of the body dropping with a thud, the martyred angel's wings flapped in muscle memory.
Suddenly, she feels her cousin's hand on her shoulders. "You did well." He said, gulping back the fear as he said it while Gabriel looked back into the blood in the snow, she never thought she could find it so.. aesthetically pleasing.
She turned around and walked away with her older male cousin, but she let herself fall behind and look into the plants near their castle.
She hears her father's footsteps in the snow, she mentally prepares herself with a sigh, a puff of cold breath coming out her lips.
"You understand why I did it, don't you?" He asked, making sure he wasn't making things awkward between his daughter.
"Theon said he was a mud-blooded traitor." Gabriel said, looking up into her father's eyes, the same silver hued grey met each other.
"Yes, but do you understand why I killed him?" Caelus Aurelius said, tone cold as usual, he smiles unwillingly back into his daughter, for he sees a reflection of himself in her, satisfied with her opinion for dirty blood.
"Mudbloods aren't worthy to live." Gabriel stated with finality, didn't even question. Just said, her tone indicating finality.
"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword" Caelus said, but only received a light nod from Gabriel as well as a well defined side eye from her daughter's silver grey eyes.
"Now come, Snezhnaya is waiting." Caelus said, smiling at his daughter who was the exact reflection of him.
As Gabriel, Theon and Caelus made their way back towards the castle named Snezhnaya, the winter air grew colder with each step. The vast landscape of snow-covered ground stretched for miles, dotted with the occasional tree, their branches burdened with ice and frost.
The towering 700-foot ice wall loomed behind them, a reminder of the fortress that protected their people from the endless dangers of the winter world beyond.
When they arrived at the castle, the towering spires of Snezhnaya were shrouded in a magical aura, the pointed roofs seeming to stretch far above them, twisting into the sky like the fingers of ancient gods. The magic of the Aurelius family kept the walls strong and impenetrable, warding off invaders and keeping the dangers of the outside world at bay. The stone of the castle was dark, almost obsidian, reflecting the dim light of the snow-covered world.
At the base of the stairs leading up into the heart of the castle itself, Gabriel paused, her breath visible in the freezing air. Waiting for them there were her three cousins—Theon, Lucan, and Selene.
Theon, the oldest of the three at the age of 18, stood with his arms crossed, his stance exuding both confidence and authority. His white hair was neatly combed back, and his piercing grey eyes were sharp, reflecting the cold, calculated nature of his mind. A slight frown creased his brow as he glanced down at Gabriel, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze.
Lucan of 16 winters stood next to Theon, was leaner, his white hair falling slightly in waves around his face, giving him an almost ethereal look. His blue eyes were bright and mischievous, always twinkling with a sense of hidden humor. He was the more laid-back of the three, but no less dangerous than Theon when it came to the family's responsibilities.
Selene, the younger at 14 but no less striking, stood slightly apart from the others, her posture graceful and elegant, as always. Her white hair cascaded down her back in perfect waves, and her pale blue eyes held an intensity that made them seem almost otherworldly. Despite being the youngest, her presence was commanding, and there was no mistaking that she, too, was a force to be reckoned with.
The four of them were all incredibly beautiful on their own ways, each with the signature white hair and sharp features that marked their Aurelius heritage. They were the image of the royal family, each of them embodying the cold strength of their lineage along with their 6 wings displayed on their back, indicating the purest blood.
Theon glanced at Gabriel as she approached, his voice low but tinged with amusement. "Finally decided to leave the celebration behind, cousin?" he asked, his gaze flickering over her with a mixture of curiosity and challenge.
Lucan smirked, raising an eyebrow. "Or did you find the attention of the crowd too much to handle?"
Selene, who had been quiet until now, stepped forward with a soft smile on her lips. "I think we all could use a break from the festivities," she said, her voice cool but welcoming. "Come, Gabriel. The night is too beautiful to waste inside."
Gabriel, with a playful roll of her eyes, gave her cousins a half-smile. "You know, I was getting bored of listening to everyone praising my father. It's all 'Caelus this' and 'Caelus that.' It was suffocating," she admitted, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Theon’s lips curved into a smirk. "I do enjoy watching you try to escape attention, Gabriel. But come, the night’s still young. There are worse ways to spend it than with us."
Lucan chuckled. "Indeed, Theon. Besides, I think we all know Winterfell is far more interesting after dark."
The castle named Snezhnaya was in the middle of the northern capital which is Winterfell.
Winterfell was "The heart of Aurelia", sat cradled within seven-hundred-foot walls of glacial stone and ancient magic— walls so massive they hugged an entire civilization in their frozen embrace.
Snezhnaya, the seat of House Aurelius, was a colossal fortress rising two hundred feet tall at the center of the enclosed lands.
Its towers were crowned with steep, spear-like roofs, crafted from black stone and silver steel that caught the pale northern light-like blades drawn against the sky.
The castle's architecture was all sharp lines and brutal elegance — pointed turrets, narrow windows like slitted eyes, and high-vaulted arches dusted with eternal snow.
Above the highest towers, a warding aura shimmered, a thin, shifting dome of silver and blue magic, woven by the ancient high mages of Aurelia. It stretched from turret to turret, draping Winterfell’s highest points in protective light, capable of igniting into roaring flames if enemies breached the walls.
Inside the 700-foot walls, a sprawling winter city thrived: narrow cobbled streets lined with squat stone houses huddling against the cold, greenhouses heated by subterranean hot springs, training fields, stables, barracks, and bustling market squares.
Life, stubborn and fierce, bloomed under the eternal winter sky.
The walls themselves were a miracle of engineering and magic.
Smooth, slick, and impossible to climb, reinforced with angelic wards to repel demons, monstrous beasts, and the dead things that roamed the Ever frost.
The tops of the walls bristled with guard towers, ballistas, and glowing runic wards that flared blue whenever something unnatural drew near.
And in the heart of it all stood the great black-stone castle of House Aurelius named Snezhnaya, rising like a wolf among sheep, bearing banners of the crowned direwolf flapping in the endless snows.
It was the last harvest before the snows.
And not just any winter—this one was whispered of in worried corners and hushed courtyards. The storm charts from Vireon spoke of blizzards not seen in a generation. The astrologers of Thalos called it a “Season of Agony,” borrowing the name from a time when frost had choked the earth and blood soaked the snows. This time, it would not be war that claimed the weak—but hunger. The crops from Ophire had already failed, and Thoborn’s fields bore half the grain they should have. Even the golden vineyards of Eloen were thinning under gray skies.
So the lords of Eden came together—not for war, not for treaty, but for the winter.
A feast was called in Snezhnaya, where warmth still lingered in the earth and the stores were full. Not a celebration, but a statement: that the North would not bend, not freeze, and not fall. And as snow began to gather lightly outside the gates of the ice-crowned castle, the great lords made their entrances one by one—each as grand as if they were kings of their own realms.
The high doors of the Castle of Snezhnaya groaned open beneath the weight of frost and ceremony. Snow drifted from the sky like ash as the lords of Eden arrived one by one, clad in their most ostentatious winter regalia. They entered not as allies, but as strangers tethered by ancient oaths and fresh contempt.
Lord Elrik Maelion of Vireon was the first to cross the threshold, tall and silver-haired, draped in a navy cloak lined with eagle feathers. The Maelion sigil—a soaring eagle streaked by a golden lightning bolt—was sewn into his deep blue leather, but it was his gloves that drew whispers: obsidian-dyed leather, once a forbidden color in Thoborn, worn now as a silent challenge. His expression was polite, almost warm, but his eyes scanned the hall like a tactician gauging the range of archers.
Next came Lord Amun Caelora of Ophire, his presence like a crack in stained glass. He wore ivory robes laced with mirror shards that caught the firelight in shattered reflections. His sigil—a serpent coiled inside a fractured mirror—gleamed faintly on his chest. Around his neck hung an Ophiric prayer chain, once banned in Vireon. Amun’s smile was cold and unconvincing, like a lie worn into a habit. He held no gift, no weapon, just a gloved hand resting on the hilt of an ornamental dagger inscribed in Ophiric runes.
Then, the ground nearly trembled with the arrival of Lord Rhogar Dravon of Thoborn. Broad-shouldered and battle-worn, he strode in bearing the weight of iron furs and golden mail. His sigil—a lion looking up at a hammer—was emblazoned in black and bronze on his cloak. Around his neck hung a torn Maelion banner, sewn into a scarf—a subtle slight, considering their kingdoms had warred only a season past. Rhogar gave no courtesies. He grunted, nodded, and moved straight to the table.
They sat around the great crescent-shaped table of northern ashwood, adorned with frostbitten fruit and steaming meats. The hall was warm, but the tension between them was colder than the snow outside.
“Elrik,” Rhogar said, his voice gravel wrapped in velvet. “Still dressing like a Vireon poet, I see.”
“And you,” Elrik replied evenly, “still bear the scent of forge smoke and wet dogs. How charmingly rustic.”
Amun chuckled faintly, sipping from his silver goblet. “Banter and backhanded grunts. The language of unity, is it not?”
“No,” Rhogar said flatly. “It’s the language of survivors. Unity’s just the fancier word for tolerance.”
“Spoken like someone who only knows how to tolerate war,” Amun retorted. “We’re here to speak of food for our factions, not rehash battles.”
“Yes,” Elrik nodded, tapping his fingers against the goblet. “The snow will fall harder this year. Vireon has begun rationing. The southern trade routes to Ophire are already half-blocked. We need to coordinate yield, not insults.”
“Ophire grows little but thorn apples and disdain,” Rhogar muttered under his breath.
Amun’s face twitched. “If Lord Caelus hadn’t cursed the skies since the last war, perhaps my fields would not be ash-white this season.”
A hush fell over the table.
Elrik’s tone turned sharp. “Mind your tongue, Caelora. The Northern Wall keeps more than just wind at bay.”
“The Wall,” Amun sneered, “is built with arrogance and snow myths. We bleed because your king made war with heaven.”
Rhogar leaned back, eyes narrowing. “No one forced your ancestors to kneel.”
Amun’s voice dropped, but the venom was unmistakable. “No. But they were forced to starve. Like dogs.”
Elrik’s chair scraped as he stood. “Enough. We did not climb this mountain to trade curses. The North can aid Ophire with grain. We only ask for silver and silence in return.”
Amun’s eyes flicked to the shadows dancing along the icy walls. “You’ll have neither. Not from me.”
Tension laced the air like a drawn bowstring, but no one moved.
Only the crackling hearth dared to speak.
The chill in the room was not from the stone walls or the high northern winds. It came from the man who now stood at the far end of the great hall—tall, statuesque, wrapped in a fur-lined mantle of pale grey and midnight blue. Lord Caelus Aurelius of the North.
The moment his boots echoed against the frost-veined floor, the lords turned their heads in unison. The firelight dimmed in his presence, as though the hearth itself feared offending him.
His voice, when it came, was soft—like the whisper of snowfall across a frozen grave—but it carried through the hall with unnatural clarity.
"Enough."
One word. It silenced everything. Even Amun, whose mouth had been half-open for another retort, froze like a man facing a blizzard.
Caelus descended the frost-bitten dais, his white-streaked hair braided back in a crown-like coil, his gloved hand resting on the wolf-headed pommel of his sword. The sigil of House Aurelius—a crowned sun blazing behind a silver wolf—was etched into his cuirass in obsidian steel, gleaming faintly in the light.
“I did not summon you here to argue like drunken serfs in a brothel pit,” he said, voice calm but laced with glacial authority. “You speak of old wars, curses, and hunger as if they are unrelated—but they are the same wound. And I... was the blade that cut it.”
The lords shifted uneasily. Even Rhogar lowered his gaze.
Caelus raised a hand, not in anger, but in offering. “The winters you now suffer are the winters I sowed. The long frost was not born of malice, but of necessity. Yet I will not deny it has scorched your lands and drained your stores. So let it be my burden to amend.”
Elrik's eyes narrowed. “And how does the wolf propose to feed lions, eagles and snakes alike?”
Caelus did not smile. “Aurelia has adapted. In the North, our harvests are built in ice—frost-grain, blood-root, sky tubers that grow beneath glass and snow. Our granaries are deep and sealed in saltstone. We’ve weathered the storms you now fear. And we will share them.”
Amun scoffed. “Charity?”
“No,” Caelus replied coldly. “Compensation. For blood drawn in my name. You will have provisions from the North—grain, dried root, long-meat. Enough to last you through the first phase of the Agony. In return, I ask for patience. Do not make war out of winter.”
Rhogar leaned forward, brow furrowed. “And if patience dries up before the stores do?”
Caelus met his gaze, unflinching. “Then I will bear that war too. Alone, if I must.”
There was a long silence.
Then Elrik finally spoke. “You remain the only man in Eden whose voice can still freeze tempers, Lord Aurelius. The eagle will take what is offered.”
Rhogar grunted, then nodded once. “The lion will eat snow before he begs. But if your gift comes with no chain, I’ll accept it.”
Amun was the last to speak, his voice low and guarded. “Let Ophire take it not as charity, but as penance.”
Caelus stepped back, his breath misting in the cold air. “Call it what you will. Winter is undoubtedly coming."
Lucan sighed and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head. “If I hear one more cryptic jab about whose grandfather bled more honor into the soil, I’m going to fall asleep with my eyes open.”
Selene leaned toward Gabriel. “Why do they even come here if all they do is hiss at each other?”
Gabriel shrugged, her golden eyes flickering toward the towering windows. Snow was beginning to fall more heavily now, like ashes over a battlefield. “Father says it’s tradition. I think it’s punishment.”
Theon tapped his fingers against the table, his usual smirk dimmed by thought. “We should go.”
Lucan raised a brow. “Go where?”
“The crypts below the castle.”
Gabriel blinked. “You’re serious?”
Theon nodded. “You’re old enough now. And if the old wolves are too busy snarling over whose past was more pitiful, we might as well learn ours.”
Selene looked between them, biting the inside of her cheek before nodding once. “Better than watching the mirror-snake snap at the mountain lion.”
Their boots echoed like solemn war drums through the frost-rimed halls of Castle Snezhnaya, light from distant sconces flickering across walls of stone etched with centuries of silence. The feast was over, but what had not been said between the lords lingered louder than music. Now, in the hush of winding corridors, the cousins moved like shadows birthed from blood and legend.
Selene strode ahead, the wolf-pelt cloak brushing the icy floor, her braid tied in loops like a warrior’s crown. The crest of their House—a golden sun blazing atop a silver wolf’s head—glimmered proudly from the leather at her shoulder.
“Amun had the gall to wear Ophiran stag fur,” she muttered. “Ceremonial. Sacred. It wasn’t attire—it was defiance.”
Lucan snorted. “He looked like a drowned peacock trying to imitate a snow hawk.”
Theon said nothing at first, gaze stern beneath his frost-dusted hood. “Amun Caelora smiles like a courtier, but he was forged in deceit. You can still taste the love potion on his skin.”
Gabriel, trailing behind them, turned her head. “You mean... he’s not trueborn?”
Theon let out a slow breath that curled like smoke in the cold. “He is born, but not true. The story goes that Lord Annon Caelora, his father, was drugged during a summit in the Eastern dominions. A foreign enchantress—some say a demoness in disguise—slipped him a love draught laced with corrupt mana.”
Selene nodded grimly. “He disappeared for three days. They found him in the Temple of Reflections, murmuring foreign prayers, bleeding from glyphs he'd carved into the stone. No one saw the woman again.”
Gabriel’s lips parted. “And Amun was the result?”
“Born nine moons later,” Theon said. “His mother—a priestess—perished during labor. The midwives whispered that Amun emerged with serpent-scale birthmarks curling down his spine.”
Lucan added, “He’s called the Lord of Mirrors now. But no one dares say he’s a mirror of anything but sorcery and sin.”
Gabriel shivered slightly. “And Lord Dravon?”
“Rhogar,” Theon muttered. “The lion with the hammer. Proud, loud, all steel and storm—but his roots are rot.”
Selene’s jaw tightened. “His mother was barely sixteen when Lord Cador Dravon brought her into his hold. She was meant to be a squire’s wife. He kept her for two weeks. She bore Rhogar six months after the lord’s true wife died of poison.”
Lucan’s voice was bitter. “They made it all look clean. A noble marriage, a mourning father, a ‘miracle heir.’ But Dravon blood runs thick with secrets and shame.”
“And Elrik?” Gabriel asked quietly.
Here, Theon paused. A gust of wind howled faintly through the frozen archways, like the mountain sighing through time.
“Elrik Maelion is the worst of them,” he said, voice low. “He was second-born. A bastard, though cloaked in silk. The real heir to Vireon was his elder brother—silver-eyed, solemn, raised to command.”
Selene took the thread. “But that brother vanished. One winter night, no farewell. No search.”
Gabriel’s brows furrowed. “What happened to him?”
Lucan’s voice was flat. “The mountain speaks. They say the true heir had wings—born with the mark of Skyfire, as per their prophecy. And they say Elrik clipped those wings himself.”
Theon finished it. “He cut them off. Tossed the boy from the Skywatch Peaks. The wind howled for three days.”
Gabriel’s mouth dried. “And no one proved it?”
Selene shrugged coldly. “He’s king now. Who dares challenge a crow who wears the crown?”
They fell into a silence thick with ancestral weight. The air grew colder.
“We are the only ones untouched,” Theon finally said. “Our line was never forged in poison or rape or fratricide. We marry for honor. We do not touch corrupted blood. We swear oaths—and keep them.”
Selene’s voice was sharp as the ice-laced stone beneath their boots. “We do not lie to our blood. And we do not forget it.”
Then Gabriel asked, softly but clearly, “Why do we hate bastards so much?”
The air seemed to grow stiller. Even the wind quieted, as if the stones themselves waited for the answer.
Theon turned toward her slowly, brows furrowed. “Where did that come from?”
Gabriel looked down at her hands. “It’s just… we speak about them like they’re monsters. Elrik, Amun, Rhogar—yes, they were born of strange circumstances. But they didn’t choose their birth. Why does our House—why does Father—despise them so fiercely?”
Selene’s voice was sharp, almost a whisper. “Because it’s not just about how they were born. It’s what their birth represents. A broken vow. A splinter in the bloodline. A choice to let chaos in.”
Lucan leaned on the stone arch, shrugging. “It’s a Northern thing. Blood is everything here. Our history’s written in it.”
“But history doesn’t choose where people come from,” Gabriel said quietly. “Only what they become.”
Theon exhaled, slowly stepping down the stair, motioning them to follow. “Our resentment doesn’t come from cruelty, Gabriel. It comes from fear. Every time a bastard is born, something is broken—an oath, a bond, a future meant to be preserved.”
He stopped, glancing up at her from the shadows below. “And in our House, every bond is sacred. We are not allowed to fall. If we do, the wolves that hold this kingdom upright crumble to ash.”
Theon’s voice echoed from the stone, heavy and distant now. “That’s why we keep to our laws. Why we don’t dine with witches or make treaties with liars. Why we cast out those born of shadow.”
Lucan looked over his shoulder, still smiling faintly but with an edge of melancholy. “And why there’s only one bloodline left in Eden that hasn’t lost its name to shame.”
Gabriel’s voice, small beneath the cavernous echo, came next. “Why does our house hate bastards so much?”
Theon slowed. Lucan and Selene glanced at one another.
“Because they are born of broken oaths,” Theon said. “Of shattered promises, secret lust, cowardice. A bastard is the echo of a sin no one wants to claim. They are born outside the sacred thread, and that taints our land in evil mana.”
Selene added, “And we are the thread. We carry the vow.”
Gabriel frowned faintly. “I don't get why father says we're the only ones left of true pure blood, but what of the Astyrax's? The royal line. Why aren’t they pure?” she asked, her cousins answering her questions unlike her father did.
Theon gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Noble in name. Not in blood.”
Selene’s boots clicked sharply on the stone. “The first of their line was a rebel prince. Bastard of a sorcerer-queen and a dying sun-priest. He wasn’t chosen by fate—he burned the last king’s tree and claimed the throne in the ash.”
“They called it unification,” Lucan added, “but it was conquest. Blood and brimstone. He slaughtered the Twelve High Houses and crowned himself in the Temple of Dust.”
Gabriel frowned. “But aren’t they supposed to be descended from divinity?”
Theon scoffed. “Only if you believe divinity can be bought in gold and screams. Metatron’s grandfather had seven concubines. Only two were noble-born. The rest? Traders' daughters. War prizes. Dancers taken from border cities.”
Lucan added, “And Metatron himself? His birth was hidden for six years. His mother was a servant girl—barely older than a squire died during his childbirth after giving the past King 2 legitimate heirs. The king kept him in the shadow tower until the past King died in a plague and overthrew his sister in court.”
Theon agreed "He was a coward based on the council's words, said he even snaked away his older sister's birth right."
Selene sneered. “Then, suddenly, he was the ‘miracle child of heaven.’ No one even questioned it. Not when they buried the thought of having the morning star of Caelestis as heir in silence and dragged the bastard into sunlight.”
Gabriel’s voice lowered. “So Eden’s throne is ruled by a lie.”
Theon’s eyes narrowed. “A gilded lie. One they’ve polished for centuries. They burn scrolls, erase lineages, and forge myths with every king they crown.”
“And the line’s only gotten darker,” Selene said, her voice like sharpened frost. “One of Metatron’s uncles was caught offering sacrifices to the sea-witch cults. Another fled to the Southern isles, married a blood-singer, and came back with a child who spoke to ghosts.”
The hall narrowed further as they moved, the scent of dust and cold iron creeping into their lungs. Flickering torchlight cast ghostly shadows on the walls, dancing over the ancient tapestries of half-forgotten kings. The Aurelius cousins walked slowly now, voices lowered but laced with centuries of judgment.
"The Astyraxs weren’t always this… tainted," Theon muttered. "Once, they were revered. Fire-blooded kings, said to descend from the Phoenix itself."
Selene snorted. "And yet every flame leaves behind ash. Pride was always their poison."
Lucan ran a gloved hand along the wall, passing over the embroidered likeness of a young monarch. "King Archeon Astyrax—remember him? Called the Scorch King. Bathed an entire valley in wildfire to ‘cleanse’ a rebellion in Vireon. Burned his own vassals, even their children."
Gabriel frowned. "I read about him. They say the fire didn’t touch him, that he walked through the blaze untouched."
"Because he was mad," Selene said. "Madness runs in their line like a river beneath cracked ice."
Theon’s voice grew graver. "There was also Queen Consort Lysandra. Married her own cousin, King Minoso Astyrax to keep the bloodline ‘untainted.’ When he took a concubine, she drank molten silver in front of the court."
"And there’s the Black Son," Lucan added, shivering slightly. "Prince Vaelion. The one born under the Blood Eclipse. They say he grew up surrounded by shadows no one else could see. Killed his twin in the cradle and never spoke a word until he was fifteen."
Selene sneered. "And when he did speak, he spoke in a dead tongue no priest could decipher. He died chained in a tower—laughing when lightning split it open."
Gabriel shivered. “And now… their legacy lives on in Metatron.”
Theon nodded slowly. “Yes. But he’s different. Cold, not fiery. Calculated. Less phoenix, more serpent. He plays with prophecy like dice—betting the soul of Eden.”
The hall whispered as if alive—breathing stories older than names. As the silence grew heavy, Selene finally spoke.
“Do you know what else follows the Astyrax name?” she asked Gabriel quietly, her voice like a winter wind brushing over a grave. “Graves. Of queens.”
Gabriel turned to her. “What do you mean?”
Theon didn’t look at them, his gaze fixed forward. “Every queen consort who’s ever lain beside an Astyrax king met a tragic end. All of them.”
Lucan added grimly, “They call it the Crowned Widow’s Curse. Some say the throne of Caelestis itself rejects love.”
Gabriel’s eyes widened.
Selene began listing, her voice measured but laced with venom. “Queen Seraphyne, wife of King Tiberion—flung herself from the highest tower the morning after he took a mistress into his chamber.”
“Queen Lysara,” Theon followed, “was found in her bath, wrists open, the water pink with her own blood. No note. Just silence.”
“Queen Amathe,” Lucan continued, “drowned herself in the River Cael. Still wore her wedding veil when they dragged her out. She hadn’t spoken for months before that. Not since the king returned from war with a concubine pregnant in tow.”
Gabriel’s heart beat faster. “All of them?”
Selene nodded slowly. “Queen Thalienne slit her own throat with a hairpin. They say she carved the word ‘unseen’ into the mirror before she died. Her daughter was married off to some baron the next day—as if nothing happened.”
“And those are just the ones we know about,” Theon murmured.
Lucan leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “They weren’t loved. They were possessions. Adornments to kings who chased divinity while damning their own bloodlines.”
Gabriel’s voice trembled slightly. “Then why marry them? Why take queens at all?”
“To birth heirs,” Selene said flatly. “And because even monsters like the Astyraxes understand appearances. What’s a phoenix without its mate? A god without a consort?”
Gabriel felt a chill deeper than the cold around her. “And what of Queen Avriel, Metatron's consort?”
Silence.
Then Theon answered, quietly, “Disappeared. Some say she ran. Some say she was ill. Others think she… joined the rest, after the moment Metatron took concubines.”
“No body was ever found,” Selene added. “But the servants said the snow that night turned red.”
A hush settled over them like a final snowfall, thick and cold. Gabriel’s brows furrowed, her breath catching in her throat—but Theon shifted suddenly, brushing the edge of his cloak back as he leaned against the wall with a crooked smirk.
“Well, I suppose now’s as good a time as any.”
Lucan glanced over. “Now’s a good time for what?”
Theon exhaled, voice low but laced with that familiar bite. “To tell you what I overheard.”
Selene arched a brow. “You’re always overhearing things. Spit it out, then.”
“I was posted outside the king’s solar,” Theon said, more serious now. “Metatron was speaking with our lord-father.”
Gabriel straightened slightly. “Caelus?”
He nodded. “They weren’t just discussing the food crisis. Or the snow. They were discussing... the future of the bloodlines. Of Eden. Of Aurelia.”
Selene narrowed her eyes. “Get to the point.”
Theon paused, letting the tension build like frost forming on glass. “The king intends to marry his son to the heir of the North.”
Lucan stiffened. “You mean—?”
“Well,” Theon said, pushing off the wall with mock grandeur, “I suppose it’s only fitting then, isn’t it?”
Gabriel blinked. “Fitting for what?”
He tilted his head toward her dramatically. “For you, dear cousin. To take your place as the next queen consort of the Phoenix Throne. Gabriel Astyrax—it does have a ring to it, doesn’t it?”
Selene scoffed, a sharp bark of laughter escaping her. “Yes, a funeral bell’s ring. Might as well start digging the grave now. We’ll carve ‘unseen’ into her mirror just to keep tradition.”
Theon raised an eyebrow, his lips curling slightly. “Poor Michael. I imagine bedding a wolf would be the last thing his delicate ego could survive.”
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed as she turned to Lucan. “If you speak again, I’ll see to it your mouth is stitched shut with direwolf sinew.”
Lucan grinned wider. “I’ll take that as a no to the wedding proposal.”
Theon folded his arms, expression thoughtful. “Honestly, if it were you, cousin, I think the curse would finally snap. You’d be the one tossing him out the window.”
Selene smirked. “Or poisoning his wine just before he opens his mouth to call you 'my snow lily.'”
“Spare me,” Gabriel muttered, rolling her eyes. “After all three of you told me what happens to an Astyrax consort? I’d rather marry a frost walker. If the knife won't slit his neck, it'll be mine that'll be slit open.”
Lucan let out a dramatic gasp. “Blasphemy! Theon, are we not to uphold our house's pious traditions? Our cousin, offering her hand to an undead abomination rather than a charming, scandalous, womanizing heir to the realm?”
“Charming?” Selene snorted. “The only charm Prince Michael carries is in his belt buckle—and even that he leaves on the floor of whatever chamber he last visited.”
Gabriel laughed despite herself, though the mirth was shadowed by unease. “They’ll try, won’t they? The court. The lords. They’ll think a Northern bride will soften the scandal. Tame the phoenix.”
Lucan was already laughing, clutching his side as Gabriel stormed ahead, her boots crunching on the frost-laced stone. “You should’ve seen your face,” he wheezed. “Like someone served you goat’s milk in a royal goblet.”
Gabriel spun on her heel, eyes narrowed, voice dry as old parchment. “I’d rather marry the dead than marry that blonde Astyrax named Michael.”
Theon raised an eyebrow, half-smiling. “Why, what’s wrong with Michael?” he asked sarcastically.
“What’s not wrong with him?” Gabriel retorted. “His smile’s too perfect, his hair’s too gold, his voice is like someone dipped honey in hypocrisy. Eugh.” She gagged dramatically. “Of all people—why blondes?”
Selene was cackling now. “That’s what offends you the most? The blonde?”
“Of course,” Gabriel snapped, throwing her hands up. “They always have that smug, sun-kissed arrogance, like the gods personally appointed them to be everyone's downfall. Michael walks like he owns the air we breathe.”
Gabriel blinked once. Then twice. Then scoffed so hard it echoed down the corridor like a slap of wind against the ice walls.
“Gabriel Astyrax?” she repeated, her tone laced with venom. “Doesnt really fit, Queen consort to him? I’d sooner pledge myself to the frost walkers and let them gnaw on my bones.”
Lucan broke into a wheezing laugh, but Gabriel wasn’t finished.
“That pompous, preening, golden-haired peacock?” she hissed. “He struts through the courts like a lion but acts like a flea. Has anyone ever looked into his eyes for longer than a second? It’s like being blinded by vanity.”
Selene laughed, covering her mouth.
Gabriel pressed on, the fire in her chest rising with every word. “And what is it with Astyraxes and their hair? All of them, spun gold and brittle morals. I swear, some of them, especially the blondes are cursed. They think the sun rises just to shine off their heads.”
“Oh gods,” Lucan said between laughs. “You really do hate blondes.”
Gabriel threw her hands up. “Can you blame me? Smug, oily, sun-bleached degenerates. And Michael is the worst of the lot. He probably names his bedposts after himself.”
Even Theon cracked a grin. “He probably tries to seduce his own reflection.”
Gabriel rolled her eyes so hard it looked like they might get stuck. “I’d rather marry the dead than that blonde Astyrax. Eugh. Of all people—why blondes?”
Lucan grinned. “He does have that look—‘kiss my ring, peasant.’”
"Well if you like him so much, Lucan. You go marry him instead." Gabriel laughed with her reply, earning a blush from Lucan that's both from embarrassment and shame.
Gabriel mimicked it, lifting her chin and fluttering her lashes with exaggerated grace. “‘Ah yes, bring me another maiden, and tell my poor murdered mother I miss her terribly—right before I bed her handmaid!’”
They burst into laughter, even Theon cracking a full smile.
Selene wiped a tear from her eye. “Gabriel, you’d kill him within a week.”
“I’d kill him before the wedding night,” she muttered darkly. “I’d replace his wine with wolfsbane and say it was a northern remedy for arrogance." Gabriel rolled her eyes at herself but couldn’t suppress the smirk forming on her lips. “Then may the gods have mercy on the next Astyrax who thinks he can put a crown on me. only after I rip it from his ashes.”
Theon snorted. “Remind me to never get on your bad side.”
“When are you not on my bad side, Theon” she replied angrily like a little gremlin sulking in the corner, and they laughed again at their cute little cousin.
Gabriel was still fuming, her footsteps heavy against the frostbitten stone. The fire in her voice hadn’t died—it had only grown.
“I can never marry royals,” she snapped, tossing her braid over her shoulder like it was a weapon. “You know how degenerate they are? Self-obsessed, scheming, so far up their own bloodlines they could draw a family tree with a circle.”
Selene choked on a laugh, and Lucan whistled low.
Gabriel wasn’t done.
“Gods, I’d rather kill myself than marry one—especially a blonde male Astyrax. Hell, every male even—”
She stopped abruptly, blinking. Realizing.
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then three knowing gazes turned to her like wolves scenting a wounded hare.
Lucan raised both brows. “Every male?”
Gabriel's jaw tightened. “I meant—every Astyrax male. Obviously.”
“Mmm.” Selene smirked, arms crossed. “Because it definitely sounded like every male.”
Theon leaned lazily against a pillar, arms folded and grinning like a cat. “Is there something you'd like to confess, dear cousin?”
Gabriel scoffed, arms thrown up. “Oh, shut up, all of you.”
“No no,” Lucan said, nudging her shoulder. “This is a glorious day. I never thought I’d see the mighty Gabriel Aurelius tripping over her own pride.”
“I am not tripping,” she hissed, her cheeks burning like embers under her frost-toned skin. “I’m just saying—if I ever do get married, which is unlikely—I will not be marrying a royal. Or a man. Or—anyone, really.”
Selene laughed, full and sharp. “We should write that into the family record. Gabriel Aurelius: First of Her Name, Slayer of Blondes, Defender of the Bloodline, Warden of Her Own Damn Heart.”
“Good,” Gabriel muttered, though her lips twitched despite herself. “At least no man will ever taint our bloodline.”
Lucan gave a mock toast with his gloved hand. “To untarnished legacies and a future blessedly free of blonde Astyrax spawn.”
Theon bowed low. “Caelus himself would be proud.”
Gabriel turned sharply on her heel, hands flailing with sudden panic. “You’re all insufferable. I don’t even understand relationships yet—what’s there to get? Why do people even spend time on that nonsense?”
Lucan snorted. “Nonsense, she says. You mean to tell me you’ve never once looked at someone and thought, hmm, maybe dying alone isn’t my only fate?”
Gabriel glared. “No. Never. In fact, every time I look at someone, I think yes, dying alone sounds great. Peaceful. Quiet. No morning breath, no court scandals, and certainly no drooling princes with hair the color of straw and morals twice as hollow.”
Selene bit back a laugh, her eyes gleaming. “You poor, cold thing. You’re going to make some necromancers very happy one day.”
Theon leaned forward, whispering theatrically, “Careful, Gabriel. You keep ranting like that, and the family might start preparing your wedding to an old tree in Frostbark.”
“At least trees don’t talk,” she shot back. “Or try to breed heirs with underaged girls.”
That set Lucan off laughing so hard he had to lean against a pillar. “Caelus above, if only the rest of Eden had your standards, we’d never have wars—just empty thrones and satisfied oaks.”
Gabriel finally groaned, pressing her hands over her flushed face. “You’re all impossible. I hate you. I hope the frost walkers come for you first.”
Selene grinned. “Oh, but cousin, think of it—how proud Uncle Caelus would be if he knew his precious heir was already rejecting the political games.”
Lucan nodded. “Aurelius to the bone."
The descent into the crypts was silent, save for the steady clink of boots on ice-veined stone. The cold deepened with each step, until even their breath slowed, curling visibly like ghost-smoke in the dim torchlight.
The passageway opened into a massive cavern of frostbitten marble and iron. Stone coffins lay in solemn rows, each etched with sigils worn by time. Wolves crowned by suns. Blades frozen mid-strike. Eyes of polished obsidian staring back from carved faces that had ruled the North in lifetimes past.
Gabriel exhaled, voice low, reverent. “I forget how many rest down here…”
“A hundred and twelve,” Theon answered. “If you don’t count the empty ones.”
Selene ran her gloved hand over the lid of a sarcophagus lined in deep obsidian. “This one’s old Wyrdan Aurelius. The Smith father of Aurelia. Forged the first frost steel blade using the heart of a dying star. The blacksmiths still whisper his name before striking an anvil. They say his breath turned to smoke even in spring, the forge never left his lungs.”
Lucan nodded toward a towering tomb at the far end, its stone crest shaped like a bastion tower with snow-worn battlements. “Vaeron the Bastion. Builder of the Wall. Seven hundred feet of ice and sorrow, carved with giant’s tools during the first rising of the dead. When the last stone was set, he walked into the snow and never returned. They say his soul watches still, bound to the foundations.”
Gabriel moved quietly, fingers brushing frostbitten roses carved into a low sarcophagus. “And this?”
Theon answered softly. “Lysarra the Pale. The queen who refused to flee Frostmoore. Froze on her throne with her sword laid bare. The frost took her lungs, but not her pride.”
Selene tilted her torch toward a curved tomb shaped like a howling wolf. “Elira Northwind. They say she danced through the dead with flame in both hands. When they found her, she’d burned twenty wraiths into ash before the cold finally broke her.”
Lucan passed a heavy palm over a tomb with no name, only runes scorched into the stone. “Thane the Bear. Killed the Behemoth of Ice howl with his bare hands. They buried him with the beast’s skull beneath his feet.”
Theon stopped at a grave sealed with a blade embedded in its center, the hilt black with age. “Darian the Oathkeeper. Died poisoned rather than betray the secret paths through the north watch. His tongue was found nailed to the council’s table. That’s how they knew.”
Silence lingered.
And then Selene stepped back, torchlight catching the farthest tomb of them all—half-frozen in frost, half-burned black from within. Etched in gold across the base:
SERAPHIS AURELIUS. THE PROPHET.
Gabriel froze.
Theon’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He was called mad. Claimed he saw the frost walkers before they returned. Spoke in tongues. Wrote in blood and ash. They locked him away beneath Caelestis for fear he would curse the line.”
“But he was right,” Selene added. “Everything he saw came to pass.”
Lucan stepped forward slowly. “He left behind one final prophecy. Carved into the walls of his chamber before he died—”
‘The 56th shall be the last. Born of ice but rule of fire and storm. The line shall break where the crown clings hardest. He shall end the frost with the blade of old and shatter the blood from which he came. His honor shall be born not of birth, but of flame. The son of Aurelius shall rule by iron.’
Gabriel felt the words crawl up her spine.
Theon continued. “Caelus Aurelius, your father… is the 55th.”
They all turned to Gabriel.
Selene, unusually solemn, took over. “The Prophet saw the 56th heir as a child born under a cursed sky. He said ‘Seven days the sun shall sleep, and on the eighth, when the world forgets the light, he shall cry into the snow.’”
Theon nodded. “Born after a full week of darkness. The sun returned—but too late. An hour too late. Seraphis said it marked him as ‘the shadow between dawns.’”
Lucan added, “He also said the birth would come at the peak of the cruelest winter in a thousand years. When the rivers freeze to glass, and breath itself cuts the throat.”
Gabriel blinked slowly, words catching in her chest. “…That winter.”
Selene nodded gravely. “You were born during it.”
Theon hesitated. “That’s what your mother argued about, too. She said the omens matched. The darkness. The winter. The timing. All of it pointed to you. The 'son' of winter. ”
Her breath caught. “But… it says he. The son. Do I look like a son to you?”
Selene looked at her calmly. “Prophets don’t always speak in plain tongues. And Seraphis was mad—but he was never wrong.”
Lucan added, “And who’s to say the son… isn't already walking the world, hidden in a daughter’s skin?”
The torchlight flickered. The air grew colder.
Gabriel stared at the tomb.
Gabriel lingered at the end of the hall, her torchlight brushing across the blank stone set between two imposing frames. One bore the cold-eyed face of Caelus Aurelius, her father, captured mid-scowl as if carved from dusk and winter itself. The other space, meant to carry on the line, remained untouched—framed, but forever empty.
She stepped closer, brow furrowed. “There’s no portrait of me.”
The words seemed to echo into the deep.
Selene, standing beside an old tomb with her arms crossed, followed Gabriel’s gaze and shifted awkwardly. Lucan grew still. Theon exhaled slowly, the firelight dancing in his eyes.
“It was never placed,” he finally said.
Gabriel turned to him. “What do you mean?”
Theon rolled his shoulders, suddenly very aware of the cold air and the gravity of old secrets. “I overheard something once. Years ago. Your parents—arguing.”
Gabriel’s expression darkened. “You were eavesdropping?”
He gave a half-smile. “I was eight and hiding under the staircase. Doesn’t count.”
Selene’s tone was quieter now, serious. “It was about you.”
Theon nodded. “Your mother was livid. Said you deserved your place among the ancestors. That the wall shouldn’t remain unfinished just because of some… superstition. But your father—he refused.”
Gabriel’s voice sharpened. “Why?”
Lucan shifted his weight. “Because of the prophecy.”
The cold seemed to press in more tightly at the mention of it.
“The one Seraphis made,” Theon murmured, glancing around the dark crypt as though the mad prophet’s ghost might still be listening. “He saw the end of our line—of Aurelius. The 56th heir. The one who would burn brighter than all before him. Who would slay the Frost King and bring fire to the North.”
Gabriel crossed her arms, unconvinced. “Should I be scared? Geez, I'm barely even nine years old.”
“Like we said, the prophecy spoke of a son,” Selene added grimly. “A ‘son of frost who wields flame.’ Caelus took it literally. He believed—maybe hoped that he’d have a boy. One who could fulfill the prophecy and die gloriously in doing so because he didn't want to see her daughter come back in pieces."
Theon sighed. “So he didn’t commission your portrait. Not because he didn’t believe in you—but because he was afraid.”
Gabriel’s breath hitched.
“He thought putting your likeness on the wall would make it real. Like he was signing away your fate. That empty frame…” Theon looked toward it. “It was him trying to keep the prophecy away. To delay the doom he thought it meant for you.”
A silence fell, heavy as stone.
Gabriel looked at the blank space once more. “He left it empty because he was waiting for a son,” she muttered. “And when none came…”
Lucan offered a shrug. “He just… waited. As if not painting you would protect you.”
Gabriel’s lips curled, not quite in anger—but close. “Cowardice.”
“Or love,” Selene whispered. “Sometimes they look the same.”
She didn’t reply.
Instead, Gabriel turned fully to the crypt hall again. The torchlight in her hand flickered, as if quivering with her pulse. And for a moment, all was still.
Then Lucan cleared his throat with theatrical flair. “Of course… maybe he had other reasons for leaving it blank.”
Gabriel raised a brow. “Such as?”
“Well,” he said, voice low and ominous, “if the prophecy’s true, you’ll have to face the Frost King one day. Maybe he just didn’t want your portrait looking down at him when you came back in pieces so he can bury you here.”
Selene gave a mock gasp. “Or worse—when you didn’t come back at all.”
Theon grinned. “The Frost King’s said to be taller than the Wall. Horns like glacier spires, breath like death.”
“Eyes like moons,” Lucan added. “White and endless. One touch from his hand, and your bones turn to ice.”
Selene leaned close, stage-whispering, “And he likes Aurelius blood the most. You know. For warmth.”
Gabriel scowled. “You’re all idiots.”
Lucan grinned. “Foolish to jest in crypts, cousin. These walls have long memories.”
Theon smirked. “Just don’t fall asleep near the frost-tombs. You might wake up with the Frost King’s crown on your chest.”
Selene gasped and pointed. “Look! Behind you—”
Gabriel shoved her. “Don’t be an ass.”
They all laughed.
Still, when she turned back to the empty space meant for her portrait, Gabriel’s smile faded.
The flickering torchlight cast long, wavering shadows along the walls as the cousins moved deeper into the crypts, each step light but filled with purpose. The crypts were a sanctuary for the past, yet here, in the cold stone corridors, Gabriel couldn't help but feel alive—surrounded by the legacy of her ancestors, her kin.
But, despite the warmth that filled her chest from their teasing, her mind couldn't quite shake the weight of the words they’d just said. The Frost King.
She turned her attention back to the sarcophagus before her, rubbing her fingers along the ancient stone carvings. “Honestly, you all have no idea how close you came to making me think I’m some sort of sacrificial lamb in this mess of a prophecy.” She scoffed, but the uncertainty in her voice made the words less biting than intended.
Lucan laughed lightly, his voice rich with amusement. “We can’t help it if you make it so easy, Gabriel.”
“Truly,” Selene added, smirking as she looked back over her shoulder. “If there’s anything we’ve learned in our years together, it’s that the wolves bite only when they’re cornered.” She winked, her tone light, teasing, but there was warmth behind it, a subtle layer of affection that Gabriel didn’t miss.
Gabriel rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. She couldn’t help but feel comforted by her cousins' company. No matter what the prophecy said, or how uncertain her future might be, there was a part of her that felt invincible in this moment—surrounded by the people who knew her best, who would fight for her.
“Well, just so long as none of you are planning on handing me over to that Frost King, we’ll be fine,” Gabriel replied with a sardonic smile, letting herself lean against the cold stone of the sarcophagus.
“No promises,” Lucan said with a wink. “But if it helps, we’ll make sure he comes with a bouquet of roses. Maybe you’ll change your mind. Cold, dead roses. The most romantic thing you could imagine.”
“Frozen thorns,” Selene teased, “to match his icy heart.”
Gabriel gave a dramatic shudder. “Ugh. Seriously, if I have to marry someone, I’d rather it be a winter wolf than a blonde Astyrax prince, or anyone from a royal line that thinks they own the world.” Her face twisted in mock disgust. “The very idea of being forced into that royal cage—no thank you.”
Theon laughed, shaking his head. “A winter wolf, eh? If you’re not careful, Gabriel, you’ll have us thinking you’d rather settle for an actual beast.”
“Better than a man who spends more time on his hair than his kingdom,” she shot back, crossing her arms.
“Touché,” Lucan said, still grinning, but he became more thoughtful for a moment, his gaze drifting over the rows of tombs. “You know, Gabriel, for all your talk about avoiding princes, you’ve got to admit—there’s something almost poetic about the idea of you breaking the curse of the royal line.”
“Oh, is that right?” Gabriel quirked an eyebrow, challenging him to elaborate.
“Well,” Theon began, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on his chin as though the words were carefully chosen, “think about it. All the other heirs—the Astyrax line, full of decadence, the Maelions with their unfortunate origins, and even the Dravons with their dirty bloodlines—all of them, competing for power. But you, Gabriel, the last of the true Aurelius line. You could end the prophecy, refuse the throne, and live your life free from the chains of those who'd try to control you.”
Gabriel frowned at the thought. “Not much freedom when your ancestors are still lurking in the walls of this crypt, reminding you of how you’re supposed to die. Not a comforting thought.”
“True,” Selene said, her smile softening as she gave Gabriel a reassuring pat on the back. “But sometimes, the weight of legacy is what drives us forward. The true test is what we make of it.”
Just as Gabriel was about to respond, Theon’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and he leaned forward with that familiar grin. “Oh, I forgot to tell you all about the prophecy I read in the libraries of Caelestis.”
Gabriel blinked, curiosity piqued. “What prophecy?”
Theon’s voice dropped into a mock-serious tone, his lips curving into a teasing smirk. “The prophecy of the bastard princess of Metatron.”
Gabriel’s heart skipped a beat, her instincts prickling. “Bastard princess?” Her voice was laced with suspicion.
Selene’s expression shifted, her amusement fading. “What are you talking about, Theon?”
“The bastard princess of Metatron,” Theon repeated, more cryptic now. “The one born from shadow and whispered promises. It says that when the throne of Eden is threatened and the Northern heirs falter, the bastard princess will rise from the ashes of the past, carrying the bloodline of the Phoenix and the curse of the Astyrax.”
Gabriel’s confusion deepened. “I don’t understand. The prophecy speaks of someone else?”
“Not just someone else,” Theon continued. “It’s the sister of the man who would rule, the one who bears the blood of the Phoenix and the heart of a wolf. The one who was born under the blood-red moon, hidden from the world, but destined to shake the foundation of everything.”
“Who is it?” Gabriel pressed, trying to connect the dots.
Theon’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who else, but the one everyone believes is a secret in the royal family. The one who’s already walked the shadows of Caelestis and witnessed the truth beneath the mask. Uriel, the daughter of Metatron.”
Theon, his voice still low, continued. “You know, Gabriel, the prophecy didn’t just speak of a princess of flame. It also mentioned a rival, someone born of ice. Someone who would stand against the bastard princess. You.”
Gabriel blinked, her thoughts snapping back to the present. “What?”
Selene, standing near one of the ancient sarcophagi, her eyes glinting in the torchlight, chimed in. “A bastard princess... who probably thinks she’s entitled to the throne just because she has the blood of Metatron running through her veins. She’s blonde, after all—what else does she have to offer?” Her voice dripped with disdain.
Gabriel's heart thudded in her chest, the words searing her skin like a slap to the face. She could feel the bile rise in her throat, the heat of anger prickling beneath her skin. “Blonde?” she repeated bitterly. “She’s blonde, that’s her great advantage? How typical."
“You’re missing the point, Gabriel,” Theon said, his tone a little more serious now. “Uriel is the one who’s destined to destroy us all, or at least bring the end of our line. That’s what the prophecy says. But you? You’re the one who’ll stand in her way. The one who’ll try to stop her. She's the daughter of the prophecy, born amidst salt and smoke."
"Born amidst salt and smoke? What is she, a piece of ham?" Gabriel clenched her fists, the burn of resentment and disgust bubbling up inside her. “A mudblood and a bastard huh? Devil's spawn indeed, and she has the guts to volunteer for the velheim games.”
"Maybe because she didn't have a choice but to join the velheim games like you, after all, the lords indeed do despise her as much as you do right now." Selene added.
Theon took a step forward, his expression softening slightly. “It’s not just about blood, Gabriel. It’s about power, about the choices you’ll make. And I don’t think you’re ready to accept it, but you are as much a part of this prophecy as she is. Whether you want it or not, you’re the one who might challenge her. The one who might bring an end to the power she represents.”
Gabriel’s eyes darkened as the words hit their mark. She felt her resentment build like a storm. “Uriel... entitled little bastard. She’s probably been fed with power her whole life, thinking she’s special just because she’s Metatron’s daughter. And now you want me to compete with her? To fight her? To... rival her?”
Selene’s voice dropped to a teasing tone. “Well, it would be poetic, wouldn’t it? You, born of ice, standing against her flame. Only one can rule, after all.”
Gabriel’s anger burned brighter, colder. She shook her head, trying to suppress the disgust that threatened to overtake her. “I don’t want to rule. I don’t want to have anything to do with her or any of this damn prophecy. I don’t care about being the one to rival her. She's not even worth it being against me. Wasn't she the cause of Skagos' downfall because the demon kings were hunting her? Why did the innocent villagers die and she got away?" Gabriel said in pure disgust.
“You don’t have a choice,” Theon said quietly. His words cut through the tension like a dagger. “None of us do. The prophecy binds us all, even if we try to run from it.”
Gabriel turned her back to them, walking toward the far end of the crypt, her footsteps echoing loudly in the silence that followed. Her mind raced, the weight of everything she’d just heard pushing down on her chest. Uriel—the blonde, entitled princess. The one who was born with a legacy she couldn’t escape. And now, Gabriel was supposed to be the one to rival her. To stand against her flame. How ridiculous. How utterly unfair.
She hated it.
She hated prophecy.
She hated this girl from it.
She hated Uriel.
Uriel. The one who was never meant to be a part of the highest Astyrax bloodline. The one who was cast away, thrown aside like a forgotten toy. Gabriel’s blood burned with a heat she could hardly contain, fury mixing with the sharp sting of betrayal. How could Theon say such a thing? How could he speak Uriel’s name as though she were a hero, a savior?
A bastard princess of Metatron, a creature of twisted bloodline who had no place in the throne Gabriel had worked so hard to defend.
“What?” Gabriel spat, voice hoarse, as if she had tasted poison. “You’re telling me that this... this thing—the one who was nothing but a mistake—is somehow the key to saving us all?”
Her eyes flashed, burning with anger so deep, it felt like it could consume the entire crypt. “The one who’s nothing more than a bastard child? Who was discarded because she was born of shame? Her family is the reason why our ancestors died from the night walkers because the royal family refused to union with the North."
"King Chamuel the third betrayed our line and killed our great uncles and aunts." She continued. "Metatron's betrayal is the reason why aunt Lorenn died at her own wedding." She continued, earning silence from the three.
She loathed this girl named Uriel.
Yet she loathed her last name more.
The three of them walked away from the crypts after a few more minutes of discussing their family's past, Selene retiring to bed and Theon going to the stables to get something while Lucan was walking with her through the hallways of the castle Snezhnaya.
"What else do you know about this Uriel?" Gabriel asked, her boots thumping against the grounds with Lucan's.
"You should ask Theon about this more, but all I know is that she's the daughter of Metatron that bore the mark of Skagos' flames, said that she was 'purified' by the leftover flames from Demon King Agares himself. Not to mention that there is gossip in the market that her mother's a whore who seduced the King. Some say worse and blame her for being a succubus" Theon answered.
"A succubus? Impure blood, why should I even be surprised by now." Gabriel said, disgust in her voice. Some say that the girl was the chosen one, the girl of the prophecy who buried Gabriel's own prophecy in the dust, so she was indeed envious and hateful towards her blood, her lineage, the fact that Astyrax always betrays her blood and the fact that she has to be the one who'll kill the girl.
"Gabriel, your father did tell you of the importance of being pure blood, right?" Lucan asked.
"From the moment I opened my eyes, yes." She answered her cousin's question.
Lucan slowed, turning to face her amid a shaft of pale light. “Pure blood,” he said, “means a lineage untainted by the corrupting touch of bastard or witch. It’s like the Blacks of old—only those of unbroken descent may bear the weight of our heraldry. You understand that, don’t you?”
She met his gaze steadily. “I do.”
He stepped closer, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to draw the chill deeper from the stones. “Our ancestors believed that impurity was a wound upon the land itself. A single drop of ‘evil blood’—a bastard’s blood—could spread rot through the roots of houses, invite demons, curses, plague. They burned tomes, exiled children, even waged war rather than risk contamination.”
Lucan’s eyes glittered before continuing, “Sentiment won’t protect these halls when dark forces gather beyond the ice. Only purity of blood and purpose can keep the curse at bay. Our family’s duty is to shield Eden from the threat posed by every bastard born of shadow and prophecy.”
She let that sit between them as they turned a corner, torches sputtering on the wind. “Then I suppose it’s fortunate,” she said quietly, “that our blood runs true.”
She didn't know if hating mud-blooded bastards would be worth it, but if the girl was an Astyrax, it would be.
Uriel Celeste Astyrax. That name—every time Gabriel hears it, it tastes like ash in her mouth. She was never meant to exist. A mistake, born of shame, cloaked in prophecy as if that could cleanse the filth in her veins. They speak of her like she’s some divine spark sent to save us all, but I see her for what she truly is—an abomination. A bastard child, hidden away like a scar under royal silk, now dragged into the light like she belongs.
And the worst part? They believe in her. They feared her. Lords bend their ears to her name. They look at Gabriel, a daughter of pure Aurelius blood, and then they look at her—like they're equals. As if all her sacrifices, all her training, all her duty could be outshone by a bastard child who happened to be born with a prophecy written in her wake.
She wasn't going to let that mud-blooded bastard born into Astyrax trample her, not at least when she's seen her head beneath her boot.
Notes:
Haven't even started to write Gaburi and I can sense the tension 😭
"I'd never marry an Astyrax, much less a blonde." It might seem crazy what I'm about to say to you, my poor Gabriel 😭
Chapter 11: Mark Of Frost, Northern Throne (2)
Summary:
In summary, Gabriel goes camping with her cousins, it was all fun and games until Lucan falls into the frozen lake, Gabriel gets a weird dream where she saw the frost king looking directly through her as it stabs her, now she sees Seraphis Aurelius himself in the flesh talking to her, to only realize Seraphis was also a king of frost walkers. Now it's up to her to make a decision, she's being watched, being monitored. Being forced to think of a decision to follow their ancestors or burn the twin tree down, but the question is, where is the other twin of tree? She also experienced a weird revelation—that the mirror king Caelora was once madly inlove with her mother.
Notes:
Kind of a filler chapter but will play a really important chapter for the plot of this story, it's up to y'all to guess who the next Frost king would be, but it will all fall into a very chaotic end, so do prepare about it. Oh and also, Gabriel is bastardphobic, hates blondes, and is jealous of whatever prophecy Uriel has, so the enemies to lovers will play a lot, especially at the future chapters where they meet for the first time, which I will get onto after probably another chapter of Northern Throne. Just needed to emphasize that they also get direwolf puppies here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The study smelled of old ink and warm beeswax, the hearth throwing golden shadows across the stone walls. Seraphine Bulstrode sat at her writing desk, draped in ivory velvet, her quill scratching steadily over a letter sealed with the mark of Aurelia. A small bowl of mountain tea steamed beside her parchment.
Across the desk, lounging with quiet patience, was Caelus Aurelius—his boots crossed, a fur-lined cloak draped over his shoulders, the corners of his mouth curled in amusement as he read over a different scroll. Occasionally, he'd glance up, watching his wife work, or lean over to correct a word she had misspelled in Vireonic script.
“You keep forgetting the second ‘I’ in ‘rebellion,’” Caelus said, tapping the parchment.
Seraphine didn't look up. “You don’t even know how to pronounce words in Thoborian or Ophirian. Stick to your swords, war freak.”
“I know enough to tell when my wife is insulting someone by accident,” he replied smoothly. “Or perhaps it was deliberate?”
She gave him a sidelong look, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “If it were deliberate, I would’ve spelled it correctly.”
Caelus chuckled and leaned back. “One day, you’ll admit my grammar is superior, love."
“On the day your ego dies,” Seraphine said, dipping her quill again.
Before he could retort, the door creaked open—barely—and a small voice piped in behind it.
“Mother? Father?”
Both looked toward the door just as Gabriel stepped in, bundled in furs much too large for her slender frame. Her hair tangled from the wind, her cheeks red from running through the cold halls.
“I want to go with them,” she said, standing as tall as her eight-year-old self could manage.
Caelus raised an eyebrow. “With whom?”
“With Theon, Lucan, and Selene. They’re going to camp near the pinewoods tonight. Just for fun! They said there will be a fire, and songs, and roasted sweetroot.”
Seraphine blinked. “Camping? In this weather?”
Gabriel stomped her little boot, flustered. “I’m not a baby. I can do it too. Theon said he’ll make sure nothing eats me. Please, Father. Please. I’ll wear the extra cloak. I’ll even carry my own pack!”
Caelus rubbed his chin, clearly enjoying the show. “And what if a snow lion comes sniffing around?”
Gabriel drew herself up proudly. “I’ll stab it in the eye with my spoon.”
Seraphine laughed softly behind her hand. "Like father like daughter indeed."
“You’ll freeze before you get to roast a single sweetroot,” Caelus warned.
“I won’t!” Gabriel said stubbornly, her eyes big and stormy. “I swear it on the blood of Aurelius.”
Caelus exchanged a glance with Seraphine, who now stood, folding her arms with practiced grace. “Let her go,” she said, her voice gentle. “She’s old enough for one night with her cousins.”
“She’s eight.”
“You were ten when you stole a ship from a Vireonic harbor.”
“That’s different. I had a crew.”
“She has Theon.” Seraphine walked to Gabriel and bent low, smoothing down her fur collar. “Just promise me you’ll listen to your cousins. No wandering. No climbing. No talking to foxes.”
Gabriel nodded rapidly, her face glowing with excitement. “Yes, Mother. I’ll behave. I swear!”
Caelus rose from his chair at last, towering over them both. His gaze softened as he looked down at his daughter. “If you lose a toe to frostbite, I’m cutting off Theon’s ear.”
Gabriel grinned. “He said you’d say that.”
Seraphine kissed her forehead, and Caelus ruffled her hair—something he rarely did. She darted out a moment later, a blur of fur and laughter, her voice echoing down the corridor: “We’re going camping!”
As her footsteps faded, Caelus sat back down beside his wife. “She’s more stubborn than both of us.”
“She’s yours,” Seraphine said, returning to her letter. “What did you expect?”
Caelus leaned over and kissed her cheek, his voice low. “I expected a quiet life.”
Seraphine smiled faintly. “Then you married the wrong woman.”
The snow was thick underfoot, crunching like dried leaves with every step. Theon led the way through the twilight frost, his torch casting long flickers across the pine trunks. Gabriel clutched the edges of her cloak tightly as the wind nipped at her cheeks, but her steps were light with excitement. She followed closely behind her cousins, heart thudding with every laugh and playful shout that rang out through the woods.
Lucan ducked behind a tree and threw a snowball that exploded across Selene’s shoulder. She shrieked, scooping up a handful of snow in retaliation.
“You’ll regret that!” Selene called.
“In your dreams, sister” Lucan teased, ducking again.
Before Gabriel could blink, the two had erupted into a full skirmish, snow flying, laughter echoing like bells across the trees.
“War of the century,” Theon chuckled. “They’ve been doing this since they were five.”
Gabriel grinned—but then yelped as a snowball narrowly missed her face.
Without a word, Theon bent down and hoisted her into his arms like a sack of grain. “Not our little general,” he said, shielding her. “She must live to see the marshmallows roasted.”
Gabriel squirmed with laughter in his arms. “Put me down, I’m not a baby!”
“Never said you were,” Theon said as he set her atop a snow-covered boulder like a throne. “But snowball casualties spare no one.”
Eventually, they reached a clearing tucked between ancient evergreens, where snow had been flattened and cleared for the firepit. Lucan and Selene dropped their armistice long enough to help pile dry twigs and logs while Theon struck flint to steel. The flames came slowly, but soon danced high—amber and gold, casting warm halos over their flushed faces.
They sat close around it, wrapped in thick furs, steam rising from their mugs of cider. Gabriel’s nose was pink, but her eyes sparkled with delight. She leaned into Selene’s side, basking in the rare peace.
Gabriel held the cup suspiciously between her gloved fingers, the dark red liquid catching the flicker of firelight. Its scent was sharp—overripe berries and something bitter that reminded her of dried herbs soaked too long in cold water. Theon nudged her elbow playfully.
“Try it,” he said, grinning. “It’s supposed to be the finest vintage from Ophire. Old Caelora keeps barrels of this stuff for guests he wants to impress.”
Gabriel wrinkled her nose. “It smells like medicine.”
“That’s what they call sophistication down there,” Lucan added, raising his cup with mock elegance.
Still hesitant, Gabriel brought the rim near her lips, then recoiled at once, setting the goblet down with a quiet thunk on the snow-covered log. “Absolutely not. It tastes like a rotten plum died in it.”
Theon burst into laughter. “And there it is.”
Selene smirked, giving Gabriel a sideways glance. “Like mother, like daughter.”
Gabriel blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Lucan leaned forward, cradling his own cup of the bitter wine. His expression softened, as though some old memory had reached out from the fire. “She hated it too. Your father said the first time they offered it to her, she spit it out in front of a dozen Ophirian nobles when they were negotiating the wars.”
Gabriel sat straighter. “She did?”
“She did,” Theon confirmed. “And that’s only part of it.”
Selene’s voice quieted. “Do you know why Amun Caelora wants nothing more than to see Aurelia fall?”
Gabriel frowned. “Because of the old wars. Because of Metatron, maybe.”
Lucan shook his head. “That’s just the excuse he feeds to court. The real reason… is your mother.”
Gabriel froze, eyes flicking between her cousins.
“She was once held in Ophire,” Selene said softly. “During the final year of the Dominion Wars. Taken prisoner. She was a pure-blooded angel from Vireon, last living descendant of the Bulstrode family, noble and untouched. A prized captive.”
“And Amun Caelora,” Lucan continued, voice sharpening, “was a man who believed he could own anything he laid eyes on.”
“He already had a wife,” Theon added darkly, “but that didn’t matter. He kept your mother locked away beneath the Palace of Mirrors. Called her his ‘celestial bride.’ Told the court she was a gift from the gods, destined to purify his line.”
Gabriel’s lip curled. “Disgusting.”
Selene nodded. “He made advances. Sweet words. Promises. But when that failed, he threatened. He was… persistent. Obsessive.”
"What the fuck.." Gabriel cursed, both confused and angry, oh he is definitely in her assassination list now.
The fire crackled, and the snow fell silently around them. For a moment, no one spoke.
Lucan looked up. “Then came the siege. Aurelia’s banners crossed the mountain. And your father—Caelus—was there when they stormed the prison vaults.”
“He found her,” Theon said. “Chained but unbroken. And he freed her himself.”
Gabriel felt her heart swell in her chest, a mixture of fury and pride stirring like twin flames.
“They say,” Selene added, “that she looked at him—mud on his cloak, blood on his sword—and smiled for the first time in months. And when she spoke, she asked him his name.”
“They fell in love? Cringe.” Gabriel asked quietly.
“Yes,” Theon said. “And that’s what Caelora could never forgive. That Seraphine—his perfect, pure-blooded prize—chose a northern wolf over a golden serpent.”
“He never let it go,” Lucan said. “And he never will.”
Gabriel looked into the fire, the wine forgotten beside her. She could feel it now—that hatred Caelora carried, not just against her father, but against her. A legacy of rejection, a wound never healed.
“He still wants her?” she asked.
Theon shrugged, but his tone was bitter. “Wants, hates, reveres. Whatever it is, it festers.”
Selene placed a hand gently on Gabriel’s back. “That’s why your mother never speaks of those days. And why we keep watching—because vengeance doesn’t care how many years have passed.”
The wind howled gently through the trees, but inside the circle of flame, Gabriel felt warmer than ever—shielded by her cousins, yet sharpened by the truth.
She reached down, picked up the Ophirian wine again, and without a word, poured it into the snow.
fire crackled, the snow whispered gently against their cloaks, and for a moment the camp was quiet, hushed by the weight of old truths. Gabriel sat still, eyes lingering on the dark stain in the snow where she had emptied the Ophirian wine, her thoughts spiraling around the memory of a mother she realized she barely understood.
Then, like a slingshot pulled too far, the tension snapped.
A packed ball of snow struck Theon square in the side of the head with a satisfying thwack.
He jolted upright. “By the gods—!”
Lucan was already laughing before Theon even turned. “A reminder,” he grinned, backing away with his arms out, “that history may be heavy, but your head is still an easy target.”
“You son of a Vhalor goat,” Theon hissed, brushing snow off his ear as he lunged to his feet. “Come here and say that again.”
“You’ll have to catch me first.”
Lucan darted behind a tree as Theon took off after him, boots crunching through the icy grass, snow scattering in their wake. Selene groaned, shielding her face as a stray snowball smashed against the log beside her.
“Boys,” she muttered, “and their eternal need for war.” just a few seconds later, hurled a snowball into the shadows. It whistled through the air and landed with a soft but satisfying thunk—right on Selene’s head.
A moment of silence passed.
Selene blinked. Snow trickled down the side of her temple. She turned slowly toward Gabriel, who instinctively scooted away. Then she looked at Lucan.
“Right,” Selene said with the calm rage of someone about to deliver divine punishment. She crouched beside Gabriel, scooped up a handful of snow—and, very deliberately, nestled a smooth flat rock into its center.
“This,” she said, rolling the snow carefully until the rock was hidden inside, “is how you silence Lucan.”
Gabriel gasped, eyes wide. “You’re not actually going to—”
But Selene was already up. Lucan, realizing he had only seconds left to live, gave a wild laugh and took off.
Theon, who had been crouched near the log, watching all of this unfold with quiet amusement, shook his head. “Lucan never learns.”
Lucan dodged between trees, shouting over his shoulder. “If I die, let it be known I was struck down by a very ugly woman and a very witchcrafted weapon!”
“Keep talking and I’ll aim for your balls, you cunt!” Selene called, sprinting after him.
Later, the snowball war came to a truce—not by choice, but because Lucan slipped on a root and nearly fell face-first into the fire pit, declaring dramatically that his “warrior days were over.” They gathered again around the now blazing campfire, warming fingers and cheeks as the woods beyond faded into darkness.
Theon was the first to break the silence, his voice low and hushed. “You ever hear of the Pale Lady of the Glade?”
Gabriel, still red-nosed and smiling from the fun, blinked. “What?”
Lucan leaned forward, grinning, eyes glinting with mischief. “A spirit. White eyes, skin like cracked bone. Walks with no sound. They say she hunts little girls.”
“Especially ones with white hair,” Theon added, barely concealing his laughter.
Gabriel stiffened, her white hair falling over to the side as she tilted her head as she looked at Theon curiously.
“And when she finds one,” Lucan whispered, “she bites the fingers off first, so they can’t fight back.”
Gabriel opened her mouth, indignant. “That’s—!”
“Then the toes,” Theon added solemnly.
Gabriel looked down at her boots. “You two are idiots.”
“Only the girls,” Lucan continued, ignoring her. “Because she was once a princess, betrayed by her family. Left in the woods to die. And now—she makes other little girls suffer.”
Selene, unmoved, reached for another log to feed the fire. “Mm. Keep talking and you’ll end up a eunuch.”
Lucan dramatically placed a hand over his groin. “I take it back.”
Theon burst out laughing, nearly choking on his own breath. Gabriel, though trying very hard not to smile, gave a small giggle.
Lucan looked at Selene. “What, you don’t believe in the Pale Lady?”
“I believe in idiots who like hearing their own voices,” Selene replied flatly.
The fire crackled lazily now, casting gold and amber light across their flushed faces. Selene had pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, legs tucked neatly beneath her, while Lucan was fiddling with a stick, poking it at the embers with reckless abandon.
“You’re going to start a forest fire,” Selene muttered, watching ash flutter too close to her boots.
“I’m conducting an experiment,” Lucan replied, not even glancing at her.
“An experiment in how to be the most annoying creature in Aurelia?”
“Incorrect. I’m trying to see if this log has a soul.”
“It doesn’t,” she snapped. “But you clearly lack one.”
Lucan turned to her with mock offense. “You wound me, cousin.”
“Not yet,” Selene said sweetly. “But there’s always tomorrow.”
Gabriel grinned behind her scarf, loving every second of it.
“You two fight like an old married couple,” she teased.
Theon laughed, agreeing. "Born to be a married couple forced to be siblings." He joked darkly.
Lucan raised his eyebrows. “Stars forbid.”
Selene rolled her eyes. “As if I’d waste my title marrying a toad.”
“A handsome toad,” Lucan corrected.
“A bloated one,” Selene shot back.
They both glared at each other, neither giving ground. It was so normal, so familiar, that it warmed Gabriel in a way that even the fire couldn’t. This was her family—chaotic, quarrelsome, but deeply rooted in something she didn’t yet know how to name.
Theon leaned in to Gabriel with a conspiratorial grin, voice barely above the crackling of the fire. “They weren’t always like this, you know.”
Gabriel blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Lucan and Selene,” he whispered, eyeing the two as they bickered. “They’re not really blood of Aurelius. My mother found them on the road after a bandit raid near Howling Pass. Just two ash-covered little brats clinging to a dead wagon.” he joked.
Gabriel turned wide-eyed toward the pair, surprised. “Truly?”
“Oh, truly,” Theon nodded, looking quite pleased with himself. “Selene bit a knight’s glove clean off. And Lucan wouldn’t stop crying unless someone gave him wine.”
“I heard that,” Selene said sharply, eyes narrowing as she turned over her shoulder.
Lucan snorted. “'Wouldn't stop crying'? Bold words coming from the actual stray picked off the road.”
Theon's smug smile vanished. “What?”
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” Selene said, rising to her knees and brushing soot off her gloves. “You're the one whose birth scrolls conveniently 'vanished in a fire.’”
“Suspiciously convenient,” Lucan agreed. “If I recall, it was a stable fire. In Vireon. Full of goats.”
“Tragic loss of records,” Selene added dryly. “One might even say... fabricated.”
Gabriel blinked. “Wait. Are you adopted?”
Theon sat back, feigning horror. “You two really have nothing better to do than concoct lies around the fire?”
Selene smirked. “Say that again when we braid your hair in your sleep, stable boy.”
Lucan picked up a stick and pointed it at Theon like a sword. “Behold, Theon of the Ashwood. Found beside a bucket of spoiled butter and a broken fiddle.”
Gabriel burst into laughter, the sound ringing through the trees like a silver bell. Even Theon had to chuckle, reluctantly.
“You’re both goblins,” he said flatly, but his eyes were gleaming with warmth.
None of them were actually adopted.
******************
The fire had long died down, their breath now visible in silvery puffs against the night sky. Most would have been buried beneath furs, asleep by now. But not them.
“Are you serious?” Selene whispered, her boots crunching in the ice.
“As serious as Theon’s war poetry seduction,” Lucan muttered.
Gabriel tiptoed after them, the oversized cloak wrapped tight around her. “You all are mad.”
Theon glanced back with a grin. “Welcome to the family, little cousin.”
The moon was full and clear, casting its ghostly light across the frozen lake that glittered like a pane of glass. Snow-laced trees loomed like silent sentries, and the only sounds were their muffled laughter and the scrape of sled runners behind them. Lucan dragged a small wooden box filled with fishing tools, while Theon carried the kettle and Selene had the salted meat and flasks tucked beneath her arms.
They reached a hollow near the lake’s center, where the snow was cleared earlier in the day. A black circle of water gleamed beneath the ice hole they’d cut, steam rising faintly from the edges. Theon set down the kettle, rubbing his hands together. “Alright, grab the rods.”
Gabriel stared at the hole. “Isn’t it freezing?”
“Of course it’s freezing,” Selene said, lowering her bait. “But nothing wakes the soul like cold fingers and the chance of pulling up a ghostfish.”
Gabriel tilted her head. “Ghostfish?”
“They’re real,” Lucan lied. “Transparent. Glow at night. Bite your fingers clean off.”
Gabriel turned pale.
Selene kicked him. “Stop terrifying her. They're just river bass. The only thing glowing is your stupidity.” and with that, Selene and Lucan started arguing again.
Gabriel took the smallest rod and settled beside her cousin. “Do we actually catch anything?”
“No,” Theon said. “But we pretend.”
Lucan flopped onto the snow, using the box as a pillow. “And tell more embarrassing stories.”
“No more stories!” Selene declared. “If any of you speak of the Vault Heist of Year Twelve again, I will push someone through the ice.”
Gabriel smiled, watching her line bob in the dark water.
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Peaceful. Gentle. The kind that only came from shared warmth under a star-draped sky. The wind was soft tonight, whispering through pine needles and brushing over their cheeks.
“I like this,” Gabriel whispered.
Theon sat beside her. “We used to do this all the time. When Lucan and Selene weren’t trying to drown each other.”
“We were bonding,” Selene said flatly.
Lucan chuckled. “You threatened to bite my fingers off once.”
“Still might.”
Gabriel looked between them—Selene with her hair wind-tousled, Lucan stretching with smug contentment, Theon poking at the kettle over the fire.
The moon had dipped lower by the time their flasks were emptied, and Selene was snoring softly, bundled in her cloak beside the kettle. Theon had nodded off sitting upright, arms folded and lips parted slightly in sleep, a thread of drool threatening to escape.
Gabriel stayed up, dangling her fishing rod lazily over the hole. Her line hadn’t even twitched. Still, she smiled. The silence wasn’t lonely—it was full of their breaths, their dreams, their closeness.
Lucan was the only one still sitting upright, chin in his palm, eyes half-lidded. His fishing rod had been forgotten beside him, line slack.
Then it jerked.
A sharp tug—once, twice.
Lucan blinked, the cold air biting sharper now. He blinked again, then sat up straighter. “Oi,” he whispered, tugging the rod slightly. It pulled back. Harder.
Gabriel glanced over sleepily. “Did you get something?”
“I think so,” Lucan muttered, gripping the handle. “It’s... heavy.”
The line whipped again, harsher this time.
Gabriel leaned forward, but the quiet of the night felt too still. Her breath caught in her throat.
Then it yanked.
Lucan shouted as the rod nearly flew from his hands. “What in the bloody—?”
There was a screech of wood as he tried to dig his heels into the ice, but whatever was below the surface wasn’t letting go. Gabriel scrambled forward with a pair of scissors.
Selene shot awake at the noise. “What’s going on?!”
“What is it?” Gabriel said concerned, trying to cut off the fishing line, she gazed into the water and saw lilac purple eyes staring right at her, the figure was blurred, but it looked like it had many limbs.
The rod jerked a final time—and Lucan, unbalanced and caught off guard, was pulled to stumble, breaking through the ice and straight into the water.
There was a splash—a violent, echoing crash that shattered the stillness. The dark hole swallowed him in a blink.
“Lucan!” Selene shouted, rushing to the edge, already throwing off her gloves. Theon was up in an instant, swearing loudly.
Gabriel reached the hole, eyes wide with terror as the black water roiled and foamed. “Lucan!”
Then he burst back up, gasping, flailing—face ghost-pale in the moonlight.
“What the hell is that?!” he shouted, struggling toward the edge.
Selene reached out, grabbing one arm, Theon the other, and with a mighty heave they hauled him out. Lucan rolled onto the snow coughing, soaked and shivering.
Gabriel backed up, watching the hole warily. Something moved beneath the surface—just a shadow. Then silence again. Nothing. She couldn't get the purple eyes in the water out of her mind.
Lucan lay sprawled on the ground, gasping. “There was something down there,” he muttered. “It wasn’t a fish. It had fingers. Fingers!”
Theon was already shoving snow at him. “You almost got pulled into a lake ghost, you idiot!”
“It tried to drown me!”
Selene groaned. “I told you. You tempted fate. First the Vault. Then the cursed wine. Now lake spirits.”
Lucan sat up, shaking, eyes wide. “I’m never fishing again. Ever.”
"You look like a wet shivering puppy." Gabriel teased.
The morning mist hung low as the four cousins trudged through the snow-blanketed forest. Their boots crunched against frostbitten leaves, breath forming clouds in the chill. Sunlight had barely crested the treetops, turning the world a pale, washed-out gold. They were supposed to be headed back to Snezhnaya. That was the plan. But Lucan had wanted to explore—again.
“This is pointless,” Theon grumbled, kicking a rock aside. “We’ve seen trees. We’ve seen snow. We’ve seen more snow.”
“And you nearly got eaten by something in the lake,” Selene added to Theon's complaint to Lucan dryly, hugging her coat tighter.
Lucan marched on ahead. “You said you wanted to do something before going back. Well, this is something.”
“You said we’d find an abandoned cabin,” Theon shot back. “Or a ruined watchtower. Or—anything besides more damn pine trees!”
“You could’ve stayed behind if you’re going to whine like a wet cat.” Lucan muttered, still upset that Theon didn't help him in the lake.
“Oh, forgive me for not enjoying freezing my stones off.”
“Enough,” Selene snapped, exasperated. “You’re both loud enough to wake the dead.”
Gabriel trailed behind quietly, her scarf pulled high around her face. She didn’t mind the walk. The silence of the woods soothed her in a way nothing else did.
Then she saw it first.
“Stop,” she said suddenly, voice low.
Lucan halted. “What is it?”
She pointed toward the bend in the trail. At first, they all thought it was just a boulder cloaked in snow—but then it twitched.
A direwolf.
An Aurelian direwolf.
Slumped by the road’s edge, chest barely rising and falling. Its fur was matted with frost and streaks of dried blood. Curled beside it were tiny movements—pups, no more than a few weeks old, squirming weakly in the snow.
“Gods,” Selene whispered. “It’s dying.”
“Leave it be,” Theon said, his voice flat. “Nature’s made its choice. The snow will deal with them.”
Lucan turned to him, aghast. “What, just like that? Let them freeze?”
“They’re wild animals, Lucan.”
“They’re helpless!”
“Lucan—”
“Enough arguing, both of you.” Gabriel said calmly. Her voice echoed through the trees, colder than any of them expected. They all turned to her.
She stepped forward slowly, eyes on the pups. They were whimpering now, one trying to nudge at its unmoving mother.
“Direwolves are the sigil of our House,” she said. “Emblems of the North. Of the bloodline of Aurelius. To leave them to die in the snow would be…” She looked up at Theon, her voice steadier than her eight years should allow. “…disrespectful. To unworthy their survival would be to spit on our own name.”
Lucan looked at her, jaw tight, then turned to Theon with a look that said 'See?'
Selene moved first. She crouched beside the mother and touched her fur gently. “She’s already gone. But they’re warm enough… barely.”
“Then we act now,” Gabriel said, kneeling beside the pups. “Before the cold finishes them off.”
Theon muttered something under his breath, but in the end, he helped.
Theon whispered, kneeling down. “I thought they were near extinct.”
“Most are,” Lucan murmured. “But not this bloodline. Look at their markings…”
The pups were trembling, one of them nosing at the mother’s cold chest. Their yips were weak, tired, but determined.
Without thinking, Theon reached out—and one of the greyer pups sniffed his fingers and gave a tiny, rasping bark. Its ears twitched and it tumbled forward, awkward and unbalanced, snarling at his hand to protect its siblings.
“This one’s mine,” he said with a crooked smile, scooping the pup into his arms. “Look at him. Warrior’s spirit already.”
Lucan huffed. “That one’s massive. He’ll eat half our rations in a week.”
“Then pick your own,” Theon shot back.
Lucan knelt and examined the smaller of the greys—sleek-furred and alert. It growled at him feebly when he got too close but whimpered when Lucan barely grazed its ears. He chuckled. “You’ve got attitude. Just like me. Alright, little monster. You’re mine.”
Selene had already wandered around to the other side of the mother, where a curious pup of grey and white fur sniffed at the snow. She crouched and let it climb awkwardly into her lap after peacefully sniffing her gloves and sneezing, looking up at Selene with its curious baby blue just like her's.
“This one’s beautiful,” she murmured. “See the eyes? Oh you're mine, you little ankle biter.”
Gabriel lingered behind them all. Her eyes had settled on the last of the pups.
The smallest.
Pure white.
It had not moved as much as the others, just sat quietly near the mother’s leg, watching. When Gabriel approached, it didn’t flinch. It just looked up at her with pale grey eyes, still and silent as snowfall.
She crouched slowly.
The pup walked to her.
It tucked itself against her foot.
“I want this one,” she said softly, not daring to touch it yet. “She’s not loud. She listens.”
“She’s half-dead,” Lucan said flatly. “Tiny. Cold.”
“Just like me then,” Gabriel replied without flinching.
That shut Lucan up.
Selene smiled, brushing snow from her pup’s back. “We’ll need to build them nests. Keep them warm until we return. They’ll die out here.”
“They’ll be Aurelians,” Theon said, standing proudly with his pup tucked in his cloak. “Raised in snow and loyalty.”
Gabriel held her wolf delicately, smallest of the litter. Pure white, with a whimpering cry and a limp in its left hind leg. It nuzzled into her chest and fell asleep almost instantly.
Theon sighed as he tucked his own grey pup under his coat. “We’re going to get flogged when uncle Caelus finds out.”
Lucan smirked. “Only if the guards catch us.”
Selene raised a brow. “I’ll lie. I’ll say we found them inside Gabriel’s coat.”
Gabriel gave a small smile. “You’re a terrible liar.”
“Exactly,” Selene replied. “No one would believe I did it.”
They shared a laugh, even as the frost bit their fingers.
The journey back to camp was longer with the added weight, but none of them complained.
They had no idea that these small whimpering pups would someday become legends alongside them—mirrors of their own spirits, loyal to the bloodline that had not yet been broken.
By the time they made it back to their campsite, the sun had risen fully—though it did little to warm the frost-laced air. Their campfire had long died, but Theon knelt to rekindle it, sparks catching quickly on dry pine needles and twigs. Soon, the flames danced again, casting golden light across their faces.
The four pups were curled up in their laps, still shivering but alive.
Gabriel sat cross-legged by the fire, holding the smallest one close. The pup’s fur was thick, snowy white from nose to tail, save for a single soft grey marking on its ear—shaped like a crescent. It breathed lightly, nestled in her cloak, too tired to whimper anymore. She hadn’t stopped cradling it since they left the woods.
Selene glanced at her. “That one’s going to grow slowly, look, it's clinging to you for warmth.”
Gabriel looked down at the pup. “She doesn’t need to grow fast. She’s already brave.”
“What will you call her?” Lucan asked, tossing a stick into the flames.
Gabriel thought for a moment, then smiled. “Blizzard.”
Lucan snorted. “Creative.”
“It suits her,” Selene said, gently stroking the fur of her own pup. It was a sleek creature, half-grey and half-white, with sharp eyes that barely blinked. “Mine’s Skye,” she said after a pause. “Because she keeps looking up. Like she’s studying the clouds, plotting something.”
“Like her owner,” Theon muttered.
Lucan leaned back and lifted his pup, a soft, smoky-grey thing with darker streaks on its paws. It yawned, flashing baby teeth. “I’m calling him Smokewind,” Lucan declared proudly. “Fastest of the bunch, you’ll see.”
“You haven’t even seen them walk properly yet,” Theon said with a smirk. But then he looked down at the pup resting against his thigh—fluffy and grey with eyes that shimmered like ice under moonlight. He let out a breath and stroked its back. “Greyfrost,” he said quietly. “He’s calm. Watches everything. Like he wants to protect his siblings from any harm.”
“You naming a direwolf after your own personality?” Selene teased.
“Well, someone has to give the bloodline dignity.”
“Mmhm,” she hummed. “We’ll see how dignified he is once he pees in your boots.”
Gabriel giggled quietly and tucked little Blizzard closer against her.
They didn’t speak for a while after that. Just sat together, warming their hands by the fire, pups sleeping on their laps or nestled between coats. For the first time in days, maybe weeks, none of them argued. None of them worried about war, or court, or the heavy future waiting for them.
The third night in the wilds of Snezhnaya was unlike the others. The wind howled through the trees like a choir of ghosts, and the moon was veiled behind thick clouds. The fire, though fed, offered little warmth against the creeping cold that pressed against their camp like a presence.
Gabriel drifted into sleep beneath heavy furs, Blizzard curled against her chest. The puppy whimpered, tail twitching, as if dreaming of things too large and ancient for its fragile body to understand.
That night, Gabriel dreamed of death.
It began with footsteps crunching over snow—not her own. She turned her head and saw a forest unfamiliar to her: the trees were black, leafless, skeletal, rising like ribs from the frozen earth. The moon hung low and bloodless above them, casting everything in sharp contrasts of silver and shadow.
She stood barefoot in the clearing, her breath coming out in thick clouds, her limbs heavy. The sound came again: footsteps. Many. Shuffling, dragging, inhuman. From the darkness, they emerged.
Frost Walkers.
Their flesh was cracked like permafrost, their limbs stiff and jerking with unnatural motion. Eyes, rimmed in frost and burning with a cold fire, locked onto her. Their armor was ancient and rusted, bits of fur and bone dangling from their belts, swords half-melted to their hands.
She ran.
The snow sucked at her legs like quicksand, the wind biting her cheeks. The trees began to blur, their trunks multiplying—no, closing in, herding her like prey.
Then he appeared.
The frost parted for him like reverent mist. A tall figure in black and silver. His cloak was tattered, but regal. His hair was white as ash, skin pale like the full moon. But it was his eyes that froze her still—violet. Not the blue of the walkers, but deep violet, glowing faintly, pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath the frost.
He raised a spear—twisted, dark, its blade humming with quiet malice.
Gabriel tried to scream, but her mouth wouldn't open.
The spear struck her chest.
Not sharp—blunt, cracking bone. The force flung her backward into the snow, breath punched from her lungs. Cold flooded her body. Not the cold of the wind or the winter, but something older—an emptiness that scraped marrow from bone.
As she writhed, choking on her own breath, the Frost King knelt beside her.
She looked into his violet eyes and saw... nothing. No malice. No cruelty. Just destiny.
Then everything went dark.
She woke with a scream muffled in her throat.
Her body jolted upward, sweat slicked her brow despite the cold. The fire crackled nearby, casting flickering light against the canopy of their lean-to. Selene snored softly, hugging Skye close. Theon was sprawled across his bedroll, snoring with his mouth open. Lucan lay curled with Smokewind, one arm resting protectively over the pup.
Blizzard whined softly and nuzzled closer to her.
Gabriel’s chest rose and fell rapidly. She pressed a hand to her heart where the spear had struck in the dream. It ached. Not with pain—but with memory.
She didn’t speak. She didn’t wake the others. But as she curled back down beside Blizzard, the dream crawled in the back of her mind like a spider.
She remembered Theon’s story.
How just the other day, beneath the firelight, he had told them in jest of a ghostly king—"The Frost King"—who rose every thousand winters to reclaim the souls of those who defied the cold. Theon had joked that the king had once appeared to him in a vision and stabbed him through the gut with an icicle for stealing mead during the winter festival.
They’d all laughed.
But the king in her dream was real. His face was not shadowed or monstrous. His eyes were not blue like the legends.
They were violet.
Just like the ones she’d seen under the lake. Just like the one who had pulled Lucan into the ice before the direwolves came.
She clutched Blizzard tighter.
The frost was watching. And it remembered her name.
She lay awake long after the others had settled into their quiet rhythms of breath, her wide eyes tracing the frost that curled along the roof of their tent. Her heart had settled from its earlier thundering panic—but the dread had only deepened, heavier now, like a veil thrown over her senses.
The sky was paling into dawn when she sat up quietly and pulled back her sleeve.
She didn’t know why she looked. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was something colder—something ancient whispering to her just beneath thought.
And then she saw it.
A mark.
Burned into the skin of her left arm just below the shoulder, as though kissed by frost and flame both. It pulsed faintly—just once, like a blink—as she stared.
It was shaped like an eye.
Not a human one. Slit-pupiled. Ringed in runes that curved like icicles and fangs. The veins surrounding the mark had turned faintly blue, branching out like frost on glass, spidering down to her elbow and creeping toward her chest.
She touched it. It was ice cold—but didn’t hurt. It simply… lingered, like a shadow refusing to be cast away.
Blizzard gave a soft bark at her side, then whined, pawing at her arm.
Gabriel quickly rolled down her sleeve.
She didn’t tell anyone. Not yet.
When the others woke, she was already poking at the fire, pretending to warm her hands as though nothing had happened. Selene grumbled about breakfast, Lucan was already skinning a fish he’d caught earlier, and Theon rubbed his eyes and reached for his boots.
But Gabriel sat quietly, watching the smoke curl up into the morning sky.
Her thoughts were still haunted by the violet eyes in her dream—the mark on her arm—and most of all, the cold, dull pain in her chest.
She thought of Lucan being pulled into the water that night, by something not entirely beast nor man.
She remembered Theon's story.
And she began to wonder: What if he hadn’t been joking?
What if the Frost King had already chosen her?
The snow had started to fall again, gently at first, then thicker as she climbed the frost-bitten slope above their little base. Blizzard followed her clumsily, still limping but determined to keep up, her soft white fur blending almost too well into the icy terrain.
Gabriel knelt behind a bare-branched tree, finally alone.
She pulled up her sleeve again, biting her lower lip.
The mark was still there, worse now.
It had grown.
The eye had widened slightly, no longer closed. The runes that circled it shimmered with a faint lilac glow, as though breathing. And her veins… they weren’t just blue now. Near the center, they’d turned dark. Black.
Tentatively, she reached out a finger and touched the center of the eye.
A sound exploded in her skull—like wind screaming through a chasm.
Pain tore through her arm.
She gasped, falling to her knees. The mark flared, angry and burning, and the veins turned darker still, crawling higher up toward her collarbone like poisoned vines.
Her breath hitched. Her vision swam. Something ancient pressed against her consciousness—a presence without shape, without voice, yet undeniable.
You were seen, the air seemed to whisper.
You were chosen.
She tore her hand away from the mark.
Instantly, the agony stopped.
The veins retreated, fading to pale blue once more, though the pain lingered like an echo. She gasped, blinking back tears, gripping her wrist.
Blizzard let out a soft growl, ears flat. The pup was staring at her mark, whimpering.
Gabriel cradled her arm to her chest.
She didn’t know what was happening to her. Only that it wasn’t human. And it wasn’t done yet.
Footsteps crunched behind her. She quickly pulled her sleeve down.
Lucan’s voice called, “Oi, runt—what’re you doing out here?”
She turned. He was climbing up toward her with two flasks of warm cider, offering one to her casually.
“Your wolf looked like she was chasing ghosts,” he added with a raised brow, noticing Blizzard's bristled posture.
Gabriel forced a smile, taking the flask. “She’s dramatic.”
Lucan didn’t seem convinced, but said nothing more.
As they walked back down together, Gabriel looked at her arm again—briefly.
The eye had closed once more. But she knew it would open again.
That night, the frost claimed her dreams again.
But it felt… different this time.
Gabriel stood not in the present, but somewhere older. Colder. The air itself was brittle, dry, so still it hummed in her ears. Snow stretched across a vast, frozen field. A sky of pale violet hung overhead, stained by distant, dying stars. Her breath curled before her, and the ground beneath her boots was caked with a layer of ancient frost—untouched by sun, by time, by warmth.
She wasn’t alone.
A voice rang behind her—delicate and light, like chimes in a bitter wind.
“Turn around, girl.”
Gabriel turned slowly.
Hovering a few feet away was a creature not taller than her arm. A fairy, or what once had been. Its wings shimmered like glass shards, fluttering lazily. Its skin glowed faintly silver, eyes large and pupil-less. And yet there was nothing warm in it. Its smile was hollow. Its presence—a thing born not of delight, but of memory.
“You walk the trail of echoes,” it said, circling her. “Dreams that do not belong to you, yet you were chosen to witness.”
Gabriel opened her mouth, but no sound came.
The fairy drifted past her, gesturing to the horizon. “Come. Look.”
There, rising like two enormous spires of bone, stood the Godswood.
Twin trees—twisting, pale as ivory, roots tangled like the arms of lovers or warriors, stretching into a ravine blanketed in blue-leaved thorns. Their bark was white as snow, but slick with crimson veins that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. The leaves glimmered in the windless night, an unnatural blue.
Gabriel stepped forward, breath catching. She felt it now. The air here tasted of iron and reverence. The woods watched her.
“The Godswood of Aurelia,” the spirit whispered. “It grows where the barrier between your world and the ancient one is thinnest. But it feeds only on the pure. That is why your kind guard it. Why your ancestors never let the blood of outsiders mix.”
Gabriel stared, frozen.
“It is not about pride, not like your father has told you.” the fairy continued. “It is about containment."
She took a step back. “What do you mean?”
But before the spirit could answer, a sudden cold swept through her.
She turned sharply—and saw him.
Beyond the trees. Standing between the curling roots of the Godswood.
The Frost King.
Tall and emaciated, clothed in robes that moved like smoke. His eyes, those same purple eyes, glowed beneath his crown of twisted ice. He was not just watching her.
He was harvesting.
Long, silver spears had been driven into the trunks of the trees, drawing the red sap like blood. Dozens of withered bodies hung suspended in vines behind him, their faces lifeless. The wood pulsed brighter, fed by death.
“No,” Gabriel whispered.
The Frost King looked up, straight at her.
And smiled.
Suddenly, the roots beneath her feet snapped open like jaws. She was falling—snow, blood, and memory swirling around her, yet the dream did not end.
Gabriel’s world twisted once more, the cold sinking deeper into her bones. She felt herself falling—not through space, but through time, through layers of history she could never have imagined. The air around her shimmered, shifting in and out of focus like a mirage. And then, thud.
She hit the stone floor hard.
Groaning, Gabriel pushed herself up, her arms trembling. She blinked, her vision clearing slowly as she surveyed her surroundings. The warmth of a nearby hearth met her cold cheeks, and the crackling of the fire reached her ears. She was inside a room—a room she knew well.
The common room of castle Snezhnaya.
The walls were familiar, old and worn with time, adorned with tapestries and relics of a bygone era. The tall windows were framed with frost, but something was off. The windows didn’t look out over the towering 700-foot walls that she had known all her life. Instead, they looked into the vast expanse of a winter forest, untouched by the hand of man. The world outside was free of the walls that would later encircle the kingdom. This was before.
A shadow fell over her. She looked up, and her breath caught.
There, sitting near the hearth, was Seraphis Aurelius—the very man who had spoken to her in the spirit realm. He was no mere ghost here. He was real, as alive as the fire before him. His white hair was long, flowing past his shoulders, and his robes were regal yet simple, ancient in design. His eyes, the same ice-blue as the mark on her arm, held a depth that transcended centuries. His gaze met hers with an intensity that chilled her to the core.
The fairy, that strange, ethereal being, fluttered beside Gabriel, its glowing form shimmering in the dim light.
"This is the past,” the fairy whispered. “The castle of Snezhnaya in its ancient form. Before the walls. Before everything.”
Gabriel barely processed the words. Her mind was still reeling from the visions of the ancestors, from the weight of the prophet’s words, and now this—this surreal encounter. Her heart thudded in her chest as her eyes traced the figure of Seraphis, seated serenely before the hearth, his presence as commanding as the mountains.
And then, his voice.
“The 56th heir of Aurelia…” He spoke slowly, as though savoring the words, his voice rich with history. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
Gabriel froze, her mouth dry. Her pulse quickened as the weight of his words sank in. Waiting for me?
Her thoughts raced. How does he know? How does he know who I am?
Seraphis stood and walked toward her, each step measured, purposeful. The crackling of the fire seemed to grow louder, the room growing warmer as he drew near.
“You’ve seen the mark, haven’t you?” Seraphis continued, his eyes glinting with knowing. “You bear the mark of the Frost King, just as I once did. He has touched you, claimed you in his twisted way. But you… You are different. Your opportunities, your destiny... You have a choice. A choice I didn’t have.”
"You didn't have a choice..? What are you saying?" Gabriel spoke, wanting to ask him what all of this meant, but the words caught in her throat. How was this possible? How could she stand before Seraphis Aurelius, the prophet of her house, here in the past?
“The gods have always chosen their vessels,” Seraphis said, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. “The North needs its protector, its champion. And you, child, are the one they have chosen. The 56th heir of Aurelia, the one to carry the legacy.”
Gabriel’s eyes flicked to the window again, seeing the untouched land outside—the world as it had once been, before the walls, before the kingdom became the fortress it was now.
“But I don’t want this,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. “I don’t want to carry this burden. I don’t want to be the next prophet.”
Seraphis paused, his gaze softening, but only for a moment.
"You are not a prophet, you are a warrior.” he said, voice low and mournful. “But it is our fate, one that is written in the stars, in the blood of our ancestors. The Frost King waits for you, and he will stop at nothing to see his legacy continue. You, child of fire, will be the one to end it—or to succeed him.”
Gabriel shivered, her eyes widening. She hadn’t wanted to hear those words—hadn’t wanted to be the one to carry that weight. But the mark on her arm burned fiercely, as if in confirmation. She could no longer deny it.
And then, just as quickly as the air grew heavy with prophecy, Seraphis’s face softened.
“But the choice,” he said, with a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “is yours. You may choose the path you walk, for better or for worse. Just remember, no one walks it alone.”
The fairy fluttered next to her again, its glowing form a stark contrast against the cold, dark room.
Gabriel stood frozen at the threshold of the glowing archway, its light humming with eerie energy. The fairy fluttered beside her, its tiny form brimming with solemnity, waiting. Gabriel didn’t know what lay on the other side—only that she was meant to cross it.
With a shaky breath, she stepped forward.
Her boots sank into snow the moment she passed through. The air was colder now, biting and still. The sky above was bruised violet, the horizon swallowed in eternal twilight. The wind carried no birdsong, no whispers. only silence, the kind that choked.
She stood in the heart of a valley cloaked in white. The twin Godswood trees towered ahead, gnarled and pale, with spiraling white trunks and glowing blue leaves. Beneath them… was a man.
Seraphis Aurelius.
But not the man from the hearth. Not the prophet who spoke with patience and power.
No—this Seraphis was broken.
He knelt in the snow, arms outstretched, bound with blue-glowing chains of ice. Blood dripped from his fingertips and mouth, steaming as it met the snow. His pale hair fluttered in the wind, soaked and matted. His back arched against the bark of the Godswood, and frost was spreading from where the roots touched his legs. His chest heaved, ragged with pain.
His eyes, half-lidded, opened at her presence. Blue, piercing—and filled with something that neither time nor pain could erase.
Recognition.
“You came…” he croaked, his breath a puff of white. “At last…” he looked at the 56th heir.
Gabriel stood, trembling, unable to move. "What… what happened to him?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The fairy hovered forward, its glow flickering softly like a candle in the wind. Its voice, when it came, was ancient. Tired.
“This is the price he paid to protect your bloodline.”
Gabriel turned sharply to the fairy. “What?”
“Seraphis Aurelius is not just a prophet. Not just a guardian of the North. He was the third of the Frost Kings.” The fairy hovered beside her face, its tone lowering with reverence. “The third to hold the crown of undead frost. The third to stand between the living and the frostborn. When the second frost king came for Aurelia, he made a bargain—his blood, his soul, in exchange for a future heir that could end what he could not. He saw in a vision, 56th. It's you.”
And with that, the Godswood was drained from its power, transferring the holy mana to Seraphis Aurelius, eventually turning the mana into evil running through his veins. He chained himself with his remaining angelic mana to the tree, and with that, the memory faded.
Gabriel awoke with a start.
The cold hadn’t just seeped into her bones—it felt like it was inside her blood. The air in the tent was still and frosted, her breath leaving pale clouds in front of her lips. But it wasn’t the temperature that made her heart pound.
It was the dream. The godswood. The voice.
The image of Seraphis Aurelius still haunted her, frozen to the roots of the ancient tree, the blue leaves fluttering silently above him as the blood drained into the snow. She’d heard the fairy’s words—He is the third of the kings—and even now, they echoed in her skull like a curse.
She sat up slowly, hands trembling as she pulled her fur-lined coat tighter around her. Beneath her sleeve, the mark on her left arm burned faintly. She dared to glance down. The veins had turned a smoky blue around it again, crawling out like frostbite in bloom. She pressed a hand to it.
“Not now,” she whispered to herself.
A soft whimper beside her made her look down. Blizzard, her tiny white direwolf, lay curled up near her pillow. The pup was blinking sleepily, ears twitching, as if she too had heard whispers in the dark.
Gabriel reached down and scooped her up gently, pressing the soft fur to her cheek. The pup’s warmth grounded her—barely. Her heart still beat with a strange rhythm.
Outside, she could hear the muffled sounds of camp beginning to stir.
“Oi, Selene! You’re tying that crate like it’s going to a wedding!” Lucan's voice rang out, rough and amused.
“Well maybe if you’d stop sitting on it, I could actually get it closed!”
“Don’t blame me because you packed like a noblewoman in exile.”
Theon groaned, loud and exaggerated. “You two bicker more than the pups.”
A bark and a growl followed, then a string of curses. Gabriel couldn’t help the faint smile that tugged at her lips.
They didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Not about the mark. Not about the dream. Not about the figure with violet eyes who had pulled Lucan into the water nights ago.
“Gabriel!” Lucan called. “If you’re not dead, come prove it! We saved you a roll.”
“I’m coming,” she called back, standing shakily. Blizzard squeaked as she was tucked gently into the crook of Gabriel’s arm.
When she stepped outside, the morning sun was cutting gently through the trees, casting long golden lines over the snow. The camp was nearly packed—bedrolls tied, crates strapped, and the direwolf pups chasing each other in a flurry of snow and tails.
“There she is,” Theon said, chewing on a salted pork strip. “Was about to send Greyfrost in there to fetch you.”
“He’d probably eat my tent,” Gabriel replied dryly.
Lucan tossed her a wrapped roll. “You missed your chance at eggs. Theon ate all four.”
“Protein is good for your bones!” Theon said through a mouthful.
Selene raised a brow. “So is silence.”
Gabriel smiled faintly, taking a small bite as her gaze drifted to the treeline. The mark on her arm still tingled, as if it knew something watched beyond the woods.
Blizzard shifted in her arms and let out a soft yawn.
They were going home. Back to Castle Snezhnaya. Back to warmth, and hallways, and fire-lit rooms. But a part of her—something cold and ancient knew that nothing would feel the same again.
As they began to take down the last of the tents, and the direwolf pups wrestled near the sleds, Gabriel took one last glance back at the snow-covered path they had walked.
*********************
The crypts of Castle Snezhnaya always held a breathless stillness, as if the dead were listening.
Gabriel moved quietly between the ancient stone tombs, her lantern’s glow casting long shadows over the faces of Aurelius kings. The cold bit at her cheeks despite the thick cloak wrapped around her. Blizzard squirmed gently in the satchel at her side, whimpering once but falling still when Gabriel pressed a hand over the flap.
She didn’t expect anyone else here.
Not this late. Not in this place.
But the soft shuffle of footsteps and a low growl made her stop.
Greyfrost was the first she saw—his pale eyes glinting in the dark, his tail thumping lightly against the cold stone floor. He stood guard near the foot of a tomb, ears perked forward. Beside him, seated in shadow with arms draped over his knees, was Theon.
He didn’t flinch as she approached.
“I should’ve guessed you’d come here,” he said, voice low, dry.
Gabriel didn’t respond immediately. She stepped forward, holding the lantern up to his face. His jaw was tight, eyes ringed with exhaustion.
“You couldn’t sleep either,” she said.
He gave a humorless laugh. “Is anyone sleeping these days?”
She hesitated, then sat beside him on the tomb edge, the cold seeping through the thick fabric of her cloak. For a while, they said nothing. Greyfrost huffed and stretched out, curling protectively around Theon’s boots.
“You’ve been acting strange,” Gabriel finally said. “Since the lake.”
Theon stared into the darkness ahead. “Lucan was the one who fell in.”
“I know,” Gabriel whispered. “But I saw… something. When he went under. A figure. Purple eyes.”
Theon turned his head slightly, just enough for her to see the flicker of tension in his jaw.
“I saw him too,” he said. “The same night. After Lucan fell.”
Gabriel turned sharply. “What?”
“I went out,” he continued. “To look for firewood. I didn’t go far—just past the ridge. But something was waiting in the woods. It wasn’t… human. Greyfrost saw it first. He barked, and it turned to me. Eyes like frozen fire. Like it saw straight through my skin.” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I fought it. Injured it. I think. But it touched me. Marked me.”
He pulled his tunic aside, exposing his collarbone. There, etched just beneath the skin, was the same runic eye Gabriel bore on her arm. Thin veins of blue branched from it like cracks in a frozen lake.
Gabriel pulled back her own sleeve without a word. Her mark pulsed faintly in the lantern glow.
“You too,” he said, softly. “I thought maybe—maybe it was only me.”
“I didn’t get it from the water,” Gabriel said. “I saw him. The night king. In a dream. And Seraphis Aurelius. The Godswood, the twin trees. It felt like… like memories.”
Theon went quiet for a long time.
“I’ve seen Seraphis too,” he admitted. “He told me I was marked for a reason. Said I needed to protect you. That you'd carry the fire.”
Gabriel stared at him, heart thudding.
“I didn’t want this,” she said. “Any of it.”
Theon gave her a tired glance. “Neither did I.”
They sat in silence. Greyfrost gave a soft bark, and Blizzard squirmed again in her satchel, as if sensing the tension rising in the air.
Gabriel stared at the mark on her arm, tracing the outer curve of the eye-like rune with her fingertip. It pulsed faintly beneath her touch, as if something within it breathed. She looked up at Theon, shadows cast by the lantern dancing over his face, making him seem older than he was.
“Seraphis told me the Godswood feeds on the blood of the pure,” she said, voice hushed. “Said that’s why the Aurelians had to remain untainted. I didn’t understand it at first. But when I saw him—tied to the twin tree, his blood turned the snow blue…”
Theon nodded, slowly. “I saw it too. Not like you did, maybe. But pieces of it. Like shattered glass. That tree—it’s not just wood. It remembers. It… drinks.”
Gabriel looked at him, a chill creeping down her spine. “He told me the Night King harvested the Godswood. That he… used it.”
Theon clenched his jaw. “There were two.”
“What?”
“Two trees,” he said. “Twins. You saw one. The other still stands in the North, the other one? It was missing."
Gabriel blinked. “Where?”
Theon looked away, toward the dark crypt hall. “In Snezhnaya. In the garden. Far northeast corner, hidden past the oldest walls. No one goes there.”
Gabriel shook her head. “I’ve never seen it.”
“You wouldn’t. You’re not allowed there,” Theon replied, voice steady. “I only know because Grandfather once showed it to me. Said it was cursed. Said Seraphis himself planted it with his own blood.”
Gabriel’s stomach twisted. “Why would they keep it?”
“To watch it,” Theon said. “To make sure no one ever fed it again.”
Silence fell between them, heavy and electric.
Gabriel whispered, “I think it’s still alive.”
Theon nodded once. “I know it is.”
Gabriel turned, resting her back against the stone wall, the cold seeping through her spine. “So what now?”
Theon sat beside her again. “Now we find out what that tree remembers. And why it still whispers your name.”
The halls of Castle Snezhnaya were swallowed in silence, the snow outside pressing like a second wall. Gabriel’s breath fogged the air as she padded down the narrow corridor of the east wing, torchlight flickering along damp stone. Theon was close behind, Greyfrost loping silently beside them, more shadow than wolf.
The castle’s eastern wing was seldom used—abandoned after the northern tower collapsed decades ago. Dust blanketed the cracked tiles beneath their boots. Cobwebs clung to the archways like forgotten warnings. At the end of the passage loomed the old garden gate: an arched wooden frame overgrown with brittle, frostbitten vines.
Gabriel stepped forward, her fingers brushing against the handle—then stopped.
Footsteps.
Not slow. Not hesitant. Firm. Controlled.
She and Theon turned just as the tall silhouette emerged from the shadows.
Caelus Aurelius.
He halted a few feet away, fur-lined cloak dusted in snow, his grey eyes narrowing, not in anger—but something colder. Deeper. Alarm.
“What are you two doing here?” His voice was taut, laced with tension.
Gabriel swallowed hard. “We were just—”
“No one comes to this wing,” Caelus said sharply. “No one goes to that garden.”
Theon stiffened beside her, but Gabriel held her ground. “We had to see it. The godswood. I… I keep dreaming of it.”
Caelus’s gaze sharpened. He took a slow step forward, eyes darting between them. “You’ve seen it? One of the twinwood?”
Gabriel hesitated, then nodded. “In my dreams. It was calling. The air was—whispering.”
Caelus paled.
Theon stepped in. “She’s marked, Uncle. Like me.”
Gabriel watched as Caelus’s face changed—his expression no longer stern but haunted. He took another step forward, reaching toward her arm. She didn’t resist as he slowly pulled back her sleeve.
There it was: the rune. An eye, blackened at the edges. Her veins shimmered pale blue beneath it.
Caelus stared in silence… then reached up and unfastened the upper clasp of his cloak. He pulled the fabric aside, revealing his collarbone.
A mark.
The same rune, older, scarred like a wound healed over time.
His voice was barely a whisper. “You've got to be kidding."
Gabriel looked at him, stunned. “You knew?”
“I’ve lived with it for thirty years,” he said hollowly. “It started the same. Dreams. Whispers. The godswood... speaks to blood. Aurelian blood.”
Theon frowned. “Then you know what’s there. Let us in.”
“No.” Caelus’s voice cracked like frost. “That place is not what it once was. It’s a wound. Something is growing there… feeding.” He stepped back, his gaze darting toward the ancient gate as if remembering something that terrified him.
Gabriel’s hand trembled at her side. “But I have to see it. The dreams—Seraphis Aurelius—he showed me things.”
Caelus’s eyes locked on hers.
“You saw Seraphis?” Caelus asked, a bit surprised as he turned to Theon after, suspecting he did as well.
“In the snow. In the castle. In the tree. He said he’s been waiting.” she said, squeezing the mark on her wrist.
Caelus inhaled sharply, almost staggered. “Then there's no denying there's no turning back."
“What?” Gabriel asked, curiosity displayed in her naïve eyes.
He looked at the gate and back again, the mask of the King of the North breaking into something far more human—something terrified.
“If you’re going,” he said quietly, “then I’m going with you. Neither of you step into that garden alone. Not without me.”
Gabriel nodded slowly, her voice no louder than a breath.
The next few days came, and they didn't experience anything unusual anymore, not with the tree, not with their dreams and not with their marks. So they refused to talk about it more.
*********************
Snow sprayed from Gabriel’s boots as she launched forward, frozen obsidian spear spinning in a blur. The courtyard roared with the crash of steel and frost, her weapon glowing in runes of deep blue — Eternal Ice, the gift and curse of the bloodline. Theon barely raised his Northern greatsword in time.
The weapons collided with a sharp crack that echoed across the castle walls. The impact sent out a blast of winter air, frost crawling up the pillars and archways. Greyfrost barked once in challenge as Blizzard lowered herself, growling at his side.
Theon stumbled a step back but grinned through the chill biting at his skin. “Not bad, little cousin.”
Gabriel didn’t answer. Her eyes glowed faintly blue, her breath visible even in the freezing wind. She charged again, faster this time. The obsidian blade danced like a ghost through the air, slamming into Theon’s sword again and again in a blur of movement — left feint, upward slash, then a low sweep that left a frozen trail across the stone.
Theon grit his teeth and countered, swinging his heavier blade in a wide arc. The steel caught the shaft of her spear and for a second, it looked like it might break— but the obsidian held. Ice burst at the point of contact, erupting into a flurry of shards.
“Come on!” he roared, his voice fierce now.
Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. She twisted low, rolling under the next swing and coming up with a jab toward his side— barely dodged.
They danced like flame and snow, every hit throwing mist and ice into the air. Each time their weapons met, Gabriel’s Eternal Ice pulsed like a heartbeat, freezing the ground in spiderwebs of glowing frost. Theon’s blade steamed with heat, resisting the freeze, sparks flying as their legacies collided.
From the side of the courtyard, Selene let out a low whistle, bow resting on her shoulder. “If they keep this up, they’ll turn the whole yard into a glacier.”
Lucan said nothing, arms folded. He watched Gabriel’s movements sharply, not with worry, but with quiet calculation. Smokewind sat beside him, tail twitching.
“Stop showboating and win, Greyfrost,” Theon growled as the direwolf dove playfully at Blizzard again.
Blizzard’s tiny paws lashed out, cold mist trailing from her as she barked sharply — not afraid in the slightest. Her fur bristled with frost, and when Greyfrost nudged her again, she leapt forward and snapped at his muzzle. He yelped in surprise more than pain, falling back with a huff.
“She’s still small,” Theon muttered.
“But so was I,” Gabriel said coldly, sweeping forward in another lunge.
Their weapons met in a final thunderous crash. Obsidian and steel locked, and ice rushed outward in a ring, overtaking the stone. A snowdrift surged upward from the impact, coating both of them in a wave of white.
They stood there, weapons locked, breathing heavily.
Then Gabriel smiled. “Yield?”
Theon grunted, backing off. “You wish.”
They lowered their weapons, but the air still shimmered with the ghost of the cold, and the quiet whisper of the mark on both their skin.
The crackle of raw power surged through Gabriel’s veins. Her grip tightened on the spear as her mark glowed, and the courtyard trembled beneath her feet.
Then came the eruption.
A surge of blinding white exploded from her stance, a glacier of Eternal Ice bursting forth with a roar that split the sky. It spiraled upward like a frozen geyser, lifting Theon off the ground in a blast of sheer force. He shot high into the air, cloak flapping, barely regaining control.
“By the gods—!” Selene stepped back, eyes wide as the frost overtook the edge of the archways.
Lucan dropped the vial he was holding. “She’s not holding back anymore.”
Gabriel’s feet left the ground. Wings of frozen mist carried her upward, trailing a comet of ice behind her. As Theon twisted midair to reorient himself, she was already hurling ice shards — jagged, spectral darts of blue — one after another with a whip of her spear.
Theon spun through them, his sword slicing some apart, others grazing his arm and shoulder. He grimaced, raising his blade as Gabriel came for him, a war cry caught in her throat.
Their clash in the sky sent a thunderclap across the heavens. Her spear aimed for his chest — he blocked, the greatsword groaning under the weight of the blow. Theon's arms trembled, and with a growl, he turned the defense into a counter.
His sword slashed toward the spear.
The moment they touched, frost crawled up the obsidian shaft — but it wasn’t hers. It was his.
“What—” Gabriel gasped.
Theon had learned her trick.
With a powerful grunt, he pushed her back midair, his steel blade radiating its own frost. The tip of his sword flared, and the Eternal Ice on Gabriel’s spear began to seize up, turning brittle under the pressure of his reforged cold.
Her weapon froze in her hands.
The next gust of wind threw her balance. She dropped — plummeting from the air with the shattered edge of her spear sparking in her grip.
She landed hard, boots skidding across the glacial battlefield she had created, the impact shattering the ice beneath her. Snow spiraled around her as she kneeled, panting, the broken spear crackling with lingering cold.
From above, Theon hovered briefly, then landed with a roll, his sword in both hands. Greyfrost padded beside him, teeth bared, growling low.
Gabriel looked up through the flurry of snow. Blizzard limped to her side, growling protectively, frost trailing from her paws.
The two combatants locked eyes again — neither smiling now.
Just breathing.
Theon stepped forward the moment his boots touched ground, no words exchanged — just motion.
Steel met obsidian once again in a clash of flaring frost. Theon’s greatsword danced with surprising agility for its weight, each swing coming down in precise, calculated arcs. Gabriel parried with her spear, meeting his strikes in a rhythm of clinks and screeches, her movements fast as a whipping blizzard.
Their feet shuffled across the frozen ground, boots cracking the brittle surface. Gabriel spun, sweeping low, her spear skimming the ice to catch his legs — but Theon leapt, flipping over the sweep with effortless grace. The moment he landed, he retaliated, his sword slicing down in three rapid cuts — left, right, then an overhead strike.
Gabriel’s arms trembled under the weight of the parries. She grimaced, ice forming around her boots as she steadied herself, then let the Eternal Ice flare again.
She launches Theon once more with a pillar of eternal ice, plunging him and trapping into the ground with restraint, Theon stabs the ice with his backup blade, freeing himself thanks to his own skill which was to make things hit with much more power than expected.
With an angry groan, she slammed the butt of her spear into the ground again, sending a trail of pointy ice structures at him.
The ice surged.
A tower of frost erupted beneath Theon’s feet once more, not catching him by surprise — the Eternal Ice coiled like frozen snakes around his boots, locking him in place.
Gabriel moved, swift as a shadow, charging with her spear aimed straight for his chest.
But Theon didn’t flinch.
With a roar, he twisted, smashing the trapped frost with a powerful kick. Shards of Eternal Ice flew in every direction. He ducked under her thrust, sidestepped with a spin, and closed the distance before she could react. The ice engulfing his body halfway.
Gabriel gasped — too late.
Theon’s sword didn’t cut.
It simply tapped the side of her waist — a precise, controlled graze of cold steel.
The battle was over.
Gabriel stood frozen in place, chest rising and falling as she looked down at the blade resting just inches from her ribs. Theon met her gaze — calm, steady, not triumphant.
“I yield,” she muttered, breathless, a thin mist forming as her body still crackled faintly with ice.
Theon lowered his sword.
“You’ve grown too strong to go easy on,” he said, backing away. “Next time, I might not get out without a bruise.”
Behind them, Selene gave a slow clap, bow still in hand. “I was nearly frozen to the wall back there.”
Lucan raised his vial. “Worth every second.”
Blizzard and Greyfrost nudged each other, growling playfully, tails wagging in the snow as they finished growling and trying to bite each other's ears off.
Their breaths lingered in the cold air, fog against the blued sky. The arena still shimmered from the frost battle, thin cracks webbing across the ground, lit faintly by the glow of Gabriel’s Eternal Ice. The wolves playing with eachother.
A slow, deliberate clap echoed above them.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The cousins turned, blades and bows still in hand.
From the high arches overlooking the training grounds, a lone figure emerged from shadow — long fur cloak trailing behind him, silver-lined pauldrons catching the sun. His face, usually stern and unreadable, was now a portrait of awe.
Caelus Aurelius descended the stairs with a quiet grace, his boots barely crunching the ice.
“Well,” he said, his voice calm but weighted, “that was not what I expected to see today.”
Gabriel straightened immediately, her spear still crackling faintly with frost. Theon, Selene, and Lucan exchanged glances, stepping aside to give their uncle space.
Caelus stopped before them, eyes fixed on his daughter. “Familial magic already runs through your veins at a young age” he murmured. “It took me 2 years to even conjure the first glint of eternal ice.”
Gabriel looked down, unsure how to respond. Her hands were still trembling slightly from the power, her veins still faintly glowing blue.
“I didn’t think. I just… used it, I learned from the old books in your study.”
Caelus tilted his head, studying her — not just as a father, but as the blood of Aurelius recognizing what she was becoming.
“It didn’t feel forced. It obeyed,” he said softly. “The ancient ice of our family is already answering to you at a young age.”
Selene lowered her bow after wiping the crusts of snow on it, lips pressed. “She nearly froze Theon solid.”
Caelus offered her the faintest smile. “I noticed.”
He stepped closer to Gabriel, eyes lingering on the faint trace of frost still spiraling up her forearm. “But this isn’t just ice, Gabriel. It’s not magic like the others. Eternal Ice is… ancient. A breath of the world before light ever touched this land. Now come, all four of you. No use in skipping lunch for training when you're all still young.”
**********************
Snow fell softly over Castle Snezhnaya the day House Caelora’s banners were spotted walking in through the walls of Winterfell — a black serpent inside a cracked mirror, a symbol as cold as it was proud. Word reached Caelus Aurelius before the trumpets rang, and his silence said more than any proclamation.
They weren’t expecting a royal envoy from Ophire. And certainly not him.
By the time the carriages pulled through the gate, Gabriel stood beside her cousins in the grand hall, dressed in her ceremonial white and silver, her obsidian spear resting upright beside her. Theon kept a hand on his belt. Selene didn’t smile. Lucan muttered something under his breath.
And then, through the frost-glass doors of the great keep, strode Lord Amun Caelora, the Warden of the East, eyes like daggers, robes like ink in motion. Behind him came his guards, silent, golden-cloaked — but all eyes returned to him. Not for his power. Not for his wealth.
But because Seraphine Aurelius was watching from above.
Caelus stepped forward. His voice calm, but his fists were clenched.
“Lord Caelora. To what do we owe the honor?”
Amun smiled, smooth as oil.
“The honor is mine, King Caelus. Though I come bearing grievances, not swords. The ports of Aerynth have grown... slow. Our ships are stranded waiting for northern grain and pelts. The East grows hungry.”
“Perhaps the East should pay their dues before demanding more,” Theon muttered.
Amun’s gaze flicked toward him, then to Gabriel, who stared back, unmoved. His smile widened when his eyes settled on her.
“Ah. The girl they say wields the Eternal Ice. Caelus always was good at creating miracles.”
Then, turning — too casually — he looked up at the balcony.
“And some... he simply stole from the gods.”
Seraphine, unflinching, met his gaze.
The snow had stopped. Only a hush of wind stirred the ice-crusted leaves in the courtyard where Seraphine often walked after supper, a quiet ritual none disturbed. But tonight, a figure waited among the glass roses.
Amun Caelora stepped forward from the shadows, his fur-lined coat untouched by snow, his breath misting in the lantern light.
“Still walking among roses, Seraphine?”
His voice was smooth. Too smooth.
“Even in winter?”
She didn’t flinch. Only turned to face him, her gown trailing against the frozen stones like falling feathers. Her silver hair glimmered.
“Leave, Amun. You’ve spoken your trade grievances to Caelus. You have no business here.”
He clasped his hands together, smiling like a priest before the gallows.
“No business?”He moved slowly, circling, his tone polite—too polite. “I come in peace. As a guest. As... an old friend.”
She laughed, low and bitter. “You were never a friend.”
The wind picked up. The glass roses around them shivered in their vines.
Amun’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but the mask returned.
“I heard your daughter was gifted,” he said. “The Eternal Ice. A rare gift... for a child born after you returned to the North.”
Seraphine’s jaw tightened. “Watch your tongue.”
“I am only saying,” he said softly, stepping closer, “that the child you bore under the stars of the North looks so much like you did when I first saw you. Caged, but bright. Do you remember? The tower in Vaelmir. The songs you used to sing in chains.”
Her hand snapped up, a small pulse of light forming in her palm — pure magic, rippling white.
“I remember,” she said, her voice hard. “I remember everything. You chained me and then dared to call it love.”
Amun raised both hands in mock surrender, though a flicker of something darker sparked in his eyes.
“And yet you chose Caelus. The wolf with bloodied fangs. He took you away. Hid you behind northern snow and iron walls. Does he ever truly understand you, Seraphine? Does he ever look at you and see the fire you buried?”
The light in her palm flared brighter, but she turned from him before it could grow.
“I am not yours to question. Not anymore.”
Amun tilted his head, feigning a sigh, brushing frost from a rose’s glass petal.
“I came for many things, Seraphine. Trade disputes, diplomatic duties… the usual burdens of a prince unwelcomed.”
He looked at her then — looked. As if memorizing the curve of her cheek, the firelight dancing in her silver lashes.
“But also…” he whispered, “to see you again.”
She turned her gaze to the snow. “You’re decades too late.”
“Am I?” he murmured, taking another step. “Funny, I remember a time when you waited for me. When you sang to the stars and whispered my name in the dark.”
Her breath hitched, but she masked it with a scoff. “I was imprisoned.”
“You were adored.”
“I was a prisoner.”
He circled her now, slow and predatory.
“And yet,” he said softly, “you smiled. When I brought you books. When I sat beside your cell and read them with you. When I left your door unlocked one night and you didn’t run.”
Seraphine’s voice cracked—but her fury did not.
“You drugged me with courtesy. Caged me with kindness. I was too young to know the difference between affection and manipulation.”
Amun smiled, cruel and patient.
“Yet you wept when they tore you away. When your Northern prince stormed my halls and took you back with blood. Did he ever know you kissed me the night before he came?”
She snapped toward him, magic building in her palm — not wild, not uncontrolled, but ready.
“That never happened.”
“But you wondered,” Amun whispered. “Didn’t you? For a time, you wondered what we could have been.”
The light flared in her hand, white as judgment.
“You are a shadow,” she said. “And I don’t mourn shadows.”
Amun held her gaze — and for one flicker of a heartbeat, the mask slipped. The longing was real. So was the hatred.
“Tell me, Seraphine… did you ever truly move on?” He didn’t face her. “Did you ever stop thinking of what we were before the North stole you?”
Seraphine didn’t answer at first. The words caught like thorns behind her ribs.
Then slowly, she stepped toward him.
“I thought I’d never breathe again after what you did to me,” she said, voice low but clear. “For years, even the sunlight felt like your hand on my throat.”
He flinched, just barely but she saw it.
“And yes, there was a time I wondered. I doubted. I hated Caelus for breaking down the walls of my cell, for holding me like something fragile instead of something divine. I hated him because he was not you—and I was too blind to know that was the point.”
Her voice trembled now, not from pain, but from the power of remembering.
“But I did move on, Amun. I learned what love was supposed to be. I learned it through warmth, not fear. Through healing, not manipulation. Through silence that listened, not silence that watched.”
She stepped even closer, her eyes no longer cold, but burning like winter fire.
“I could never love you the way I love Caelus,” she said. “Because what I had with you was never love.”
Amun’s jaw is tense. His hand curled into a fist behind his back. But he didn’t turn.
He only nodded once as if some final thread between them had been cut.
“I see,” he murmured.
And then he walked away, his footsteps swallowed by the snow. This time, for good.
Seraphine stood alone once more, heart pounding not from regret, but release.
Gabriel hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. She told herself that again and again as she leaned quietly behind the frost-draped pillar near the glass courtyard. But she stayed, rooted by something deeper than curiosity. A gnawing feeling that whatever was unfolding between Lord Amun Caelora and her mother, Seraphine, was not just old politics.
It was something heavier. More intimate. More dangerous.
She listened, heart pounding, as Amun’s voice was smooth, deliberate, and unsettlingly calm—teased old ghosts from Seraphine’s past. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t threaten, but every word dripped with implication. With memory. With twisted affection.
By the time her mother walked away, back stiff and silent like a soldier retreating from a battlefield with invisible wounds, Gabriel found her breath caught in her throat.
She should have turned back. Left it alone.
Instead, she stepped out into the corridor and collided straight into him.
Gabriel’s shoulder struck cold velvet, and she recoiled, eyes snapping up.
Amun Caelora stood there, taller than she expected, and for a second— just a breath, the mask on his face faltered.
She saw it.
The flicker of pain, raw and old. The splinter of something human buried beneath the centuries of power and poison. But then, like a stone falling into still water, the ripples vanished. His gaze sharpened into that familiar polished smile.
"Ah," he said, voice dipped in silk. "You must be Lady Gabriel."
Gabriel stepped back a little. Her heart still raced, and not just from the shock. There was something wrong, something deeply wrong about how this man looked at her.
"You have your father's eyes," Amun murmured, stepping closer. "Cold steel, just like Caelus. But the soul…" He tilted his head. "That flame, that spark. That’s her. That’s Seraphine's."
Gabriel’s brow furrowed. She didn't respond.
Amun gave a soft chuckle. “You don’t have to speak. Children are wiser that way, they listen first.”
His red eyes shimmered beneath the torchlight, like embers that had never cooled.
And suddenly, Gabriel’s stomach twisted.
That mark. The frost in her veins. Strange dreams. The voice in the trees. The Frost King…
Could it be him? she thought, her breath catching in her throat. Could Amun Caelora be the Frost King himself?
The thought chilled her to her bones.
But then she remembered the eyes in the dream. Pale violet, like glass under moonlight. Not crimson.
And Amun’s gaze, though piercing, lacked that otherworldly void. His presence was cold, yes— but not the same ancient cold that had stalked her dreams.
Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew. That he had seen the Night King before. That something bound him to it — and to her.
Then his voice pulled her back.
“You remind me of your mother when I first met her,” Amun said, more gently this time. “Stubborn. Brave. Tragic.” He paused. “Did she ever tell you she used to love me?”
Gabriel clenched her jaw.
“No?” He smiled, as if amused. “She did. Even when she was still in chains, she looked at me with fire in her eyes. And I let her go. For love.”
That made Gabriel flinch. She stepped away, her young face twisted in disgust.
“Don’t lie.”
“Lie?” Amun leaned in, voice low. “Your father was not her first, little wolf. I was. And part of her somewhere buried deep—still remembers that.”
Gabriel stared up at him, and something sharp curled in her throat.
She hated this.
Not just because he was cruel, but because for a moment, her mind conjured an image she wished she could burn. Her mother was young, alone, caged… and Amun, the devil who made himself her world, before Caelus tore down the bars.
And now here he stood, not a monster, but a man, still clinging to something that never should have been.
“You’re disgusting,” she whispered.
Amun’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyes darkened.
He reached toward her, brushing a curl of her silver hair behind her ear.
“It’s a shame,” he said, “that you were born with her face and his heart. You could have been so much more, had you belonged to me.”
Gabriel recoiled, spine rigid.
“I’m not yours,” she said, voice shaking. “And my mother never was either.”
A flicker of something ancient and angry passed behind Amun’s smile, a storm that didn’t break but only simmered.
But then he straightened, his expression smoothing once more into courtly charm.
“We’ll see.”
He turned, his black cloak sweeping like a shadow across the frost-touched path, and left her there. The daughter of two people he could never truly own, his twisted legacy haunting her like a curse.
Gabriel flopped down onto the soft hay bales beside the stables, her frozen spear clinking lightly against the wooden frame as she let out an exaggerated groan. Blizzard, her white-furred pup, limped after her with a small whimper, curling up beside her legs like a shadow made of snow. The direwolf’s pale grey eyes blinked slowly, always a bit behind the others, always the smallest.
Just a few feet away, Theon was combing through Greyfrost’s thick, silver coat while Selene fed Skye a mix of dried meat and boiled oats. The two older cousins looked up at Gabriel as she threw an arm across her face and muttered something unintelligible.
Theon arched a brow.
“You good?”
“No,” Gabriel groaned dramatically. “I just met Amun Caelora and he’s worse than I imagined.”
Selene perked up at the name, her expression instantly darkening.
“He talked to you?”
Gabriel nodded, lifting her arm to stare at the barn rafters.
“More like bumped into me and pretended I was some porcelain doll. The way he looked at me—ugh—it was like he was trying to dig through my skin and find my mother inside. Disgusting.”
Greyfrost’s ears flicked as if sensing the change in mood, nuzzling Theon’s leg. Theon narrowed his eyes, then asked carefully,
“What did he say?”
“Not much. Just... compliments. Fake ones. Told me I had her face and my father’s hair. Then smiled like it was supposed to mean something,” Gabriel said bitterly. Blizzard let out a soft whine, nudging her arm with a cold nose.
“I almost thought...” She hesitated. “I almost thought he might be the Frost King. But then I looked in his eyes, and they were red. Not purple. Not like the ones I saw in my dreams.”
Selene stood up, brushing hay from her tunic.
“He’s no Frost King,” she said quietly. “He’s worse. The Frost King wants death. Amun wants control.”
Gabriel sat up, stroking Blizzard's ears.
“I can’t believe he was her first love. I don’t know if I’m angry... or sick to my stomach.”
Theon didn’t speak right away, staring out toward the grey sky. Finally, he muttered,
“He never stopped wanting her. That’s why he’s here. Trade talks are just a curtain.”
Gabriel nodded, curling into her pup a little more.
“I’ll never understand what she saw in him.”
Theon gave her a look. “She saw a way to survive. That was before your father broke the chains.”
Blizzard licked Gabriel’s hand as if to comfort her. She smiled faintly. "And thank the gods he did, I can't stand that man saying all these random shit in my ears and pretend like I'm some daughter of his or something, I'll go insane if I really was.”
Notes:
Oh boy this is going to be messy for real.
Also: to avoid mistakes or confusion,
Seraphis Aurelius- prophet of house Aurelius
Seraphine Aurelius- wife of Caelus and mother to Gabriel
Blizzard- Gabriel's direwolf, the runt of the litter
Greyfrost- Theon's direwolf
Smokewind- Lucan's direwolf
Skye- Selene's direwolfI probably will write an Astyrax house chapter after Northern Throne, to emphasize how much of a bad person the crowned prince is.
Chapter 12: Regal Bloodline, Northern Throne (3)
Summary:
Evangeline manages to fight once again with Metatron, sensing tension from her beloved nephew Michael, where she tries to see his memories, thoughts and everything he went through because he eas acting too suspicious and too quiet. Legilimens and Occlumence is from Harry Potter, so credits to JKR for it. Uriel's finally 15 in January 1st, earning access to discover Solas' glorious powers as a phoenix—which is also coincidentally Astyrax's coat of arms, which causes her to teleport in castle Snezhnaya, earning a lesson from her meant to be rival from the North, Gabriel Aurelius herself.
Notes:
Also, Evangeline and Asenath old woman yuri returns, ACKK and also GabuUri first interaction, let's gooo. I'm excited to write the Velheim games arc. Already planned the map and how the battles will go.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The great morning sun came up later than usual.
The great towers of Caelestis pierced the morning haze like spears of white gold, sunlight glinting against marble domes and obsidian spires. The palace was alive again with movement, scholars exchanging scrolls in hushed tones, and guards clanking in the courtyards as drills began for the day.
But within the highest halls, all was still.
Evangeline’s heels echoed like distant thunder along the long corridor of mirrors, her red Astyrax robes flowing like ripples of twilight. Her face was composed, but the flicker in her pale purple eyes betrayed the storm she carried beneath the surface. She passed through the gilded doors of the King’s Solar without asking.
Metatron stood alone within, hands clasped behind his back as he stared through the arched window overlooking the king's guards training below the castle. Light poured in, catching in his white-blonde hair and the silver trim of his dark robes. He did not turn as she entered.
“Brother,” Evangeline said coolly.
“Evangeline,” Metatron replied, his voice measured. “I trust the journey from Thoborn was smooth.”
“It was long,” she said. “But not without purpose.”
He finally turned, his expression carved from granite. The resemblance between them was unmistakable: the same pale hair, the same sharp angles of face. Yet where Evangeline’s eyes glimmered with restrained heat, Metatron’s were cold—glacial and ever-calculating.
“I assume you did not return early just to enjoy the court’s festivities.”
“I returned because certain matters can no longer be ignored,” she said. “You know what I speak of.”
“I don’t pretend to know all your riddles,” he replied. “Enlighten me.”
Her fingers curled at her side. “I visited them. In Thoborn.”
His gaze sharpened, but he said nothing.
“They’re growing fast. Smarter. Stronger.”
“They’re not my concern,” Metatron said flatly.
Evangeline stepped closer, lowering her voice. “They’re your children, Metatron.”
“Yes,” he replied at last. “They are my responsibility… that I don’t want to pay support for.”
Her mouth opened in disbelief. “Is that all they are to you? Debt?”
“They are the result of a choice I regret,” he said, turning back toward the window. “A weakness I refuse to repeat.”
Evangeline’s voice grew colder. “You abandoned them. Cast them to the wilds like they were nothing. Uriel looks just like our dead younger sister Nemona who died from Murray Valley Encephalitis at 8—did you know that? And Raguel… Raguel still prays to your name like you’re worth something.”
He didn’t flinch.
“Maybe,” she continued, voice rising, “if you hadn’t committed adultery—” She caught herself, biting back the rest.
Metatron’s eyes narrowed. “Say it.”
“No,” she whispered. “Because I pity you more than I hate you.”
A silence settled like frost between them.
“I will not bring them here,” he said finally. “The court would tear them apart. You know this. Michael barely survives under the weight of my name.”
“You mean under the weight of your shadow,” she snapped. “At least Michael was given a place. A title. The others got exile.”
“I gave them safety.”
“You gave them nothing,” she said. “And one day, when they come to claim what is rightfully theirs, don’t expect me to defend your honor.”
Metatron’s jaw tightened, his voice low. “If they come for the throne then so be it—”
“They won’t come for the throne,” Evangeline cut in. “They’ll come for the father who left them behind.”
Evangeline hadn’t made it more than a few steps down the corridor before Metatron’s voice echoed behind her, sharp and accusatory.
“You think you’re better than me, don’t you?”
She stopped. Slowly, deliberately, she turned to face him. The shadows of Caelestis stretched long behind them—their kingdom cast in light and regret.
“I was, Metatron,” she said, her voice cold as mountain frost. “For a time, I was.”
He stepped toward her, the golden thread of his royal cloak glinting faintly in the dim hall. “You were never meant to rule.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And yet I did. When you were still a boy in the library with ink-stained fingers, whispering to ghosts and daydreams, I was in the war room. I brought peace with Vireon. I calmed the Dominion when Mother died. I carried this kingdom while you mourned with your books.”
“You mean while you tried to become Mother herself,” he said, bitterness slicing his tone. “Walking around in her robes. Giving orders with her voice.”
She flinched—just barely. But enough. “Don’t you dare speak of her like that. Not when you—”
“Not when I what?” he snapped, voice rising. “When I became what they wanted me to be? The King of Kings? Is that what stings the most, Eva?”
“No,” she hissed. “What stings the most is that you let it happen. You let them crown you while I stood beside Father's pyre—while I watched our blood burn and still held this realm together with my bare hands. I was twenty. I had no time to grieve.”
“I never asked for the throne.”
“No,” she said, stepping forward. “But you took it. Without looking back.”
He met her eyes, his own pale and tired. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“None of us did,” she breathed. “But I still did it. Because someone had to.”
A silence stretched between them like the chasm of the throne itself. And in that silence, something in her cracked.
“I hate it,” she said suddenly, voice low. “Gods, I hate that when I look at you, I still see that boy in the snow. The boy who used to follow me through the palace halls, asking questions I couldn’t answer. The boy who used to braid my hair in the garden because he liked how the ribbons fluttered.”
Metatron’s mouth parted, but he said nothing.
“I hate that I still care,” she whispered. “Even now. After everything. After you cast me aside, after you ran from your children, after you let this kingdom turn cold and cruel—I still find myself wanting to protect you.”
Her voice trembled, just once.
“I hate that we were raised on the same coin,” she went on, “but always on different sides. You were the light. I was the steel beneath. And neither of us ever got to be whole.”
Metatron turned away, his shoulders rigid. “You don’t know what it’s like—”
“No, Metatron,” she cut him off, eyes burning now. “You don’t know what it’s like. To watch everything you were meant to become handed to someone else. And still love them for it.”
A pause. The silence choked the air between them.
Then, quieter, almost broken: “They’re your children.”
His voice was brittle when he replied. “Yes. And like I said, they’re a responsibility I didn’t ask for.”
Her eyes darkened. “you adulterer son of a—” She stopped herself, teeth biting into her lip. “Never mind.”
“You can say it,” he said flatly. “You always do.”
But she didn’t. She just stared at him. A breath between enemies. A silence between siblings.
And then she turned. Left him in that corridor of glass and ghosts, with only his reflection to answer for him.
The marble corridors of Caelestis swallowed the echo of Evangeline’s heels as she walked, each step measured, steady—though the fire still danced behind her eyes. Her hands trembled slightly beneath her robe’s long sleeves, but she kept her chin high, her breath even. The weight of that conversation with Metatron clung to her ribs like wet velvet.
As she turned the archway into one of the inner halls of the high tower, she nearly collided with a tall figure walking the opposite way—silent, poised, blood still drying faintly on his gloves, a demon king's head tied to his belt.
“Ah,” Evangeline murmured, looking up. “Michael.”
The crowned prince stood before her, his golden-blonde hair tousled by wind and a journey just ended. His purple eyes, flecked with faint violet lightning in the iris, studied her with quiet concern.
“Aunt,” he said softly, voice velvet-smooth and low. “How was it?”
Evangeline paused. The fury was still ebbing from her like a tide after a storm, but when she looked into Michael’s young, noble face—so much like her brother’s, yet so different—she softened.
“It was fine,” she said, a smile ghosting her lips, warm and worn at the edges. “Same as always.”
He didn’t push further. Michael never did. There was a stillness to him, a restraint unnatural for his age. He carried himself like someone older than his years, as if every breath was measured and every word came from somewhere deeper than most could reach.
His gaze lingered on her for a moment, then dipped politely. “You were missed at the time of beheading. I took the liberty of…ending things early.”
Evangeline raised a brow. “You finished your campaign already?”
“There wasn’t much left of it,” he replied coolly. “The supposed heir of the Demon King was more bark than breath. I gave him a clean death. He thanked me.”
There was no pride in his voice—just a haunting calmness. As if he were reciting the weather.
“Of course he did,” Evangeline murmured, brushing her fingers down the folds of her cloak. “You always leave a mark, one way or another.”
Michael said nothing. But something flickered in his eyes, just behind the purple sheen. A quiet storm. A shadow too controlled for his age.
Then, quietly, he asked, “Did he say anything about me?”
Evangeline blinked. “Your father?”
Michael nodded. His expression was unreadable.
She hesitated… then placed a gloved hand gently on his shoulder. “Only that you’ve grown into someone he can’t understand.”
Michael looked at her then—truly looked. For a moment, the carefully constructed quiet around him seemed to ripple, but it settled just as quickly.
“I suppose that makes two of us,” he said softly.
Evangeline gave him a small smile, but her eyes were sad.
“Come,” she said, turning down the corridor. “Let’s have something warm. And tell me what the Demon King’s heir looked like—I imagine he wasn’t half as pretty as you.”
Michael let out a soft, amused breath. “Not even close.”
And together, they disappeared into the quiet hearth-lit halls of the royal wing—where secrets slept and shadows never strayed too far.
The fire crackled in the hearth, casting warm flickers against the carved stone walls of the solar. The tapestries of the old wars—of phoenixes, conquerors and shattered crowns—hung quietly in the background, just as the past always did in Caelestis.
Evangeline Astyrax sat in one of the high-backed velvet chairs, a delicate china cup balanced between her fingers. Across from her sat Michael, crown prince of Eden, hair tousled golden and his armor still dusted faintly with frost and ash. He had returned only an hour before, after severing the head of a demon lord’s heir in a skirmish on the edge of Vireon. He said nothing of it unless asked.
Now, between them, steam curled from the pot of jasmine tea. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was cultivated, royal, like a sword kept sheathed but always sharpened.
“You’ve grown quieter,” Evangeline said, her voice gentle but lined with knowing.
Michael took a sip, eyes the same shade as hers, though sharper, colder. “The battlefield doesn’t leave much room for noise.”
She studied him as if reading a riddle. “Yet it leaves room for reflection, doesn’t it?”
Michael gave a soft, polite smile. “Sometimes.”
The smile didn’t reach his eyes. Evangeline saw the calm, the precision in how he sat, how he breathed. So much like Metatron—but where her brother had fire buried deep under ice, Michael was ice that learned how to mimic fire.
She set her cup down. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” she said lightly. “Someone who used to sit across from me like this, and pretend that everything was alright when it wasn’t.”
Michael tilted his head. “And who was that?”
“Your father,” she said, her tone wistful and clipped all at once.
Then her gaze sharpened. She leaned forward slightly, one pale hand resting near the teapot. “Michael... what do you dream of?”
Michael didn’t answer right away. He met her eyes—and in that moment, her own magic surged.
Legilimens.
She slipped in like a whisper through a crack in the door. It was delicate, almost reverent. For a breath, she saw through him:
— A shattered temple with obsidian pillars, blood staining marble.
— Screams echoing through a realm of shadows.
— A mirror cracked, Michael’s own reflection twisting, changing. His eyes—purple and then red.
— A child version of him locked in a white room. Alone.
She touched fear. Loneliness. A glimpse of something darker, coiled and ancient beneath his calm.
Then—everything stopped.
The door slammed shut.
A searing cold struck her mind like a blade of black ice. Michael’s consciousness reared up like a fortress, his defenses sharpening with lightning speed. The fog of Occlumency coiled around her spell, pushing her out in a sudden, jarring snap.
Evangeline blinked, disoriented for half a second—but it was enough.
Michael’s expression had not changed. Not a flicker of surprise or anger. Just a smile.
He set down his cup.
“That was unkind, aunt.”
His tone was mild, his voice low and pleasant—but there was steel in it now. Something sharper beneath the velvet.
Evangeline composed herself. “Forgive me,” she said smoothly. “Curiosity is a curse of old women with too much time.”
“You’re not old,” he replied.
“But I do have time.”
He watched her with a steady gaze, and she knew in her bones: he had felt her presence. Knew what she saw. And let her see just enough.
“I wasn’t sure,” she murmured. “But now I am. I've been training you in Occlumency before you even turned 8, I should have guessed you'd know how to resist legilimency."
Michael nodded once, calmly. “In this palace, it’s as essential as breathing, just as you said."
She studied him again. The boy she’d once held after his mother’s passing had become a prince of silence, wearing masks far too well for his age.
Evangeline sighed. “You’re dangerous." she said before drinking the tea left in her cup.
“You as well, Aunt Eva.” he said. “Is that what you came to confirm?”
“No.” She looked down at her tea. “I came to remind myself that I still care.”
Michael said nothing at first. Then, as if granting her a gift: “I know.”
For a moment, they sat in the quiet again, two generations of Astyrax—one watching too closely, the other already ten steps ahead.
And when they finished their tea, Michael rose first. “Thank you, aunt. This was… enlightening.”
“More than you know,” Evangeline whispered as he walked out, his shadow stretching long across the polished stone.
She stayed a while longer, her hand resting on the warm porcelain, trying not to tremble before she wept, she saw Metatron too much in her beloved nephew.
The high council hall of Caelestis was grand, built from white marble that gleamed like snow under the light of a thousand enchanted lamps. The air was thick with the hum of quiet conversations as members of the royal court, noble lords, and generals gathered, awaiting their king. At the far end, Metatron sat, his usual aloofness palpable as he scanned the room with his regal, distant gaze. Evangeline stood next to him, her silver-white hair gleaming under the chamber lights. Her cold purple eyes, reminiscent of the monarch she once was, surveyed the gathering.
Council meetings were rarely this tense. There was a palpable energy in the air today—something that hadn’t been felt in Caelestis for a long time. Whispers of a demon raid on the outer borders, a failed assassination attempt on a royal envoy, and rumors of a stolen relic from the Sacred Vault had everyone on edge. And now, there was something far worse to deal with.
The council chamber still buzzed faintly with the murmurs of nobles and scholars, arguments over border defense and demon incursions threading between the clink of goblets and rustle of robes. Evangeline sat composed, though her pale fingers drummed slowly against the carved armrest of her seat. Her eyes—light purple and sharp as polished glass—remained fixed on the door, waiting for news.
Then it came.
The heavy double doors creaked open and two armored guards stepped inside, their faces drawn and tense. One bowed low before speaking.
“High Lady Evangeline,” he said. “The demon still refuses to speak. He has not uttered a single word since his capture.”
There was a pause in the room, the tension coiling tighter.
Evangeline stood without a word. The rustle of her long robes was the only sound as she moved across the chamber, the council watching in quiet reverence—and mild fear. Everyone knew she preferred subtle diplomacy over spectacle, but when provoked, she was a blade hidden in silk.
“Prepare the lower cells,” she commanded. “I’ll do it myself.”
Metatron said nothing as she passed by him. Neither did Michael, though he lowered his eyes briefly, his hands folded behind his back in a gesture of quiet acknowledgment.
The corridors leading down to the dungeons were cold and dim, torchlight flickering across stone walls damp with age. The guards guided her in silence, the path winding deeper beneath the palace where light—and mercy—grew thin.
They reached the iron door at the base of the stairs. Her long and modest white dress trailing with the sigil of Astyrax as the leather belt. A phoenix rising from flames.
Within, the lowest-ranking demon king lay chained to the wall, surrounded by wards carved into the stone, glowing faintly with angelic script. His skin was marred by holy burn marks where he’d tried to break free. Vol’gar. A creature of chaos and sin, caught only by chance. He looked up when she entered, his eyes narrow slits of red hate.
Evangeline said nothing at first. She moved closer to him, her footsteps light and deliberate. Her pale hands folded in front of her as she stood before him.
“You murdered two angels at the Monastery of the East,” she said calmly. “You tried to take a child with wings no larger than your palm. You crossed borders and set fire to sacred land.”
Vol’gar bared his fangs. “And I’ll do it again. They scream beautifully.”
Evangeline’s expression didn’t shift. “Did they?”
Then her eyes flared faintly.
Legilimens.
The spell struck like a blade into the demon’s consciousness. He snarled, convulsing against the chains as his mind was pried open. Blood trickled from his nose as Evangeline invaded without mercy.
His memories hit her like a wave of bile and ash.
A flash of red. Screaming angels, their wings torn from their backs. Children dragged through burning halls. Women chained and silenced, their cries echoing in hellfire. Vol’gar fed on suffering, thrived in agony. His mind was a cathedral of filth.
Evangeline saw his hands clutching a golden relic—a medallion etched with Edenic runes, pulsing darkly as he stole it from the sanctum of a ruined shrine. She saw him laugh over the body of a priestess he defiled, then murdered.
Her stomach turned, but her expression never cracked. She pushed deeper, the demon writhing harder now, his eyes rolling back as pain bloomed in his head.
“You killed twelve. Took five. Stole one relic. And fled west,” she whispered.
Vol’gar screamed, blood spurting from his mouth. The wards on the wall flared as the power of her spell intensified.
She saw more—shadows watching from afar. Other demons. Maybe higher kings, or something worse. But the memories blurred, scattered, refusing to piece together fully.
And then he collapsed.
Evangeline withdrew, her face pale but composed. The stench of blood and brimstone clung to the air.
"Get up, demon king." Evangeline threateningly commanded.
Vol’gar—the lowest of the demon kings, caught trespassing on Eden’s border with a kidnapped seraph child in tow. His wounds had begun to rot where holy blades had pierced him. He snarled upon seeing her, his twisted horns low and broken from capture, his red eyes glowing in defiance. “You,” he spat. “What will the lamb do now?”
Evangeline tilted her head, stepping closer. Her robes whispered like silk on the stone floor, her hands folded neatly in front of her.
“Lamb?” she echoed, voice as smooth and light as snow drifting over a grave. “No, no. I’m just a shepherd. And you’re the creature that strayed too far.”
She stopped in front of him and slowly reached for the slim dagger at her hip—silver, curved, inscribed with the sigils of Eden. Her fingers were delicate, but her grip was unflinching.
“Do you know what I hate, Vol’gar?” she asked, tone almost curious, almost polite. “I hate disobedience. And screaming.”
Before he could react, she raised the blade and, with careful precision, sliced into the base of one horn.
There was a sound like bone cracking under frost. The demon thrashed, roaring in pain—but she remained still, her eyes never blinking.
The first horn fell to the stone floor with a dull thud.
She reached for the second.
“I asked for your cooperation,” she continued, voice low and conversational. “But you chose silence. That was your first mistake.”
He screeched, the second horn sliced clean. Blood poured down his face like tar. She stepped back slightly to avoid the spray, daintily adjusting her robes.
Still, her face was unreadable. Calm. Almost kind.
“You’ve seen Eden’s relics, haven’t you?” she mused softly. “Held them in your filthy hands. Tell me—did they scream when you took them? Did the priestesses cry like children?”
The demon tried to lunge at her, chains rattling violently.
Evangeline sighed.
“You need to listen now, Vol’gar. This next part is going to hurt.”
She raised her hand—not the dagger, but her fingers, now glowing faintly with Eden’s magic. Her light purple eyes dimmed as the spell took shape.
The wings—burnt and tattered though they were—began to quiver.
“No—” he rasped.
She tore them off one at a time.
There was no scream quite like a demon’s wings being severed. It wasn’t loud, it was raw, animal, broken. The sort of sound that haunted gods in their sleep.
But Evangeline only stepped closer.
“You killed angels. Stole holy relics. Touched children who could not fight back.”
She knelt, lifting one of the severed horns between two fingers.
“I wonder what your higher kings would think of this mess. That their vassal king weeps before a woman.”
He groaned, half-conscious, trembling.
She leaned in close—just enough so he could see the glint of her fangs in the soft candlelight, a smile so delicate it could have belonged to a nursemaid.
“Pathetic, crying from a mere woman.” she whispered, taunting the suffering demon.
With that, she raised her fingers again, her eyes flaring—
Legilimens.
This time, his barriers collapsed entirely.
She saw everything. Women dragged through flame. Angelic blood coating an obsidian altar. A twisted cathedral where he hid the stolen relic beneath the roots of a hell tree. She saw the priestess scream as he crushed her throat. She saw his kings—faceless, watching.
Her lips curled into a faint, almost maternal frown.
“Good,” she whispered. “That’s enough for today.”
She rose, brushing off the blood from her gloves. The demon whimpered, broken and near death, but alive.
“Clean him,” she told the guards on her way out. “We’ll need him to whimper again tomorrow.”
As she walked back up into the light of the upper halls, her face had already returned to its mask of nobility, the stench of hell trailing softly behind her like perfume.
The next day Evangeline sipped her tea at the council before deciding it was time to go and play.
Evangeline stood at the edge of the demon’s cell, calm as ever, watching him cower beneath her presence like a dog before the lash. Her gloved hands folded in front of her, chin lifted just slightly, as if she were overseeing a painting that failed to meet her standards.
Vol’gar whimpered again—his broken wings twitching, his once-mighty form slumped in a pitiful crouch. His breathing hitched when he dared glance up at her, only to find those lilac eyes staring at him with dispassionate interest.
“Oh no need to tremble,” she said in that gentle, silken voice. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you… if you behaved.”
She took a step closer. Her heels echoed through the chamber like distant thunder, deliberate and slow.
“But I’ve changed my mind.”
Vol’gar barely had time to flinch.
In one fluid movement, Evangeline stepped past the barrier—the enchantment flickering to obey her—and brought her foot down with cold precision. Her heel, sharp and reinforced with divine steel, connected with the side of his skull.
Crunch.
A spatter of dark blood followed the wet crack of bone. His body collapsed limply to the floor, twitching once, then never again.
She looked down without a shred of pity, tilting her head slightly as if disappointed.
“Messy,” she muttered, wiping the speck of blood from her heel with a handkerchief she pulled delicately from her sleeve. “But satisfying...”
She looked at the dead body of the demon. "Oh, now now Vol'gar, no need to look at me like that" she chuckled, making fun of his terrified dying face. "I could have played with you longer if you could have just cooperated."
Evangeline turned and strode out of the cell, the door swinging shut behind her. Her robes flowed like moonlight on midnight waters, her steps unhurried, her expression placid.
To any watching, she looked no different than a noblewoman leaving tea—only now, the scent that followed her was not lavender and parchment, but the unmistakable metallic sting of judgment.
****************
The highlands of Thoborn were quiet, cloaked in morning mist and the hum of wind weaving through the pine-covered slopes. Uriel stood at the clearing’s edge, blonde hair tied back, her grip firm on the hilt of the famed Sword of Astyrax. The blade gleamed faintly even under the gray skies— elegant, and pulsing faintly with warmth in her hand.
Across from her stood Raguel, calm as ever, arms folded. He didn’t correct her stance this time. She had improved, and he knew it.
“You’re holding it properly now,” he said, nodding. “Finally.”
Uriel gave him a mock scowl. “It’s heavier than it looks. Feels like it remembers battles I haven’t even fought yet.”
“Good,” Raguel replied. “It should.”
A nearby burst of heat startled the air—Solas, the young phoenix perched on a rock, flared his wings and coughed out a swirl of golden fire. The flames licked the air harmlessly before vanishing in wisps of smoke.
Uriel beamed. “Did you see that? He’s learning!”
“He’s going to burn down our camp before he learns to fly straight,” Raguel muttered.
Behind them, curled in a bed of wildflowers and dry hay, lay Fenris now the massive grey direwolf—snoring gently, tail twitching with dreams. The creature’s presence alone was enough to ward off most wild beasts in Thoborn.
Uriel wiped the sweat from her brow, then turned back to her brother.
“Where’s Aunt Eva?” she asked. “She didn’t show up for morning prayers.”
“She left before sunrise,” Raguel replied. “Headed to the capital. Council business.”
Uriel’s brows furrowed. She adjusted her sword belt, chewing her lip.
“She left without saying goodbye again…”
“She does that when the work’s heavy,” Raguel said.
Uriel stepped back, sheathing the sword. “I wonder what kind of business it is this time. She never tells us much. Not even when she visits with those letters…”
“She’s the Head of Council, Uri,” Raguel said. “She can’t tell us everything.”
Uriel walked over to Fenris and dropped beside him, resting her head on the soft fur of his flank. The wolf didn’t stir.
“I just get this feeling,” she said. “Like she’s not telling anyone everything.”
Raguel sat beside her, his voice low. “She carries more secrets than the king. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care.”
“I know,” Uriel murmured. “I just hate feeling like we’re always ten steps behind.”
Solas fluttered down beside her, chirped, and nestled into the crook of her arm. Uriel smiled faintly, stroking his soft feathers.
Later that afternoon, after training had ended and the sun began to set in amber gold across the Thoborn cliffs, Raguel sat cross-legged by the campfire, sharpening one of his spare swords. Uriel crept behind him, holding a comb and a few thin strips of ribbon she had scavenged from one of Asenath’s old sewing kits.
“You promised,” she said, a sly smile curling on her lips.
Raguel groaned without turning. “I was hoping you’d forget.”
“I will never forget,” she declared proudly, dropping to sit behind him. “You owe me a braid day.”
“Fine,” he muttered, sheathing his dagger and surrendering himself to her nimble fingers. “But if you put flowers in my hair again, I swear—”
“You looked majestic with those thistles,” Uriel interrupted, laughing. “Like a war maiden.”
“I'm a paladin of the realm, not a woodland nymph,” he grumbled.
Uriel gently combed through his thick chestnut hair, undoing the tangled strands from training. “Tell that to the birds who tried nesting on your head last week.”
Raguel snorted. “You’re growing sassier by the day.”
“Comes with the sword,” she said cheekily, parting his hair and beginning a neat braid. “Now hold still. I’m giving you the braid of a warrior prince.”
He huffed but obeyed, and for a few moments, silence settled between them—only the crackle of firewood, the rustle of trees, and Fenris’s steady breathing nearby. Solas fluttered above them in lazy circles before perching on a branch.
“You know,” Raguel said at last, quieter now, “mother used to braid my hair when I was little.”
Uriel’s fingers paused for a second. “Really?”
“Mhm. When we still lived near the cliffs of Myrrh. I was probably five. She said braiding hair keeps the spirits of the past from whispering too close.”
Uriel smiled faintly, resuming the braid. “I think I like that.”
“Yeah,” Raguel said softly. “Me too.”
When she finished, she tied the end with a blue ribbon and gave his braid a light tug. “There. Now you look like the battle angel in those old stained glass windows.”
Raguel rolled his eyes but smiled. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look perfect,” Uriel said, resting her chin on his shoulder. “You're the best brother.”
“I know,” he replied, leaning his head gently against hers. “You're not so bad either, daughter of flame.” he joked.
The winds of Thoborn howled soft and cool that evening, brushing over the peaks like whispers from the dead. Uriel had just finished coiling the training ropes when she noticed the pale figure descending from the ridge—graceful and regal even in exhaustion.
Evangeline Astyrax had returned.
Her white dress fluttered in the wind, now marked by smudges of dried crimson she hadn’t seemed to notice. Her bare arms bore faint smears of ash and blood, her silver hair slightly matted at the ends. The scent of sulfur clung to her like smoke—so sharp and vile that Fenris lifted his head and gave a low growl before recognizing her.
Uriel and Raguel both stepped forward.
“Lady Evangeline?” Raguel called out.
Evangeline paused, her expression unreadable. “I didn’t have time for a proper bath,” she said gently, voice like a chime in the dark. “The demon king’s blood is... stubborn.”
Uriel wrinkled her nose. “What did you do?”
She didn’t answer. Her soft smile remained, but it didn’t reach her tired violet eyes. “Not something a child should ask,” she replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Or a soldier should envy.”
Without another word, she stepped past them and entered the keep, her white slippers quiet on the old stone.
The stone bathhouse in the Thoborn Highlands was ancient—its smooth walls carved from mountain rock, its pools warmed by underground springs and lit only by flickering oil lanterns. Steam danced through the air like spirits, curling over the carved runes and weathered statues that had watched countless seasons pass.
Evangeline sat at the edge of the central pool, the bloodstains of yesterday slowly bleeding into the water. Her white dress lay discarded beside her, soaked and ruined, and her pale form sat still as marble—an alabaster ghost wreathed in steam.
Asenath knelt behind her in silence, sleeves rolled up, hands steady with the confidence of someone who knew this body, this woman, this burden.
She dipped a cloth into the warm water and began at Evangeline’s shoulders, gentle and slow. The blood flaked off like old paint. Evangeline didn’t flinch, didn’t speak. Her eyes were open, but unfocused—gazing into something distant only she could see.
“I didn’t notice,” she whispered, voice fragile. “The stains. The smell.”
“You were focused,” Asenath replied softly. “Too far gone in the hunt.”
Evangeline’s lips parted to respond, but no words came. Asenath reached for the vial of herb-oil and poured a few drops into her palm. The lavender and juniper scent cut through the sulfur lingering on Evangeline’s skin.
She began with Evangeline’s hair—long strands of silver tangled and matted with dried blood, ashes, and demon filth. Slowly, patiently, she massaged the oil into her scalp, her fingers parting every knot with care. Evangeline let her head fall slightly forward, eyes fluttering closed at the familiar comfort.
"You used to do this when we were younger," she murmured.
"You used to cry through it," Asenath smiled faintly. “You said I was pulling too hard.”
“I was a princess,” Evangeline whispered. “Back then...”
“Back then,” Asenath echoed, gently working her fingers down the long, silken strands, “you hadn't yet learned how to wear cruelty like perfume.”
She dipped a fresh cloth into the water and ran it down Evangeline’s back, following the ridges of her shoulder blades, tracing the outline of the wings. At the base of her spine, where the skin slightly puckered from the pressure of sealed pruning glands, sore wings had shook. Asenath slowed.
Evangeline sucked in a quiet breath.
“Still sore?” Asenath asked.
“Always,” she whispered. “Like ghosts pressing through my skin.”
Asenath kissed the back of her neck, lips soft and unhurried, and massaged warm water into the ridges of her pruning glands—those ancient, sealed veins where her wings grew out of.
She cleansed them carefully, with reverence, as if anointing a sacred relic.
Asenath leaned forward, letting her forehead rest between Evangeline’s shoulder blades.
They stayed like that for a long while. The silence was not hollow—it was full. Full of all the things they had never said, and all the moments in which they chose one another without needing to say them.
Eventually, Asenath helped herself into the warm pool, Evangeline submerging herself until only her head and shoulders remained above water. Asenath joined her, wrapping an arm around her waist as they leaned back against the carved stone ledge.
The bathwater rippled gently as Evangeline shifted, her breathing slower now, her body gradually relaxing into the warmth. For a time, she and Asenath sat chest to back in silence, the weight of the day slowly melting off their skin. Then, without a word, Evangeline opened her eyes, and the bathhouse dimmed as her six great wings unfurled from her back.
It was slow—deliberate. A breath of power passed through the water, soft but palpable, as if the room itself recognized the presence of something holy and ancient. The wings stretched like cathedral arches, majestic even in fatigue—soft feathers that shimmered pale silver and white, dusted with the faintest ash from battle and dried blood at their edges. They folded slightly, exhausted, and dipped toward the water.
Asenath’s breath caught for a moment—not from fear, but awe. Even after all these years, Evangeline’s wings never ceased to quiet her heart.
“They ache,” Evangeline whispered. “The pruning glands have been working overtime again.”
“I know,” Asenath murmured, reaching for the jar she had brought—oils made from balmroot, phoenix resin, and angel’s blossom.
She stood, then stepped into the shallow ledge behind Evangeline, water curling around her thighs as she approached the first wing. With slow, reverent hands, she began to wash the feathers—starting at the uppermost pair, closest to Evangeline’s shoulders. The pruning glands at the base, small vascular nodes nestled in skin, glistened faintly, secreting natural grooming oil.
Asenath dipped her fingers into the gland's seam, careful not to press too hard, and gently coaxed the oils out, smoothing them across the base of each wing. The smell was light and sweet—like wind on high mountain air, touched by incense and memory.
Evangeline inhaled slowly. Her wings twitched at first—reflexive, as the glands were highly sensitive—but she didn’t flinch away. Asenath’s hands were practiced, and there was no place on this body she didn’t know how to soothe.
"You used to complain about this," Asenath said with a faint smile, brushing blood away from the second pair of wings, trailing her hand through each feather with care.
"I used to hate being touched at all," Evangeline replied, her voice low, eyes closed.
"And now?"
"I still hate it. Except when it's you."
Asenath said nothing to that. Instead, she moved to the lowest set of wings, brushing the down-soft feathers with a damp cloth, then pressing warm oil into the spaces between. Evangeline tilted her head slightly, eyes fluttering shut.
Her breathing was calm. Her body no longer tense.
The wings glistened under the dim lantern light, feathers now pure and unmarred—angelic in every sense. The last of the demon king’s filth had been wiped away, dissolved beneath Asenath’s hands.
“Why do you stay?” Evangeline asked suddenly, not opening her eyes. “Even after everything I’ve become?”
Asenath leaned close, resting her cheek between Evangeline’s wings. “Because you let me see what you haven’t.”
There was no response to that—only silence. Evangeline stayed still as Asenath wrapped her arms around her from behind, wings fluttering slightly with the contact.
She stepped barefoot into the stone courtyard where Uriel and Raguel were sharpening their swords, Solas snorting fire by Uriel’s side while Fenris lounged half-asleep under the apple tree.
Her white dress was clean now, but the faint reddish-brown stain on the hem refused to fade. She hadn’t changed. Only washed enough to not offend Asenath when she returned to their shared quarters.
Uriel was the first to speak. “You reeked of demon blood again, Auntie.”
Evangeline sighed softly, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve. “Noticed, did you?”
Raguel glanced at her with a touch more concern. “Was it the council meeting?”
She nodded once, seating herself on the stone ledge nearby. The weight of her wings sagged slightly. She hadn’t slept since descending into the dungeons.
“They brought in one of the lesser kings,” she said, calmly. “Thin-blooded but vicious. Found crossing Eden’s southern border with a stolen relic and a child in tow. An angelic child.”
Uriel sat forward, golden brows rising. “Alive?”
“The child will recover,” Evangeline said. “Physically.”
Uriel winced at the implication.
Raguel’s expression darkened. “And the demon?”
Evangeline’s voice remained silk-smooth, dangerously cool. “Uncooperative. At first. He feared nothing, not even when I started cutting into his wings. But when I reached into his memories—”
“You used Legilimens,” Raguel said.
“Of course I did.”
Uriel shifted. “What did you see?”
Evangeline looked past them, to the horizon, like she was seeing something still burned behind her eyes.
“He was filth,” she said. “Murdered Seraphim priests, collected the bones of celestials like trophies. He and his kind have been trafficking half-angel women in the borderlands. And he had touched the relic—he’d desecrated it. Used it to fuel some twisted gatework. All of it hidden beneath layers of fake piety.”
Uriel's fists clenched in her lap. "And what did you do?"
Evangeline turned her eyes on her niece, calm and deadly.
“I made sure he died afraid.”
Neither sibling said anything for a moment. Solas stirred beside Uriel, sensing her heat.
“And what of Michael?” Raguel asked at last, changing the subject. “You said he killed another demon king, near Vireon?”
Evangeline blinked once. “Yes. A stronger one. Word came just before I returned. He decapitated it in public. The nobles are… quite taken with him.”
Uriel looked down, brushing a hand over Solas’ feathers. “Of course they are.”
Evangeline tilted her head slightly. “He is your brother. As much as it may burn." She said as she walked back into the house, the two and their companions following her in.
The stone hearth flickered low, licking the sides of the kettle as steam curled above it. Uriel sat close to the fire, arms wrapped loosely around her knees, a blanket slipping from her shoulders. Raguel leaned against the far stone wall with his arms crossed, his brow tight in thought. Evangeline sat between them, her hair damp from the earlier bath, tied loosely with a pale ribbon. She wore a new robe now—white and soft, but plain—and the light caught in her still-wet lashes as she stared into the flames.
Uriel was the one to break the quiet. “Michael… was he always like that?”
Her voice was curious but cautious—like someone peeking through a half-open door. There was something sharp and unfamiliar in the memory of the boy they’d only seen from a distance. The brother who bore the same blood. The brother who wasn’t raised beside them.
Evangeline didn’t answer right away. Her eyes softened with memory.
“No,” she finally said, voice smooth but tinged with melancholy. “No, he wasn’t.”
She exhaled slowly. “When he was young, Michael was... gentle. Quiet, yes, but kind. He adored animals. Loved the paintings in the eastern gallery and used to sneak into the archives just to copy the stars from old navigation maps. I taught him how to read before he turned five. He memorized poetry by six. He’d follow me around, asking questions I couldn’t always answer. Just like how his father used to.”
She paused, voice thinning.
“He used to hum when he was nervous. The same lullaby his mother would sing to him.”
Uriel blinked, caught off guard by the tenderness in her aunt’s voice. “What changed?”
Evangeline’s eyes dulled. “His mother died. And everything else with her.”
The silence that followed was deep. The kettle hissed behind them, spitting softly.
“Metatron,” she continued slowly, “was not the same after that. He shut himself away from the boy. And Michael, for all his brilliance, was still just a child. He didn’t understand the grief. He thought it was abandonment.”
Uriel glanced toward Raguel, her throat tight. “And so?”
“And so,” Evangeline said, her voice quieter now, “he changed.”
Her gaze lifted from the flames to them. “I thought I could protect him. Teach him to guard his mind. I taught him Legilimens so he could defend himself. I taught him Occlumency so others couldn’t see what he wished to hide.”
“You taught him both?” Raguel asked, more surprised than accusatory.
“I did,” she replied. “He surpassed my expectations—mastered Occlumency with frightening ease. Now? I can barely see past the first wall of his mind. But before he noticed, I did get a glimpse.”
She paused—then looked at them gravely.
“I saw his memories of the most recent demon incursion. The one outside Vireon.”
Uriel stiffened, sensing a change in tone. Raguel’s jaw tensed.
“It was a slaughter,” Evangeline said. “He didn’t just defeat the demon king—he annihilated their entire nest. I saw charred bodies. I saw him tear wings from the dying. And he was… smiling.”
Uriel’s fingers curled against her blanket, her voice almost a whisper. “He smiled?”
Evangeline nodded. “Like it was nothing. Like he was playing.”
She turned her eyes on them, piercing and calm. “And what frightened me the most wasn’t the brutality. It was that I couldn’t see the fire’s source. It wasn’t angelic. It wasn’t demonic. It was something else entirely.”
Raguel took a step closer, his expression clouded. “You don’t think he’s—?”
“I don’t know what he is,” she said. “But I fear what he’s becoming.”
Uriel swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s our brother.”
“Yes,” Evangeline replied. “Which is why I’m telling you. Because if one day he turns his gaze on Eden, or worse. On either of you, you’ll need to be ready.”
The flames in the hearth sputtered, casting shadows over their faces. Uriel sat rigid now, her breathing careful. Raguel looked toward the window, out into the snowy wilds of Thoborn, his thoughts heavy.
After a moment, Uriel looked at her aunt and said quietly, “You still love him.”
Evangeline blinked. Her lips curved with the faintest trace of sadness. “I do. That’s what makes this worse.”
She leaned forward, speaking barely above the hush of the wind outside.
“I raised him like a son. But I can’t tell if what’s left in him is my nephew… or something else entirely.”
The fire had burned lower now, dimming the room with a flickering golden haze. Snow pattered softly against the windows, and outside, the Highlands howled with a biting wind. But inside, silence reigned—heavy with the weight of what had been said.
Raguel stirred first, his voice careful. “Aunt… if you don’t mind us asking.”
Evangeline glanced at him, tilting her head slightly.
“How did you… end up where you are now?” Uriel added gently, her gaze inquisitive but hesitant. “The council, the politics. All of it. You were always there. Always above everyone else. Even Father respects you.”
Evangeline looked away, the corners of her mouth tensing just slightly. “You think I wanted that?”
Raguel and Uriel exchanged a brief glance.
Evangeline’s hands folded in her lap. Her voice dropped to something almost distant—like a melody long buried beneath stone.
“I was raised under my father’s rule,” she said. “Not as a daughter… but as a vessel. A successor. The perfect heir.”
Uriel blinked. “But Father—he was the heir, wasn’t he?”
“He was,” Evangeline replied, “but not until later. When we were children, I bore the crown’s weight. I was firstborn. Expected to lead Eden one day. To carry purity like a banner and wield the sword of Astyrax with grace and terror alike. My wings had to be pristine. My conduct without flaw. And when I wasn’t…”
She trailed off, eyes darkening.
“I was punished.”
The fire crackled, but neither Raguel nor Uriel spoke. They waited.
“I remember once,” she continued, her voice still soft, “when Metatron broke a celestial orb in the eastern gallery. He was scared—he begged me not to tell. I didn’t. But the court found out regardless. And he swore, before my father, that I had done it.”
Uriel’s eyes widened, appalled. “He framed you?”
“I took the punishment quietly. I always did,” she said, no bitterness in her tone—only resignation. “They locked me in the western tower. I was left without food or water for three days. The guards wouldn’t look me in the eye.”
Raguel’s voice was low. “That’s… it's immoral.”
“That was the expectation,” Evangeline murmured. “You must be stronger than suffering. You must transcend it. My father once told me, ‘If you cry, then you are still too weak to wear white.’”
Uriel’s fingers tightened in her lap. “That’s not strength. That’s cruelty.”
Evangeline offered a thin smile, distant and cold. “Cruelty and strength wear the same face in the palace.”
She leaned back slightly, her damp white hair falling like silk against her back. “He made me memorize every law of Eden by the time I was eight. If I misquoted even a word, I’d be forced to stand in the snow barefoot until I got it right.”
Uriel’s breath hitched, and Raguel looked away, his jaw taut.
“I rose to the council not through privilege,” Evangeline said, her voice gaining quiet intensity, “but by proving I would outlast everyone else. By becoming what they needed. What he demanded.”
The firelight danced across the carved stone walls, casting long shadows that flickered like ghosts of the past. Evangeline sat still—elegant even in stillness, her blood-stained white robes whispering against the floor like fallen snow. Uriel hadn’t moved from where she sat by her side. Raguel knelt before the hearth, the heat barely thawing the chill that had entered the room.
Evangeline’s voice broke the silence again—quiet, unwavering.
“When my mother died because she threw herself from the towers like every other female Astyraxes” she said, “I was named Queen Regent. It wasn't even my fifteenth name day.”
Both Uriel and Raguel looked up sharply.
“I wasn’t much older than you are now, Uriel. Fifteen. Not even grown. But Father didn’t weep. He didn’t mourn. He simply called the council that night and announced I would sit in her place. ‘The crown must never feel absence,’ he said. ‘Only weight.’”
Her fingers curled loosely around her knees. “They dressed me in mourning silk laced with angelic fire so it wouldn’t wrinkle. I couldn’t cry, or the embroidery would burn. I remember trying to blink back the tears because they’d sizzle against my skin.”
Uriel felt her throat tighten.
Evangeline stared ahead, gaze faraway. “You want to know what it means to be an Astyrax? It means being born not to live, but to endure. Our lives are not lives at all. We were bred like cattle—groomed for the altar of legacy. Do you know how many times I stood on the marble floor of the solar, hands bleeding from script practice, while Father struck me with a rod not meant to bruise—but to shame?”
Raguel’s eyes glinted with a quiet fury. “He did that to you?”
“He did that to all of us,” Evangeline murmured. “Even Metatron. Though perhaps… less often. He was younger. I had already learned to take the fall for him. He’d spill ink on the ancient maps, sneak into the forbidden library, swap prophecy scrolls as a game. And when the lords came calling for punishment, he would vanish, and I would step forward.”
“You took the blame?” Uriel whispered.
“Every time,” Evangeline said, lips curving into a tired smile. “That was the rule. The heir protects the bloodline, even from itself.”
She brushed her fingers along the side of her head, as if remembering a crown’s weight.
“When I turned fifteen, the day they crowned me queen regent, Father had a new crown forged. I asked him what it would look like. He said, ‘One worthy of your strength.’ I didn’t understand until the makers placed it on my head in the garden chapel.”
Her voice dropped lower, a tremor buried beneath its calm.
“He ordered them to forge thorns on the inside. Tiny ones. So that whenever I moved, they’d pierce me. Not enough to bleed—just enough to remind me who I was.”
Uriel gasped, her hand instinctively reaching toward her own hairline, as though feeling phantom pain.
“They smiled when they placed it,” Evangeline went on, “and I smiled too. Because that’s what Astyrax do. We bleed in white and call it virtue.”
She let the silence stretch, a cold gravity settling between the three of them. Her wings—pristine and vast—twitched subtly, as if remembering their own scars.
“I governed for two years. Signed treaties, led campaigns, judged trials. I executed traitors and buried loyalists. And when Father returned from the outer dominions, he looked me in the eye and said, ‘You’ve done well. You may step down now.’ As if I had merely been a steward. That was when Queen Regent Evangeline fell, and King Regent Metatron rose into power.”
Uriel’s lips trembled. “Aunt…”
“I was never meant to be seen,” Evangeline said, bitterness blooming in her voice like frost on glass. “Only to hold the pieces until the men were ready to pick them back up.”
Raguel stood slowly, fists clenched. “You shouldn’t have had to live like that.”
“I didn’t live,” Evangeline answered softly. “I endured. That’s why I taught Michael Legilimens. That’s why I taught him Occlumency. I thought, perhaps, if he learned early… he could survive better than I did. But I may have been wrong.”
Uriel’s voice cracked. “Do you hate Metatron?”
Evangeline finally looked at her. Her eyes—violet and cold—softened just a shade.
“No. I hate that I still see the boy I once protected every time I look at him. The boy who cried in my arms when he was punished for spilling wine on the royal carpet. I hate that I remember his laughter. I hate that some part of me still wishes he’d come to me and say, ‘I’m sorry.’ But he never will.”
She rose slowly, her white robes falling around her like mist. “And I hate that I still care.”
The fire snapped suddenly, casting her face in shadow.
“Being Astyrax means learning to survive in silence,” she murmured, “and smiling through the pain so convincingly, even your own soul forgets it’s suffering.”
Evangeline's fingers twitched in her lap, curled into her skirts as if they might claw into her own skin. Her breath stilled. She had not meant to fall that far into the past—but it pulled her like undertow.
“Stand still.”
His voice was always the first thing to return.
She remembered the way his hand gripped her jaw, rough calloused fingers pressing into her soft cheek. She was close to fifteen. Her bones are still small, shoulders still delicate from unfinished growth of wings—wings that ached to stretch, to fly, to flee.
But he stood behind her like a shadow, like a god, eyes full of fury and wrath, adjusting the inner seams of the cursed dress himself.
“It’ll burn less,” he said, not looking at her eyes in the mirror, “if you learn to breathe with dignity. Deep breaths are for peasants. Queens are measured. Controlled.”
Evangeline dared not flinch as the inner lining of the corset ignited with every pull. It wasn’t fire—not exactly—but magic forged from coals of brimstone, sealed into the enchanted seams. Every breath she took would stoke the heat. Too shallow, and she would faint. Too deep, and she would burn.
He laced the back tighter, grunting at her wince. “Pain will teach you posture.”
She remembered staring into the glass. Watching the girl there—white-haired, wide-eyed, in a dress that shimmered like fallen snow and burned like hell underneath.
But that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst was the crown.
He brought it forward on a red velvet cushion, the way a priest might unveil a holy relic.
Golden, forged by Vhaloric metalsmiths, rimmed with roses of thorns facing inward. The crown had been custom-made—not for beauty, but obedience. The thorns wouldn’t slice, wouldn’t draw blood. They would press, grind, leave dents in her scalp beneath her pale hair. Invisible to the court. Hidden, like every other wound.
“I had it adjusted,” he told her. “So it fits you better than it did your mother.”
She didn’t ask what he meant.
He placed it on her head himself.
No ceremony. No celebration.
****************
The cold of January 1st clung to the stones of the old keep, but inside the great hall of Thoborn, warmth pulsed from the hearthfire and the presence of family. The long wooden table was set with simple feasts—warm honeyed bread, winterroot stew, and roast pheasant. Garland made of pine and phoenix feathers draped across the rafters, a last remnant of New Year’s celebrations. But today wasn’t just about the new year. It was Uriel’s fifteenth birthday.
The firelight danced across her face as she stood near the center of the room, a cake set in front of her on the table, golden light from the candles flickering in her bright eyes. Solas perched gracefully on the back of her chair, its flames dimmed to a gentle simmer, its sharp gaze watchful but serene. Fenris, her sleepy white direwolf, dozed by the fire, massive and peaceful, tail twitching in dreams.
“Make a wish, little flame,” Evangeline said softly, her tone light, delicate, and fond. She was dressed simply today, no armor, no blood, only a soft silver robe stitched with embroidery that glinted faintly like the stars above Eden. Her hair was braided with care—Asenath’s work, clearly.
Uriel closed her eyes. The candlelight fluttered.
She exhaled.
The flames went out.
The small group clapped gently. Asenath smiled from across the table and slid a plate of candied nuts toward Uriel. “Happy birthday, my girl,” she said warmly. Her gaze was softer than usual, her stern face melting just a little under the glow of celebration.
Raguel, taller now and broader with the strength of a warrior fully grown at twenty-two, stepped forward. He was wearing a tunic still dusted in soot. “Now for my gift,” he said with a proud grin, reaching behind the bench.
Uriel raised a brow curiously. “Did you make me another dagger?”
“Nope,” Raguel said, hoisting up a polished wooden case and setting it on the table before her.
Uriel blinked.
Solas leaned in, curious, a faint trail of smoke curling from its beak.
Raguel unlatched the box and opened it.
Inside gleamed a masterpiece—an avian armor crafted from reinforced silver steel with leather on the joints and phoenix-scale mesh, light yet durable, shaped to fit Solas’s frame. Etched along the plates were tiny runes for heat resistance, wind slicing, and magical focus. The chestpiece bore the crest of House Astyrax, reimagined into a blazing wing.
“Raguel…” Uriel whispered, stunned.
“I call it Avian Armour,” Raguel said with an almost boyish kind of pride, rubbing the back of his neck. “Took me three months of trial and error. Had to get the wing joints just right so it wouldn’t clip your bird’s flight.”
Solas crooned, then gave a small, crackling chirp and nudged its beak against Raguel’s shoulder.
“He approves,” Uriel said breathlessly. She reached forward, running her fingers along the smooth plating. “You made this for him?”
“For you,” Raguel corrected, then looked at her with a sincerity that only brothers could wear. “You’ve grown strong. Stronger than I ever imagined. You’ve earned it.”
Uriel’s chest swelled, her eyes stinging just slightly.
Evangeline watched the two of them, her hand resting gently on Asenath’s. She didn’t speak, only smiled faintly at the firelight catching Uriel’s cheekbones and the wonder on her face. Solas opened its wings briefly, catching the heat of the nearby flame and flaring it outward. The phoenix’s glow reflected in Uriel’s eyes, and for a moment, the future seemed brighter than the bleak past they had all weathered.
“I’ll help you fit it on him later,” Raguel said with a shrug.
Uriel nodded eagerly. “Thank you. I—this is the best gift I’ve ever had.”
Fenris groaned from his place by the hearth and lazily thumped his tail, as if in agreement.
And in the quiet afterward, with flickering shadows painting the stone walls, they sat together as a family. One forged through blood, flame, and storm—but whole nonetheless.
pale sunlight filtered through the snow-glazed windows of the forge that Raguel had set up in the Highlands. Though it was cold outside, the inside glowed warm with heat and iron. Uriel stood with Solas beside her, the phoenix perched proudly, its scarlet-gold plumage glimmering like a living flame. The newly forged Avian Armour gleamed beside them, neatly laid out on a thick hide spread across a table.
“You ready?” Raguel asked, rolling up his sleeves.
Uriel nodded, excitement brimming in her eyes. “He is too,” she added, stroking under Solas’s neck. The phoenix purred in response, sparks drifting lazily from its wings.
Raguel stepped forward and lifted the chest piece of the armor. “Alright, big guy. Let’s see if this fits.” He moved to clasp the plating over Solas’s breast, carefully guiding the straps around.
As soon as his fingers brushed the phoenix’s feathered side, a blistering sizzle echoed through the forge.
“Agh—!” Raguel hissed and dropped the armor piece, staggering back. A red burn marked the inside of his palm.
Uriel immediately went to him. “Are you okay?!”
“I’m fine, just—burned.” He flexed his fingers, gritting his teeth. “Damn bird runs hotter than a forge fire.”
Solas tilted its head, almost smug, its wings twitching.
Uriel blinked. “But I’ve been petting him this whole time.”
Raguel stared at her, brows furrowed. “You didn’t feel the heat?”
“No?” she said, frowning as she reached out again. Her hand brushed Solas’s neck. Nothing. Not even warmth that hurts—just a deep, steady hum of magic. She scratched under his beak and Solas nuzzled into her palm.
Raguel watched in stunned silence as Solas fanned his wings and let Uriel begin lifting the wing-guards into place with bare hands.
“You’re… not burning,” he muttered.
Uriel gave him a sheepish look. “Guess I’m just used to him.”
“No, that’s not it,” Raguel said quietly. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as the realization dawned. “Solas is fire incarnate. No one touches a phoenix and walks away without a burn.” He looked down at his red, blistered palm, then back up at his sister—so calm, so natural with the blazing creature. “But you… You’re untouched.”
He gave a breath of wonder, then said it aloud, reverent:
“Unburnt.”
Uriel paused, the armor piece held gently in her hand.
Raguel stepped back and shook his head, a slow smile forming on his lips despite the pain. “Uriel Astyrax, the Unburnt. It suits you.”
She blinked. Then grinned. “I kind of like it.”
Outside, snow fell in quiet spirals. But within the forge, Uriel, the girl who now stood immune to the phoenix flame, who bore the sword of Astyrax and the bond of Solas was glowing. Crowned not by blood, but by fire that had never harmed her.
Outside the forge, the snowy highlands stretched beneath a pale, clear-blue sky. The cold wind bit at the edges of the mountains, but none of it touched Solas as he took to the air in a sudden, majestic surge of golden fire.
With his new avian armor glinting like molten gold against his crimson feathers, Solas soared upward, trailing streaks of light as the plates caught the sun. The armor fits perfectly—sleek, protective, without dulling the grace of his movements. Each beat of his wings left a shimmer in the sky.
Uriel stepped outside, her hand shielding her eyes as she watched her phoenix ascend. Raguel stood beside her, still flexing his burned hand with a smirk of pride, while Evangeline and Asenath lingered near the door, arms crossed and faces lifted to the heavens.
Then, Solas opened his beak.
A roar of flame burst from his throat, a pure arc of fire that painted the air with swirling orange and gold. The clouds rippled from the heat, and for a moment he vanished into the sun’s brilliance—an explosion of light and flame swallowing him whole.
Uriel gasped and stepped forward, breath caught.
But just as quickly, Solas reappeared, diving downward in a flash, a trail of embers and laughter in his cry. He spun in a perfect spiral, wings tucked in before flaring out again with a thunderclap of heat. The blaze that followed didn't scorch the ground, but instead exploded harmlessly into a brilliant bust of flame in the sky, shaped like a flower—each petal trailing smoke, his own little celebratory firework.
Uriel laughed in delight, her hair whipping in the wind. “Show off.”
Solas screeched in reply—cheeky, proud, and utterly radiant.
“Looks like he loves the armor,” Raguel said with a grin.
“Great.. he's fire breathing now.” Uriel murmured, eyes gleaming as she watched her phoenix, the very flame of her soul, dance in the sky like a second sun.
Evening settled over the Highlands with a quiet sort of reverence, the sky streaked with molten amber and sleepy lilac. After the celebration, when the candles had melted low and the wine was replaced by soft laughter and sleepy conversations, Uriel slipped away toward the open courtyard, drawn by the pull in her chest.
Solas perched nearby—his armor gleaming softly under the dusk, warm gold and red where the forgefire met the light. He turned his head toward her, eyes bright and intelligent, something ancient flickering in their depths.
Uriel lifted her arm, the sleeve of her tunic pushed back. “Come on, then.”
The phoenix regarded her for a moment longer, then stepped forward. The moment his armored claws touched her forearm—the world shifted.
The air cracked like glass beneath a hammer. The courtyard vanished.
Uriel blinked. She was standing in the middle of a cliffside cavern surrounded by glowing crystal veins and ancient, wind-carved stone. Her breath caught. “What the—?”
Solas chirped once, still perched calmly on her arm as if nothing had changed.
“You—” she looked around, then down at him. “You… fused with me? No. You didn’t. You just—”
The air shimmered again.
Flash.
Now she stood in the council chamber—empty, quiet, abandoned in the moonlight.
Uriel gasped. “No way.”
Another flash.
The palace kitchens.
“Not again—”
The startled shriek of a servant nearly knocked over an entire rack of bread loaves.
Then, before she could react—
Flash.
The roof of the observatory.
Cold wind rushed over her, snowflakes brushing her cheeks. She stumbled back, laughing breathlessly. “Solas! You little—”
A pulse of warmth rose from her arm where he still perched. His fire did not burn her. It never did. But now it moved through her, a steady thrum beneath her skin. This wasn’t teleportation magic. It was bonded fire—the very soul of a phoenix moving in tandem with its chosen.
She raised her free hand, watching flickers of flame spiral up her wrist. A mark glowed faintly beneath her skin, like runes pressed into her blood.
“Okay,” she breathed. “We’re… linked.”
Solas blinked at her, pleased.
Uriel lowered her arm carefully. “This… is going to be a problem.”
And Solas chirped again, smug and utterly unrepentant.
The world tilted, scorched, and snapped back into place. Uriel hit the floor with a quiet thump, landing in a crouch beside a tall, fur-draped armchair. She blinked hard—stone walls, cedar-scented hearth, soft firelight licking the edges of a common room. Not hers. Not the Highlands. Somewhere cold. Somewhere very Northern.
“Solas,” she hissed, panic bubbling up in her throat. The phoenix gave an unapologetic chirp, feathers flaring out as he perched smugly on the mantel like he owned the place.
Uriel took one deep breath. Then another. She could salvage this. Maybe no one saw her. Maybe no one was here—
Bark!
She flinched violently, whipping around.
A massive white-furred direwolf stood just a few feet away, hackles up, silver eyes locked on her like a target painted in flame.
“Oh no,” she breathed. “No, no, no—”
She began inching toward the edge of the room, eyes wide, heart thudding against her ribs. If she could just move fast enough, maybe—
“Blizzard,” a voice said smoothly from the far side of the room, “stay.”
Uriel froze like a deer in the crossfire.
Slowly, like turning into a nightmare, she looked over her shoulder.
There she was.
Tall. Pale as frost. Six wings folded with precise elegance. A knitted Northern sweater wrapped around her like a shroud of ice and tradition. A book was open in her lap—half-read, half-forgotten. A steaming mug of tea sat beside her on the table, untouched.
Gabriel Aurelius, daughter of Caelus the cruel. 56th heiress to the Northern rule. First of her name. Frost of the Labyrinth.
She hadn’t even stood up. She was sitting there like a queen on her throne—legs crossed, calm, unmoved. But her eyes—
Her eyes burned.
Uriel tried to smile. It was a terrible decision.
“Sorry,” she croaked. “Wrong house.”
Gabriel didn’t speak. Her gaze flicked to Solas, still perched smugly on the mantel. Then back to Uriel. Not a single muscle on her face twitched. But her fingers moved. Slowly, with the deliberation of someone who meant it, she reached over to the side table beside her.
And closed her hand around the hilt of a throwing knife.
Uriel took a very tiny step backward. “Okay. Nope. That’s fine. We don’t have to do anything crazy—”
Gabriel didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t even blink. She lifted the knife from the table. Spun it once with a flick of her wrist. Perfectly balanced.
Uriel turned to bolt for the door.
Blizzard followed, muscles taut, tail straight out like a blade.
Uriel raised her hands. “Nice wolf. Very fluffy. I’m just gonna—”
Whistle.
Sharp. Clean. Measured.
Uriel had half a second.
Thunk!
The dagger embedded into the bookshelf millimetres from her left ear.
“Holy seven hells—!” Uriel yelped, realizing Gabriel missed on purpose.
And then she froze. Because the air shifted—barely. Just enough.
A faint shimmer of blue-silver light curled past her cheek.
A shard of glass—razor-thin, pulled from a shattered goblet on the hearth table—hovered now at her throat. Suspended mid-air. Glinting with a firelight. A hair’s distance from her skin.
Held in place by nothing but magic.
Gabriel’s voice came soft. Almost gentle.
“Try anything. Anything. And I’ll have this buried in your jugular before you blink.”
Uriel’s entire body went stiff.
“I didn’t do anything!” she rasped.
“You broke into my house.”
“By accident! Solas just—he does this—he doesn’t understand personal boundaries!”
Solas chirped in agreement. He did, in fact, not understand boundaries.
Gabriel stood up at last, slow and tall and silent, like ice cracking beneath a frozen sea.
“I should kill you,” she said softly. “But unfortunately, it’s not legal yet.”
Uriel gasped, heart flying into her throat. “Wh-what?!”
The air thickened.
The dagger thrummed where it had buried into the bookshelf—inches from Uriel’s face. She could smell the iron from the blade, feel the cold bite of stone behind her, the way her breath came shallow and terrified. The phoenix on the mantel ruffled its feathers in alarm.
And Gabriel didn’t say a word.
She rose from the chair with the slow, deliberate grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times before. Her heavy sweater shifted around her frame like a cloak of snow. Blizzard stood still as a statue, watching with low growls humming in his throat.
Uriel didn’t dare move.
Each step Gabriel took echoed in Uriel’s chest like a war drum. Her boots padded softly over the stone, but her presence? Loud. Icy. Unyielding. Her silver hair caught the firelight, haloing her in white. Her six wings, faintly visible even while tucked, cast long shadows on the walls behind her.
Gabriel stopped just before her.
They were almost the same height. Almost the same age. But Gabriel’s eyes made her feel so much smaller. Cold, silver-rimmed irises stared into Uriel’s gold-flared ones. Face to face. Only inches apart.
Uriel’s wings shivered unconsciously.
Gabriel leaned in slightly. She didn’t smile. Didn’t scowl. Her expression was unreadable—but intense. Focused. Like she was memorizing Uriel’s soul just in case she needed to carve it apart later.
Slowly, Gabriel lifted one hand.
Uriel flinched.
But she wasn’t reaching for Uriel.
She took hold of the dagger still embedded in the bookshelf.
With a sharp twist and pull, the blade came free. Clean. Precise.
Uriel held her breath as Gabriel flipped it once between her fingers—just to remind her she could.
Then, almost too softly, Gabriel whispered, “Do you know how many nights I trained for this?”
Uriel’s voice caught. “T-Trained for what?”
Gabriel’s eyes didn’t blink. “To kill the bastard of Astyrax.”
Uriel’s heart stopped.
“You’re joking,” she croaked.
“I don’t joke,” Gabriel said calmly. “Not about blood.”
The room grew still. Even the fire paused.
Uriel’s voice came out high, panicked. “You can’t actually kill me, right? It’s illegal, you said it yourself!”
“Not yet,” Gabriel agreed softly. “But I’m patient.. to think.. the bastard in those scrolls that I planned on stalking came into my clutches to not be murdered.. such a shameful opportunity.”
Gabriel leaned in, her silver eyes piercing through Uriel's green ones, reminding Uriel of how the full moon shines, how a knife would glint on light. She kind of realized the daughter of Caelus was sort of.. pretty, in a way.
"I-I'd appreciate you not looking at me like that." Uriel said, looking away. Gabriel's eyes widened a bit and a low chuckle rose from the back of her throat.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't plunge this knife deep in your stomach." Gabriel replied.
The phoenix trilled behind them—an urgent, chaotic chirp.
Uriel turned toward him, desperate. “Solas. Now.”
Gabriel didn’t flinch.
“I’ll remember your face, bastard.” she murmured.
Uriel shook her head in fear.
Then fire exploded across the room.
In a flash of red-orange light and a blaze of heat, Solas wrapped his wings around her, and she vanished—gone like smoke in the wind.
The room was quiet again.
Gabriel stood there, blade still in hand, glass shard hovering midair. She took a long breath. Held it. Then finally exhaled, setting the dagger down neatly on the table beside her lukewarm tea.
She flicked her fingers once, and the floating glass dropped with a delicate clink.
Then she sat back down. Picked up her book.
The Velheim Games. Brutal survival. Demon-infested frost fields. Long winters, longer grudges.
“Next time,” Gabriel muttered without looking up, “I’m ending it before the bird squawks.”
Blizzard whined quietly.
“Yeah,” she said. “you focus that damn chicken. I get the bastard by the throat.”
Notes:
Gabriel: "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."
Uriel: "Can you please give me a break already? Everywhere I go people want me dead."
Gabriel: "you're a bastard, unpure."
Uriel: "atleast I look pretty while doing it."
Chapter 13: Obsession, Northern Throne (4)
Summary:
Uriel realizes a strand of Gabriel's hair cling to her dress, she realizes she can do something to know more about this wolf. She then brews a potion in Asenath's cauldron and adds the strand in, letting her see Gabriel's memories and potential future, the cauldron of reflections shows exactly what she wants to see.
Uriel takes something from Asenath's "holy" secret vault called an invisibility cloak where she realizes she can go and do nuisances and pay revenge and a little "visit" to her northern "friend" who also tried to throw a knife at her, she goes to castle Snezhnaya once more after bribing Solas to teleport her back. Let's say the visit didn't go well.
Notes:
Arghhhh, toxic yuri save me, gods we're nearing Velheim games arc and I am already feeling both hyped and excited about it. Gaburi here is so complicated but trust me, this is enemies to lovers slow burn "You killed my family" level of enemies 🙏🏻
Gabriel and Uriel my self destructive queens
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The world started to distort again, Uriel clutching the very small nick on her neck caused by Gabriel herself, praying thanks that it didn't bleed but it was annoyingly stings.
She slammed into her chambers with a thunderclap of light, her head thumping on the floor as she opened her emerald eyes gently. Magic sizzled at her heels, gold hair scattering through the air like fireflies before they died in the cold.
The moment her feet hit the stone floor, Uriel tore off her gloves and flung them across the room. She didn’t even aim. Didn’t care. The desk, the chair, the books, they could burn. Her breath came in wild, hissing bursts as she dragged her hand down her face, her nails leaving faint scratches across her cheek.
Her heart was still racing.
That girl.
"Fucking cunt..." She muttered.
She dropped onto the edge of her bed, shaking, fists curled so tight they trembled in her lap.
That gods-forsaken, knife-throwing, cold-eyed, self-righteous little bitch.
She tilted her head back and laughed bitterly, the sound sharp and wrong in the still room. Solas fluttered onto the bedpost behind her, golden wings dimmed in caution, but Uriel didn’t even glance at him.
“Oh gods,” she whispered with a crooked grin, “did you see her, Solas? She had the gall. The gall to threaten me... As if I’m prey. As if I’m weak.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
She leaned forward, burying her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking not with fear, no. But from the sheer effort it took not to scream. That girl had looked at her like she was a smudge. A blight. Something to be cleaned off the floor with the rest of the filth.
And she had the Aurelius eyes. That gray. That silver. That disgustingly self-sure stare that all of them had, like the world owed them something. Like she owed them something.
But Gabriel… she wasn’t like the rest of the Aurelius bastards. No, Gabriel was worse.
The way she walked—soft steps but louder than a war drum. The way she drew that blade—casual, thoughtless, perfect. The way her lips curled when she looked at Uriel's green eyes like she already knew what she was, what she wasn’t, what she’d never be.
She had moved like poetry written in bone. Sharp, beautiful, horrifying.
And Uriel hated her.
She hated the grace. She hated the power. She hated the memory of her breath ghosting across her cheek, the smug glint in her eye when she leaned close to retrieve that dagger from the bookshelf like it was a bookmark in a story she’d already finished.
Uriel remembered how Asenath described the Northern wolves. They smile before they bite. And for sure, Gabriel was about to bite her earlier. Uriel bit her own tongue, slamming her fist down on the bed.
“Fuck you.” The words were raw, feral. “Fuck your eyes. Fuck your voice. Fuck your stupid knife and your Northern airs and your—”
She stopped. A tremble flickered through her as she stared down at her lap.
Something pale.
A shimmer.
Nestled against the deep black of her velvet skirts, almost gleaming under the candlelight.
A single white strand. Shade of Aurelius'.
Uriel froze.
It hadn’t been there before. She would’ve noticed. She reached for it with two fingers, her breath caught in her throat. Held it up to the light. Long. Silken. Moon-colored.
It clung to her, like a curse.
Gabriel’s hair.
A ghost left behind. A mark.
Uriel’s lip curled in revulsion. She wanted to crush it between her fingers. Burn it. Cast it to the wind and pretend the last hour hadn’t happened. But she didn’t.
Instead, her hand trembled, not from fear—but from something deeper. Older.
Curiosity, poisoned with fury.
Why had that girl known her name? Why had she looked at her like an executioner meeting a condemned soul? Why had she spoken like their fates were already carved in stone?
What did she know?
And why, in the name of all the heavens—had Uriel’s heart skipped the moment their eyes met?
She rose from the bed like a storm gathering at sea.
The hair was still in her hand.
She tucked it carefully into the fold of her glove.
Then, with eyes blazing and steps as silent as smoke, she left her chambers.
There was only one way to find out the truth.
She would rip her way into that girl’s life if she had to. Peer through every memory, every lie. Learn every motive behind those silver eyes and that cold little smile.
The halls of Asenath's home slept beneath velvet night — quiet, sprawling, unguarded in the hours when even shadows slumbered. But Uriel moved like she was born of the dark, a whisper against the cold floor tiles, her black cloak trailing behind her like the tail of a storm.
She shouldn’t have been awake. Shouldn’t have remembered the girl’s face. Shouldn’t have wanted to.
But she did.
The image of Gabriel Aurelia—knife in hand, silver hair ghosting her cheek, eyes like winter’s edge—refused to be scrubbed from her mind. She’d tried. Gods, she’d tried. Buried her face in a pillow. Turned over. Counted potions in her head. But Gabriel stayed.
Lurking in her bloodstream like venom.
Uriel clutched her hand into a fist with the hair strand of Gabriel clutched in hand, nails digging into her palm.
That girl. That snide, knife-throwing, arrogant thing who dared to corner her in the dark and look at her like she was the anomaly. Like she was the problem. Like the bastard blood in her veins was something shameful.
The brewing sanctum was sealed to everyone but Asenath.
But Uriel had been breaking rules since she was old enough to spell her name.
She murmured the unlocking phrase—her bloodline carried enough weight to bypass the first barrier. The vines shriveled. The iron-wrought door moaned open.
Inside, the room smelled of secrets.
Of moss and spice and soft rot. Hundreds of vials lined the walls in meticulous order, herbs hanging like preserved corpses from the ceiling, and books stacked so high they formed a second forest. At the center stood the Cauldron of Reflection, veiled with a deep indigo cloth.
Uriel approached it, hands steady. She pulled off the cloth. The cauldron shivered in reply to Uriel's fascination.
She worked fast, fueled by instinct and something deeper, something that coiled and coiled in her chest.
Moonroot — for clarity of the mind.
Breathless berries — to thin the veil between thoughts.
Whisperleaf ash — to track the memory source.
A single drop of her blood — to bind her to the vision.
The strand of white hair glinted between Uriel’s fingers like a sliver of bone.
She stood before the cauldron, her dark nightgown falling in soft folds around her knees. Her bedroom behind her was silent, but the chamber around the cauldron felt older than time itself. The magical bowl shimmered atop Asenath’s ancient pedestal. It was a swirling pool of light and breath, made for seeing truths never meant to be seen.
“Show me Gabriel,” she muttered, her voice rough with heat she didn’t understand.
A pause. Then she added, “Gabriel of Aurelius.”
She let the strand fall into the blue water.
The reaction was immediate. Light flared, the surface snapped like ice breaking, and suddenly—she was there.
No longer in the tower, no longer in the warmth of the palace. No longer surrounded by petals and incense and old books. The cold bit her immediately.
She saw snow.
White, vast, endless snow.
And standing atop that silver field was the girl who haunted her—Gabriel, daughter of the North.
Younger than when they last met. Perhaps ten. Wrapped in black and white furs, her pale face lit with red from the cold, lips dry and split, hair caught in the gales that came screaming down the mountains. Behind her stood a man—broad-shouldered, powerful, quiet in his command. Caelus Aurelius.
Uriel’s eyes narrowed. She braced herself for some violent cruelty, some Northman’s wrath. But it never came.
Instead, Caelus knelt before the child, adjusting her gloves in the frost.
“You do not have to be a sword, my dear,” he murmured, voice stern but quiet. “But if the world forces you into one, I will not let you be a blunt edge.”
Gabriel swallowed. Her jaw clenched, eyes locked on the training post ahead.
“She is not your enemy because of who she is,” Caelus said. “She is your enemy because the world will never let you live once the throne is her seat. She'll see you as a usurper thanks to the prophecies, it's best to be steps ahead of your enemies naivety.”
Uriel looked closely at the memory, the liquid in the cauldron showing what she wants to see.
“She was born under a banner that will not yield,” Caelus continued. “And so were you. The blood war did not end with Metatron. It simply moved into the hands of his heirs.”
“I don’t want to share anything with her,” Gabriel whispered.
Caelus touched her shoulder. “Then train. Train until no one questions who you are. Because if you are weak, they will give the crown to her. And if you are silent, they will forget your name.”
Gabriel nodded slowly. “I’ll make sure they remember.”
Uriel scoffed.
Arrogant little wolf. With her perfect hair and quiet rage and cold eyes like frostbite. Pretending she deserves anything but a grave. She tried to turn away—but the vision continued. Gabriel, rising each morning before dawn to spar against the mountain wind. Her hands are bruised and split open from wooden blades. Her arms are shaking from holding heavy steel too large for her frame. And every time she fell, she rose again, her breath puffing out like steam, face burning with resolve.
And always, always, her name came up.
Uriel Celeste Astyrax.
Not spat like a curse. But treated as an obstacle. A gate. A future enemy.
She was the trial Gabriel had to overcome to prove her blood was enough.
Uriel watched, lips curling.
Is that what I am to her? Some mountains to climb? Some ghost she’s never met but already plans to bury?
One image lingered too long: Caelus walked with his daughter beneath the stars, their silhouettes blending with the trees. He wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t unkind.
But he was preparing her.
And every sword stroke Gabriel learned, every calculated gaze she mastered—it was all so she could one day kill Uriel.
Uriel backed away from the cauldron, a snarl caught in her throat. The room felt suffocating. Her heart hammered like war drums.
It wasn’t just hatred now.
It was injustice.
If she died, Gabriel would take everything. The throne. The Order. The right to be the Flame’s daughter. She’d rule Eden like some frost-wrought queen, cloaked in blood not hers and crowned with a name she didn’t earn.
Uriel’s hands trembled.
The waters of the cauldron shifted again, as if stirred by invisible hands.
Uriel blinked away the last remnants of Gabriel’s training—of her father’s voice—and steadied herself. The glow of the liquid deepened into an eerie indigo, pulsing with something more ancient than memory.
The wind in the chamber stilled. The light grew cold.
And then—dreams.
They came not like scenes, but like floods. A tide of dread surging through her soul.
Gabriel stood at the center of a desolate field. The sky above was a cracked, frozen dome. Stars flickered and died. The snow around her writhed, and from beneath the ice, a voice crawled forth—a voice like chains dragged across stone.
“You are not yet worthy, frostborne.”
Uriel’s breath caught as she watched the younger girl stagger backward, her spear drawn but trembling. The very air in the dream seemed to rebel against her.
Then he rose.
A mountain of frost and dread, crowned with blackened ice. The Frost King. A towering figure cloaked in rime, antlers jutting from his skull like the broken branches of some dead god. His eyes—purple with hints of blue behind a veil of mist.
Uriel flinched at his voice. It was not just deep. It was old. It scraped at the marrow.
Gabriel just stood still. The frost king didn’t flinch. With a wave of his hand, the dream world itself bent, snow curling into fangs, winds howling like wolves. Gabriel struck again. She landed a blow, but the blade shattered on his armor of bone-ice.
“You are still afraid,” the king hissed, lifting her by the throat. “Still trembling in the dark with your father’s lullabies in your ears.”
Uriel wanted to laugh. To sneer. Serves you right, frostling. You’re a child playing with storms too large for you. But Gabriel didn’t cry. She didn’t beg. Instead, she said—
“I will bury you one day.”
And the king laughed, thundering and monstrous. He dropped her like a doll, and the ice swallowed her whole. Darkness closed in.
She had felt it. She had felt it—Gabriel’s fear, her fury, her strange, pulsing will to survive. It clung to her like frostbite.
The scene began to fracture. The dream world cracking, scattering like snowflakes in the wind.
But not before one last image seared itself into Uriel’s mind:
Gabriel, standing once more—older, stronger—on a battlefield made of ice and starlight. She wore armor forged in the shape of howling wolves, without a helmet. The Frost King knelt before her, vanquished and dissolving into ash. And her eyes—those same Aurelius grey eyes—blazed like moonlight on silver steel.
Uriel stepped back from the cauldron, her mouth dry. She dreams of royalty. She dreams of crowns. Even in her nightmares, Gabriel reaches for power.
Uriel’s fists clenched.
She would not be outshined. Not by some half-feral snow-born girl who wore frost like silk. Not by someone trained to murder her and take her throne.
The cauldron’s glow shifted once more, fading from icy blue to a molten, hesitant gold. Uriel narrowed her eyes. “What now?” Then it spoke. It replied. A voice that wasn’t quite a voice, more like pressure behind her ears, like breath on her spine:
“You have seen the past, child of flame. Will you see what could be?” Uriel stiffened, narrowing her eyes at the liquid inside of the cauldron.
“What do you mean?” she asked slowly, warily.
“The strand of her soul lingers. It remembers not only what was… but what will be.” A heartbeat passed. Then another. Uriel’s pulse thudded in her throat. She wasn’t sure if it was dread or something darker—curiosity with razors for teeth.
“Fine,” she growled. “Show me. Show me Gabriel’s future.”
She didn’t know why she said it. Maybe she expected to see Gabriel dead. Or disgraced. Or failing where Uriel would rise. But the cauldron had no mercy. The waters flared gold. A hall appeared. Obsidian pillars. Scarlet drapery. The sun-sigil of House Astyrax cast high in stained glass.
The throne of Eden.
No… the coronation.
There stood Gabriel.
Not a child anymore—but a grown woman, clad in white and Astyrax shade of red. Crownless, but more commanding than any noble. Her frost-white hair braided like a northern queen. Her spear no where in sight
A "king" rose to meet her.
Uriel’s breath caught, atleast she assumed it was a king thanks to the crown on his head. His face was half-shadowed in the vision, but his features… familiar.
Was that Michael?
Or—gods forbid—Raguel?
She couldn’t tell. And the vision didn’t care.
Because Gabriel did not kneel.
She stood.
And when the ancient crown was raised to Eden’s true heir, Gabriel stood beside him—at his right. The ceremonial diadem of Astyrax on her head.
The Cauldron whispered:
“She will not take your crown, child.
She will take your throne.
Your people.
Your blood.
Your name.”
Uriel flinched, her hands curling to fists.
The cheers echoed through the vision. Applause. Shouts of "Aurelius! Astyrax! Long may they reign!" Her lips peeled back in a silent snarl. The water rippled.
The final whisper slithered through her mind like a knife in silk:
“You, born of fire, cast aside.
She, born of frost, glorified.
The stars are watching, child of Astyrax.
Will you let her take what was yours?”
Uriel slammed the lid closed.
“NO!”
Silence fell. Her own breathing filled the room.
Gabriel. Wearing her colors. Standing on her dais. Claiming her destiny. Uriel’s eyes burned.
“She thinks she’s better? Because she’s pure-blooded? Because her father trained her with blades and war songs while I was raised in locked rooms?”
The cauldron hissed faintly, but Uriel didn’t care.
The path was clear.
Kill Gabriel Aurelius before the vision ever comes true.
Uriel had slammed the cauldron lid with a scowl carved deep into her face. Her breath was a hiss of fury, her footsteps echoing as she stormed out, not bothering to glance back at the glow fading behind her.
But magic, ancient and aware, pulsed still within the cauldron’s belly.
And high in the shadows, curled against the arching beams like a flame woven into the woodwork, Solas opened one golden eye.
The phoenix clicked his beak thoughtfully. Something was not finished.
The cauldron trembled once, its sealed lid rattling faintly on the surface.
Solas glided down with a quiet flutter, talons clicking against the cold stone floor. He paused beside the vessel and gave it a single curious stare.
The lid rolled open on its own, slow and deliberate.
And once more, a pool of glowing blue light shimmered to life, projecting its truth into the chamber.
Solas leaned in. And saw love.
The vision unfolded into a forgotten chapel at the edge of Eden, cradled in dusk. Moonlight poured through cathedral windows, soft and warm like a blessing. At the altar stood Gabriel, her armor exchanged for a tailored dress of white and a sash of Astyrax red, Her white hair was let loose, majestically draping over her shoulders.
She tapped her boot impatiently, then huffed.
“She’s late,” Gabriel muttered, rolling her eyes. “Typical Astyrax. Can’t even be on time for her own marriage.. Gods I should have agreed to elopement instead..”
A flutter of footsteps echoed through the marble. The doors creaked open— And Uriel entered, the very flame of prophecy and pride in which Gabriel smiled in reply, her face graceful as she looked at her wife.
She wore a simple Astyrax circlet over her blonde hair, a red-threaded cloak over white long ceremonial robes. Her heels clicking slightly as she walked down the aisle, and though her chin was high, her cheeks were unmistakably burning.
Gabriel’s brows lifted with delight. “Well, well. You clean up alright, bastard.” she whispered.
Uriel stopped at the edge of the altar. “And you still talk too much for someone with the etiquette of a snow bear.”
“Oh, I missed that mouth,” Gabriel drew, eyes twinkling. “Is this how you still flirt? Because if so, I see why the palace boys keep turning into monks.” she whispered.
Uriel's cheeks turned crimson. She stiffened. “I’m here to finish a ceremony, not entertain your lunatic delusions.”
“You’re blushing,” she said immediately, loud enough to echo slightly.
Uriel narrowed her eyes. “No, I’m not.”
“You are,” Gabriel said, stepping forward to meet her halfway. “There. Again. Just like when you fell on top of me in the sparring ring.”
Uriel scoffed and muttered, “You mean when you kicked my legs, you insufferable bitch.”
Gabriel leaned in. “And you stayed there longer than you had to.”
Uriel turned crimson. “I didn’t.”
Gabriel smiled. “You did.”
Uriel turned her face away, ears reddening. “Shut up. Gods. I should’ve let Jophiel pick the ceremony flowers.” she joked, looking at the frost lilies by the altar.
Gabriel looked around at the lilies. “I picked the frost ones because they don’t wilt so easily. I thought they were fitting. Plus, it was your favourite back at the crimson rivers.”
“Because you’re emotionally frostbitten, you mean?” Uriel replied dryly.
Gabriel chuckled, stepping closer. “Because we won’t wilt either.”
Uriel blinked. Her breath hitched slightly, but she said nothing.
“You look nervous,” Gabriel teased.
“I’m thinking about running.”
Gabriel leaned in, forehead to hers. “That’d be a first. You always run toward me with a knife in hand, love.”
Uriel exhaled shakily, lips twitching. “You’re insufferable.”
“I’m yours, love.” Gabriel admitted.
Gabriel took her hand and gently twirled her into place before she looked at the priest, grinning.
“Right. Ceremony. Then we can get to the part where I watch you fail to kiss me properly.”
Uriel spluttered. “I will stab you at this altar.”
“With what?” Gabriel teased. “Those butter knives by the cake?” she teased.
Uriel gritted her teeth, lips twitching. She can't believe she's marrying this polar wolf right now, but she can't have it in any other way. She won't fall in love if it isn't her Gabriel.
The priest cleared his throat, cutting through the heat between them. “By the Dominions of Eden, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity. Look upon each other and speak your vows.”
Silence fell.
Gabriel’s voice softened, turning towards Uriel and looking directly at her emerald eyes. “I take you to be my wife... to have and to hold. From this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until death do us part. I am hers, and she is mine, from this day until the end of my days.”
Uriel stared at her a long moment, breath stuck between a scoff and surrender. Then she gave in. Quietly.
“I take you to be my wife,” she whispered, voice threaded with wonder and defiance. “To stand beside me, to test me, to survive me. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, even when you burn my nerves and poison my peace. I am hers—and she is mine. From this day… until the end of my days.”
Gabriel smiled at her vows. “Romantic, did you write that script yourself?” she whispered to Uriel.
“You’re lucky I didn’t light you on fire mid-vow.”
The priest raised his arms in blessing, but neither heard it. They were already moving—hands tightening, faces drawn close.
Then they kissed. Gentle, passionate and perfect.
It was a kiss that spoke of battles fought in glances, of insults exchanged like coins, of tension so old it became sacred.
It was sweet, chaste and full of yearning.
Solas squawked joyfully from the edge of the cauldron, wings flaring open as he bounced in place, tail feathers igniting in soft glimmers. He let out another delighted cry, spinning once as if dancing for them.
But Uriel was already gone. She hadn’t seen it.
She had left too early, too angry, too certain of a future that had yet to be written.
Solas glanced once more at the cauldron, cocked his head—then, with surprising gentleness, nudged the lid back into place with his beak.
The chapel vanished. The water calmed. The chamber darkened.
But the vision lingered in the eyes of the phoenix.
They were wives. Someday. Somewhere.
***********
The Highlands of Thoborn were still under night’s cold dominion, draped in snow that glowed faintly under the pale light of the moon. Icicles hung like the fangs of ancient beasts from the eaves of Asenath's home and the wind outside keened like it carried the cries of long-dead queens. Inside, the house slumbered, wrapped in the warmth of fire-charms and wool-lined walls. But one girl was not asleep.
Uriel stood at the edge of her shared chamber, watching Asenath’s sleeping figure rise and fall beneath a mass of tangled, fur-laden blankets. The older woman slept like a dying beast, twitching occasionally, likely in pursuit of some prophetic dream or conjured nightmare.
Good.
Uriel tightened the sash around her black robe, her bare feet brushing the cold stone as she crept toward the hallway. She didn’t bother using magic to silence her steps—she had learned where the boards creaked and where the draft snuck in. The keep was a living thing, but she had grown up feeding it her silence.
Tonight, she was hunting.
Past the herbal stores and potion drawers, past the root cellar where ancient fruits were fermented into elixirs of memory and mourning, was the forbidden door. Asenath never spoke of it, but everyone in Thoborn knew: she kept a vault of stolen artifacts too precious, too damned, or too taxable to let the crown know about. And tonight, Uriel would take from it.
The door was tall and ancient, carved from dark elderwood, covered in runes that shifted when stared at too long. Uriel lifted her hand, the incantation already resting on her tongue like a sin.
“Nasak vel’iarn,” she whispered, the words burning her throat as they passed.The runes hissed. The lock twisted. The door sighed open, smelling of dust, age, and forbidden knowledge.
Inside, the air was heavy. Not just with dust, but with power. Magic here was thick, unprocessed—raw and feral. Shelves groaned with artifacts: bone flutes that whistled when no one breathed, crystal orbs cradling tiny tempests, blades that shimmered like heat mirages. She passed them all.
Her eyes were drawn to a lone chest in the far corner, carved with seven constellations and sealed with a charm of secrecy. But it had no lock. It was sealed only by Asenath’s arrogance—who would dare disobey her?
Uriel would.
She lifted the lid.
Inside, folded with almost reverent care, lay the Cloak of Invisibility. Not a cheap illusion or schoolyard spell—but the real thing. She had overheard Asenath mutter once about “the magistrate’s convoy" how the cloak had been seized by the guild before she intercepted it. It shimmered now under her touch, a fabric of shadows stitched with the dying light of stars.
Uriel wrapped it around her shoulders.
She disappeared. Literally vanished, only the faintest shimmer remained—a distortion, like heat off snow.
From behind her, there was a sharp tapping. Solas was perched in the high corner of the vault, amber eyes narrowing in outrage. His head bobbed in disbelief.
“Oh hush,” she muttered, reappearing briefly as she tugged the hood back. “I need to know who she is. Gabriel.”
Solas let out a single disapproving squawk, as if sensing danger in whatever plan Uriel will make.
“I saved you from drowning in stew when you ate Raguel's tropical figs.”
Another squawk. Slightly more amused.
“I’ll pay you in biscuits.”
He tilted his head.
“Four. Sweet ones. With dried apple bits.”
A pause.
He blinked slowly, ruffled his glowing feathers, then glided down and landed on her shoulder. The cloak was big enough to drape over them both. She tugged the hood over his head gently and smirked.
“Perfect. Now—take me back.”
Solas flared his wings, talons clenching slightly into her shoulder. The room around them began to shimmer. Dust vibrated in the air. Magic gathered like breath being held too long. And then—flash.
They were gone.
The vault fell silent again, except for the faint hum of disturbed spells and a single golden feather still spinning on the cold stone floor.
Snezhnaya was colder than Thoborn. That was the first thing Uriel noticed as Solas dropped her gently behind the high towers of the northern citadel, his wings flaring once before disappearing into the mist like smoke. The cold here didn’t just sting—it slithered through the seams of the cloak and crept into the bones, a chill bred not by nature but by the haunting silence of a palace grown too used to blood and winter.
The castle stood vast, spired, and strangely quiet, its stone kissed by frost and moonlight. No flames in the braziers, no warmth in the windows. It was as though the walls themselves held their breath. But Uriel did not shiver.
She was cloaked in silence, invisible beneath the cloak’s weightless shadow. Like a ghost summoned by obsession. Uriel walked softly, tracing the marble corridors where banners of blue and silver whispered from the vaulted ceilings. Her steps left no print. Her breath did not fog the air. She was nothing but a hungry thought with feet.
And her thoughts were all her.
Gabriel motherfucking Aurelius herself.
The name was bitter on her tongue. She hated how it sounded like poetry and venom all at once. She hated that the Aurelius grey eyes still lingered in her mind, even as she walked deeper into the castle. She hated that her thoughts tangled between rage and… something uglier.
Her hand twitched for the blade at her thigh—one of the throwing knives Raguel had given her. She had tried throwing it a hundred times that morning. Never once as precise as her. Gabriel. The way she moved, like snow folding into a storm. Like someone who had trained.
Uriel gritted her teeth. She needed to see more. Needed to see what the girl did. Who she spoke to. How much her hands bled from training to one day slit her throat.
And then, finally, she saw her.
Through a tall arched hallway near the East Wing, Gabriel walked alone.
Uriel pressed herself into the shadows. Her breath hitched.
Gabriel was different in the way daylight softened frozen lakes. Her silver hair spilled over a thick navy tunic embroidered in northern frost patterns, and her boots clicked with practiced confidence. No guards flanked her. No servants chattered at her side. Just her. Walking the palace halls like a queen not yet crowned.
What are you planning, daughter of Caelus?
Gabriel stopped beside a window, exhaling. Her face, normally as cold and blank as a statue, softened in the faint blue light. She lifted a hand to touch the frost on the glass, her breath fogging it slightly. Then, to Uriel’s confusion, Gabriel smiled.
Why are you smiling?
She reached into her coat and pulled something out—a music box? Uriel blinked. It was a carved thing, clumsy with chipped wood, clearly made by hand. Gabriel turned the crank and a faint, lilting tune echoed in the hallway. Some old northern lullaby.
Uriel frowned.
This wasn’t the face of a killer. Not now. Not when no one was looking. She saw no bloodlust. No cold glint. Just a girl… lonely. But the memory of the knife on her throat returned fast and fierce. The way those eyes narrowed. The precision. The voice saying “I will slit your throat.”
Uriel's fingers curled into fists.
No. Don’t soften. She wants you dead.
She followed her further.
Gabriel made her way down another corridor. Past the frost-covered portraits of dead kings. Past the locked study with the sigils of House Aurelius. Past the northern chapel, where a phoenix and a wolf were painted in stained glass—ancient symbols of war.
She doesn’t pray, Uriel noted.
Eventually, Gabriel entered her chambers—ornate and cold. Uriel slipped in just as the door closed. She hovered in a corner, silent as sin, hidden behind the falling drapes. Gabriel tossed her coat onto the chair and sat on the edge of the cushioned seat by the bookshelf with a heavy sigh. As if the world rested on her shoulders.
She wore a long thin and full sleeved chemise made of thin satin.
Uriel stiffened, eyes narrowing in disbelief.
From beneath it, Gabriel pulled the fabric away from her wrist—and there it was on her wrist.
A mark.
It wasn’t a bruise or a scar. No. This was something old. Ritualistic. A circle of runes inscribed in black, almost demonic ink, pulsing faintly like it breathed beneath her skin.
Uriel’s breath caught. Her heart thudded against her ribs.
She’s cursed. No—marked.
Her mind swam with panic, fury, questions.
Is this why she’s trained to kill me? Has she been promised my death? Is this some binding oath—some assassin’s sigil?
Suddenly, Gabriel stood again, turning toward the mirror.
Uriel shrunk further into the shadows, heart a storm of rage and dread.
Gabriel reached for a small jar and rubbed salve across the mark with slow, practiced motion—like she’d done it a thousand times. Her face was impassive. Distant. As if the mark was just another part of her. As if death and destiny were normal parts of her day.
Uriel stared at her. Hatred burned hot in her chest. "You're a demon.." Uriel muttered to herself but without actually making noise
You think you can just take everything. My future. My crown. My life.
She would not allow it.
She would follow her. She would learn her every step. She would find out how to end her—before she ends me.
Hidden beneath the veil of magic, Uriel took one last look before stepping closer to Gabriel silently, her thoughts spiraling into something darker.
Uriel's heart still racing from what she had seen, when her eyes caught something strange—a glint, faint and fleeting, like crushed stardust in the moonlight. She paused and glanced behind her.
Glittery footprints. Her own.
Oh no.
The cloak had masked her body, but the trail she left—fine motes of enchanted dust—was beginning to shimmer on the polished marble like dew under the moonlight that passed through the windows.
Gabriel stood by the mirror, unmoving. Her expression unreadable. For a moment, Uriel thought she hadn’t noticed.
But then… she didn’t move toward the footprints. She didn’t shout or search. Instead, she turned away, slowly—deliberately—and walked across the room to the grand piano set on her room.
She sat with practiced grace, her posture too composed, too still. Uriel remained frozen as Gabriel placed her fingers on the keys. Then she played.
A haunting melody spilled from the piano—low, melancholic, and laced with tension. Each note was a question, each chord a warning. The same lullaby she had heard earlier in the hall, but slower now. Like bait.
Uriel didn’t breathe.
She took another step back, silently, her foot brushing the leg of a side table—
Clink.
The glass cup teetered.
Clatter.
It shattered.
Uriel winced. She stood paralyzed, eyes wide, heart stammering like a drum.
But Gabriel didn’t flinch. She continued playing, as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn't heard a thing.
Uriel dared to breathe again. Maybe she hadn’t—
The music that Gabriel was playing was still making noise as she pressed on the keys, not realizing that something broke, or at least that's what she plays to.
Five long minutes passed.
Uriel slowly began inching back toward the door.
And then—Whoosh.
The curtains exploded to close as if yanked by unseen hands to keep secrecy. The air crackled with icy magic.
Uriel turned sharply—but too late. The door was already shut magically.
Gabriel stood from the piano, her eyes glinting silver and cold as death. Her hand lifted, fingers splayed. Her eyes focused on her supposed invisible figure.
"Didn’t your half-wit of a brother ever teach you it was rude to eavesdrop, Astyrax?"
Uriel froze in horror.
Before she could react, a wall of ice shards burst from the floor, arching straight for her hidden figure. The impact knocked her flat to the ground, the breath ripped from her lungs. Her invisibility cloak unraveled and slid from her shoulders like a melting shadow.
She looked at Gabriel, dazed, sprawled on the frost-kissed marble. Gabriel stepped forward, eyes narrowed, reaching down to snatch the cloak from her fingers.
Uriel glared up at her, breathing hard.
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “So,” she said coldly, “the little heir of fire likes to play ghosts.”
Uriel didn’t think. Her fist moved before her mouth could form words. She surged forward with a growl and slammed her knuckles squarely into Gabriel’s nose.
Crack.
Gabriel’s head jerked back from the force of it, a faint spray of blood misting the air. She staggered slightly—then froze.
Uriel blinked, panting.
Gabriel touched her nose. Blood smeared her fingers. For a second, her face was unreadable.
Then she laughed. Low. Cruel. A delighted rasp that sent fire crawling under Uriel’s skin.
“Oh, so the bastard bites,” Gabriel said, smirking through the blood. “Adorable.”
Uriel growled and lunged again, swinging with blind fury with the knife. Gabriel sidestepped, catching her wrist and twisting it around. Uriel yelped but used her other hand to claw at Gabriel’s shoulder. They stumbled into the side table, knocking it over with a crash.
“You think you're strong?” Gabriel taunted, slamming Uriel against the frosted wall. “You’re barely trained. You hit like a wet parchment.”
Uriel shrieked and kneed her hard at Gabriel's, Gabriel flinched—but not enough. She drove her forearm into Uriel’s collarbone and shoved her back again, pinning her.
“You're soft, Astyrax. Even your fire is weak.”
Uriel twisted under her, rage flooding her every nerve. “Shut up!” she shouted as she stabbed Gabriel in the side, earning a sadistic smirk from her.
"You should have stabbed it deeper, Astyrax." Gabriel sighed, laughing as the knife made her side bleed. Gabriel leaned in, hair wild around her face, silver eyes glowing. “You should’ve stayed in your mountain nest. You’re not ready to burn.”
Uriel spat in her face.
Gabriel’s eyes widened—then narrowed with glee.
“Oh, I like you,” she said with a feral grin. “Let’s see how long you last.”
They collapsed into another brawl—punches, kicks, nails, teeth. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t trained. It was primal. A clash of blood and inheritance. A storm of spite and sweat and ancient hate.
And beneath it all, under the bruises and split lips, was something more dangerous than wrath. Gabriel's laughter had barely left her lips when Uriel seized her by the shoulders and shoved with everything she had left. The frost beneath their feet cracked as Gabriel stumbled and hit the ground hard, her back thudding against the carpeted stone. Uriel straddled her, fists raised, face red and raw with fury.
“Not so smug now, are you—” Uriel said, before failing to hit the one below her again. Gabriel manages to thrust backwards, leaving Uriel to straddle on thin air instead.
But Gabriel's foot connected with Uriel’s chest, throwing her off. She flipped back with catlike grace, landing on one knee, blood trailing from her nose—but her smirk never left.
“Cute.” Gabriel teased.
Uriel lunged again, this time with her wing half-unfurled for balance. But Gabriel was already moving. Ice coiled along her wrist like a serpent as she spun, slammed her palm directly into Uriel’s right wing—then pulled.
SNAP.
Uriel screamed.
Agony exploded through her shoulder blades as the brittle bone of her wing cracked under Gabriel’s grip. She crumpled to the floor, breathless, vision swimming.
Gabriel towered above her, watching her writhe with mild curiosity, breathing hard but still smiling like she’d just won a game of cards.
“Please,” Uriel gasped, clutching at her side, pain and shame clouding her voice. “I don’t want to fight you.” she faked.
“Oh yeah?” Gabriel wiped her bloody nose with her sleeve. Using a healing spell to stop the bleeding in her side. “Pretty sure you’d love to hit me with those cute, pathetic punches of yours.”
Uriel glared up at her, eyes glassy from pain. “I’m… out of practice.”
Gabriel crouched down beside her, tilting her head, frost glittering faintly in her wild silver lashes. “I’m not.”
She grabbed Uriel by the collar and yanked her close, their faces inches apart now, breaths sharp and angry.
“You spy on me, break into my home, try to land a hit, and then beg for mercy when it doesn’t go your way?” Gabriel hissed. “What are you, some brat with delusions of war? Or just another Astyrax who doesn’t know her place?”
Uriel’s lips trembled—whether from pain or rage, it wasn’t clear. Her fingers twitched toward the fallen cloak.
Gabriel followed the movement and scoffed. “Don’t even think about it.”
But Uriel was already trying to move.
Gabriel sighed and shoved her back down, pressing her palm flat against Uriel’s wounded wing. Uriel whimpered.
“Stay down, little flame,” Gabriel said coldly. “If you know what's good for you.” Gabriel leaned down again, her cold hand sliding along Uriel’s jaw as if mocking her weakness. “What now? Gonna cry about it, bastard?”
But just as her fingers grazed Uriel’s cheek, a blazing pulse erupted from beneath her.
White fire surged from Uriel’s hands—pure, raw, holy flames—bursting up with a shriek of energy. Gabriel’s smirk disappeared just in time for Uriel to slap her across the face with a burning palm.
Gabriel flew back with a groan, crashing into the edge of her desk, her arm smoldering where Uriel’s fire had touched her.
Uriel collapsed to her knees again, panting, tears and sweat streaking down her dirtied face. The wing hung limp behind her like a snapped branch, but her hands still burned, trembling with her stigma. “You broke my fucking wing, you demon,” she growled, voice thick with loathing. “Fuck you.”
She stood shakily, white fire glowing at her fingertips, her green eyes locked on Gabriel with animalistic fury.
“What the hell is it with your mark anyway, huh? What the hell are you?”
Gabriel wiped her burned cheek, blinking as frost danced down her arms again, trying to counter the sting. And yet—she laughed. Of course she laughed. A low, amused, infuriating laugh.
“Well forgive me, bastard. It appears I need a lesson of courtesy...” she said, brushing ash from her shoulder, “If you beg hard enough, maybe I won’t break your left one too.”
Uriel’s jaw clenched. Her fists tightened. She wanted to hurl herself at Gabriel again, to burn the smirk off her stupid, perfect face—but her body was shaking too much. Her vision swam. And somewhere deep down… she knew she wouldn’t win.
Uriel surged forward again, reckless, furious, white flame licking off her hands like divine tendrils of rage. But Gabriel was faster.
In one swift motion, the frostborn girl grabbed Uriel by the throat, shoving her back into the wall with a sickening crack of plaster.
Uriel gasped, her hands clawing at Gabriel’s arm, flame sputtering out as oxygen fled her lungs.
Gabriel’s hand was ice-cold and merciless, her fingers pressing hardly into the delicate spot in the neck right directly in the carotid artery—right over a pressure point Uriel didn’t even know she had that stopped blood and oxygen.
“Always so loud, Astyrax,” Gabriel muttered softly, like she was commenting on the weather. “You think shouting and flailing will make you strong? You think you can burn the frost away?”
Uriel thrashed. Her vision dimmed.
Gabriel released her just before the edge of unconsciousness tipped too far. Uriel collapsed onto the marble floor like a fallen candle, her hair fanned around her, her broken wing splayed pitifully under her side.
Gabriel crouched down for a moment, gazing at her.
“Poor thing,” she whispered, brushing a finger along the unconscious Uriel’s cheek mockingly. “You came all this way just to break.”
She stood. Turned. Walked back to her piano bench with that same infuriating calm.
With a flick of her fingers, the instrument came to life beneath her. A slow, graceful melody began to bloom from the keys—something ancient and solemn, like a hymn played at a royal funeral.
The notes floated through the silent room as Gabriel played, back turned to Uriel’s unconscious body. Her face was serene again, almost wistful.
The room now swam in silence, broken only by the soft crackling of the fire and the slow drip of blood from a shattered glass nearby.
Uriel stirred.
Her eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused. The cold floor pressed against her cheek. When she tried to move, her entire body screamed. Pain lanced through her shoulders—worse, deeper. Her wings.
They felt wrong.
She shifted slightly, just enough to see one of them twisted, the feathers stained and bent unnaturally. A dull, gnawing ache radiated from the joints, accompanied by a sharper pain whenever she even breathed.
Both wings. Broken.
Her breath hitched. Her limbs trembled. She tried to get up.
Her arm gave out beneath her.
Uriel collapsed again, face pressing back into the floor, barely holding back a sob. Her fingers curled against the stone helplessly. It was over. She was humiliated, weak, and broken in a room that didn't belong to her, in a kingdom she didn’t understand, by a girl she’d sworn to destroy. She had nothing left to fight with. Not now.
A slow, deliberate pair of footsteps echoed behind her.
Gabriel motherfucking Aurelius.
Uriel didn’t even try to crawl away. She stayed where she was, chest rising and falling with ragged breaths, arms trembling beneath her.
“Well well,” Gabriel’s voice came soft and cold, almost sweet. “The Astyrax flame has finally gone out.”
Uriel said nothing. She couldn’t.
She felt the shadow pass over her just as fingers gripped her by the hair and yanked her upright.
Uriel cried out, her knees dragging against the floor as Gabriel forced her to sit back on them, face tilted up.
“Look at me,” Gabriel said, voice low. Her cold breath brushed across Uriel’s cheek. “Come on, open those pretty eyes."
Uriel’s eyelids fluttered open, gaze hazy with pain and defiance.
“There she is,” Gabriel whispered, tilting her head with mock adoration. “The Phoenix girl. Daughter of the high house. Who thought she could walk into my room and spy on me like a ghost.”
Uriel’s lips parted. A wheeze. Barely a whisper. “You broke my fucking wings.”
Gabriel’s smile didn’t falter. “If you beg hard enough, I won’t break your fingers too."
“What.. what is it with that damned mark on your wrist..?” Uriel asked breathlessly, jaw trembling.
Gabriel stared at her for a moment longer.
Then she laughed. Quietly at first. A soft, breathy chuckle that grew louder, almost delighted. “Gods, you’re really fucking obsessed with me, aren’t you?”
Uriel looked away, ashamed. Her head drooped, but Gabriel didn’t let her go.
“I’ll tell you what,” Gabriel whispered, leaning in, her voice now a thread of ice against Uriel’s skin. “You want to know my secrets? You want to understand me? Then crawl. Like a dog. You have to earn it.”
She let go at last—pushing Uriel back onto the floor with a rough shove.
Uriel crumpled again, her body too battered to resist. Her bones screamed. Her breath shook.
Gabriel crouched beside her like a patient predator, brushing a strand of hair from Uriel’s face with surprising gentleness. Her voice came low and sweet, laced with curiosity.
“You came all this way to spy, to stalk me, to steal secrets. It would be such a shame if I let you leave empty-handed, wouldn’t it?”
Uriel’s eyes cracked open, unfocused.
Gabriel smiled.
From her coat, she pulled a slim, curved blade—silver, elegant, and sharp as frost. It caught the light as she turned it in her hand.
Uriel’s body tensed, but she was far too injured to resist.
Gabriel gently took hold of Uriel’s wrist and rolled back her sleeve. “Relax,” she murmured. “I’m not going to kill you, little phoenix. I just need… a drop. Can't have only you spying on me without me having revenge now, would you?”
Uriel tried to pull her hand back, but Gabriel’s grip was firm.
The blade kissed her skin—a soft, almost reverent press just above the vein. And then, with a practiced flick, it opened a thin, clean line. Uriel flinched, a sharp hiss escaping her lips.
A bead of bright, luminous blood welled up from the cut.
Gabriel lifted an empty vial from her belt and held it beneath the wound, watching with fascination as the blood slowly filled the crystal tube. The liquid shimmered faintly, as if holding traces of the holy fire within Uriel’s soul.
“Do you know how rare Astyrax blood is?” Gabriel said, eyes fixated on the vial. “You should feel honored. Most people would kill for a drop. Such a shame you're a mud-blooded bastard bitch. Lowered your worth, did you know that?"
Uriel could only glare weakly, fury burning behind her pain.
Gabriel corked the vial and tucked it into her coat with a satisfied hum. She pressed a small cloth to Uriel’s wrist and tied it tightly, just enough to stop the bleeding but not enough to be called care.
“There. See? I'm not so cruel when you don't try to lunge at me. Just behave yourself and I won't kill you.. yet.” Gabriel smiled as if a wolf in sheep's clothing.
Uriel couldn’t move—not really. Her legs folded uselessly beneath her, her breathing sharp and shallow. Blood trickled slowly down from the small nick Gabriel had carved on her wrist, dripping rhythmically into the crystal vial held between the older girl’s fingers. Her wings—those broken, limp wings hung in angles they were never meant to bear.
Gabriel crouched before her, admiring the vial like it was fine wine. “You’re not even bleeding properly,” she muttered with a mocking smile, twirling the vial once. “The blood of an Astyrax is supposed to burn like holy fire. But you? You bleed like a beggar.”
Uriel winced, curling in slightly, instinctively shielding her damaged wings. That only drew Gabriel’s attention.
A cruel glint sparked in her glacier-blue eyes. “Oh,” she said sweetly, standing once more. “Did I forget to say sorry about the wings?”
She knelt behind Uriel, her fingers cold and smooth as she gripped the root of one wing—right where the bone jutted at a sick angle.
“Don’t—!” Uriel barely managed to croak.
But Gabriel pulled.
Uriel screamed, her voice shattering in a mix of agony and terror. Her body twisted, her nails digging into the marble floor as her wing was wrenched further out of place.
Gabriel leaned in close, lips brushing Uriel’s ear as she bit her sensitive upper ear. “You think he’ll still want you after this?” she whispered. “Metatron. The great and terrible king. Your father.”
Uriel sobbed once, muffled by her own arm. Gabriel didn’t stop.
“You think he’ll still call you his daughter when he sees you crawl through his gates with clipped wings and trembling hands? Or will he finally admit what you are—a disappointment. A mistake.”
“You don’t know him, nobody does.” Uriel choked, shaking.
“I know enough,” Gabriel replied, her voice flat with loathing. “He didn’t even send a search party for you. You vanished and no one even knocked on my door. You think you’re important? You’re just a spare with a spark.”
She circled in front of Uriel again, crouching to meet her broken stare.
“I’m the ice,” Gabriel whispered, brushing a blood-matted strand of Uriel’s hair behind her ear. “You’re the flame. And yet… you never melt me.”
Uriel tried to speak, but her throat was raw. Instead, only a faint rasp came out, a whisper of defiance she couldn’t finish.
Gabriel laughed lowly. “That’s the best fucking part of this. All that Astyrax pride, and still—here you are. On the floor. Wings snapped. Fire already gutted.”
She dug her fingers into Uriel’s scalp, pulling her head up again. “Look at me,” she snarled. “I want you to see exactly what it looks like when your flame dies.”
Uriel’s eyes fluttered open, glassy with unshed tears. But they still burned faintly. Still, they burned.
"Go fuck yourself." Uriel decided to mutter out once again, breathing a bit jagged.
And Gabriel hated that.
Because it meant Uriel wasn’t broken yet.
So she whispered again, softly this time: “Beg. And maybe I won’t ruin the other wing completely.” Uriel shook her head.
“You know,” Gabriel murmured, brushing her thumb across a patch of broken feather, “when I was younger, I used to break the legs of birds that wandered too close to the castle walls. Just to see if I could fix them again.”
She pressed harder, and something shifted—cracked—in Uriel’s wing. The girl tensed violently, jerking forward, her hands clawing at the cold ground, but Gabriel simply dragged her back.
“It’s funny,” Gabriel continued, voice deceptively sweet. “There’s a part in the wing—right here—” she pressed down on the base joint, and Uriel let out a strained gasp, “—where if you twist just right, you can hear this lovely little pop.”
She twisted.
Pop.
Uriel bit her lip so hard it bled. Gabriel laughed in reply. “There it is! Gods, I love that sound.” She leaned over, her breath warm against Uriel’s ear. “I think your funny bone lives in your wings, princess. What a joke you are.”
Uriel trembled, her shoulders shaking as Gabriel’s fingers slid along the length of her primary feathers—those long, proud white plumes she was once so proud of. Gabriel held one between her fingers, then tugged—hard. It didn’t come loose, but the root cracked loudly, and Uriel jerked again.
“These are nice,” Gabriel said casually, “but far too long. You know, there’s an art to clipping flight feathers properly. One wrong snip and you’ll never fly the same again. You’ll spin. Spiral. Fall.”
She leaned in closer, her cold hands trailing along the delicate feathers. “Maybe I should trim you. Give you a haircut fit for a palace rat.”
Uriel's eyes were wet with pain, but she grit her teeth, managing a broken whisper: “You’re… enjoying this.”
Gabriel smiled without warmth. “Immensely.”
She dragged her fingers across the bend of the wing again, pressing into the fractured bone. “You should’ve stayed in your Highlands and played with your potions and books. But no… you came to spy on me.. Stabbed a fucking throwing knife not even in the right place to kill me.”
She rolled Uriel’s body slightly to the side with her boot and crouched again, meeting her face-to-face. “Tell me. Was it worth it? Sneaking around like a ghost just to get pinned like a butterfly?”
Uriel shook her head weakly. “You’re… a monster.”
Gabriel tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “Maybe. But monsters don’t bleed like you do.” She held up the vial of Uriel’s blood again and smiled.
Then, slowly, deliberately, she twisted her hand beneath Uriel’s wing again. There was a sound—like thick twigs snapping in winter—and Uriel let out a choked sob, collapsing entirely, her body finally giving in.
Gabriel exhaled contentedly. “That one was even better.”
Gabriel stood a few paces away after probably fifteen minutes of cracking, watching her. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Something unreadable flickered in her eyes—not quite pity, not quite contempt. Just… calculation.
Then she turned without a word, disappearing into a side room.
Uriel didn't dare move. She could barely fucking breathe.
The scent of herbs crept in—burnt lavender, raw arnica, a bit of something sharp like vinegar and steel. Uriel flinched at every sound. Bottles clinking. Liquid poured. The muted scrape of a spoon against a bowl.
By the time Gabriel returned, her sleeves were rolled up, forearms streaked with dark green aura from brewing, the paste clinging between her fingers. Her expression was unreadable.
Uriel snarled weakly. “If you’re gonna kill me, get it the fuck over with.”
Gabriel snorted. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not wasting a funeral on you.”
She knelt beside her, dipped her fingers into the salve, and reached for Uriel’s wing.
Uriel jerked. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Gabriel’s grip tightened instantly, cruel fingers pressing into the base of her wing until Uriel gasped.
“I said don’t,” Uriel hissed again, tears rising from the sheer humiliation.
Gabriel leaned closer, her voice low and biting. “And I said yes, I fucking will.”
Then she started rubbing the salve in, slow and methodical. The pain dulled, replaced with a spreading warmth—but Uriel hated how her body sagged into the relief, hated how much she needed it. Gabriel’s fingers kneaded along the cracked joints with practiced care, even as her mouth kept running.
“You Astyrax are all the fucking same. Golden names, glass bones. You break so easy.”
Uriel glared at the wall. “Go fuck yourself.”
Gabriel laughed under her breath, digging her thumb into a tender spot just enough to make Uriel flinch again. “You’ve got a mouth on you, princess. Shame you can’t back it up with anything useful—like, oh, I don’t know… not getting your ass kicked.”
Uriel bit her lip hard, blood pooling on her tongue.
Gabriel moved to the other wing. Uriel hissed in pain when her hand brushed a broken ridge.
“Oh, did that hurt?” Gabriel cooed, her tone dripping with false sympathy. “Poor baby. Want me to kiss it better?”
“Fuck off.”
Gabriel’s smirk widened. “Cute. You think you’re still in charge of anything.”
She leaned in, lips near Uriel’s ear.
“You know what’d be fun? Clipping these fucking feathers. Just the long ones. You’d never fly for years. Bet daddy dearest would love to hear his precious girl got grounded like a fucking pigeon.”
Uriel shook, more from rage than pain.
“You broke both of my fucking wings,” she whispered, voice trembling. “You broke me.”
Gabriel didn’t deny it. Instead, she just stared at Uriel’s bent feathers with something like fascination, dragging her fingers down the edge of the wing.
“It’s satisfying, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Hearing the bones crack. Like snapping twigs under your boots.”
Uriel felt the tears spill over before she could stop them. She crumpled further to the floor, trembling, one hand curling over her chest as if to hold her shame in place.
“Please…” she whispered. “Enough. I fucked up, okay? Just stop.”
Gabriel blinked, caught off-guard for a fraction of a second. She straightened, silent now. Then, with a sudden strange shift, she reached again—not to hurt, but to press more salve gently around Uriel’s wing joints. Her touch softened.
Uriel couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t speak.
Gabriel loomed above her, arms crossed, eyes sharp like ice daggers. “You’re going to tell me, Uriel.”
Uriel didn’t look up, still crumpled on the cold marble, her arms wrapped tight around her ribs, wings trembling like broken sails. Her lip was bruised. Her pride, shattered somewhere between the second insult and the bone in her right wing.
“Go fuck yourself.”
Gabriel smiled again—short, cruel, echoing in the high ceiling. “You already tried that with your fists, remember? Didn’t go well.”
“Just shut the fuck up,” Uriel growled, still not moving. “You think you're the only one hurting? I didn’t come here for your fucking amusement.”
“Oh no?” Gabriel stepped closer, boots clicking. “Then what? Some desperate pilgrimage? A guilt trip wrapped in fucking glitter footprints and broken glass?”
Uriel flinched at that. “Don’t fucking touch me again,” she said through gritted teeth. “Don’t talk like you know me.”
Gabriel crouched low, grabbing a fistful of Uriel’s invisibility cloak. “I do know you. I know how easy you are to push. How quick you crack when someone calls you out. So tell me—what the fuck were you looking for? Or were you just hoping I’d be crying about you? Playing some sad little piano song like I missed your feathered ass?”
Uriel clenched her jaw, forcing the tears back. “You don’t get it,” she hissed. “You never did. I wasn’t here for some fucking reunion.”
“Oh right,” Gabriel drew. “Because stalking people under an invisibility cloak is completely normal behavior.”
Uriel finally looked up, her voice low and venomous. “I hope you freeze in your sleep, you psychotic snow-drenched bitch.”
Gabriel smiled at her hostility. “Still not an answer.” she said, wiping the drop of blood from Uriel's chapped lips and putting salve "Fucking idiot, your pink lips are ruined because of all your screaming."
“I don’t owe you shit.”
They stared at each other, the silence loud between them.
Then—a sudden flare of fire and wind ripped through the chamber. Solas blasted in from the skylight above, wings glowing like a dying star, eyes furious.
He let out a thunderous screech and dove, spiraling toward Uriel’s limp form.
Gabriel barely turned in time.
“Solas—” Uriel smiled as she said with relief.
The phoenix flared his wings and exhaled a violent breath of glowing embers directly at Gabriel, not to burn—but to warn. The blast sent her stumbling back, cursing.
“God your bird's breath stinks.” she spat, shielding her face. “Protective little shit, aren’t you?”
Solas landed beside Uriel and immediately began nudging her with his beak, brushing flaming feathers around her shoulders like a warm cloak.
Uriel gave a weak groan, head lolling toward him.
“You’re late,” she whispered, cracking a faint, bitter smile.
Solas chirped low, gently tucking her wing closer with his head.
Gabriel stood a few feet away, brushing ash from her sleeves, watching with a mixture of disdain and something unspoken.
“Go on,” she whispered hoarsely, “get me the fuck out of here.”
Solas let out a low, guttural chirp, his beak catching hold of the edge of the tattered invisibility cloak that had fallen to the side of the room—still glimmering faintly under the moonlight that poured through the glass panels above.
Gabriel didn’t stop him.
She just stood there, arms crossed, watching with a sideways sneer as Solas unfurled the cloak across his wings and draped it over Uriel’s battered form with reverence.
“Run back to Thoborn, Astyrax,” Gabriel muttered, not loud enough to stop them but loud enough for Uriel to hear. “Better hurry before Daddy finds out what a disappointment you really are.”
Uriel didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Her teeth were gritted too tight, her fists curled too hard, too fucking tired.
Solas wrapped one glowing wing around her—and in a burst of soft flame and ash, they vanished from the icy floor of Snezhnaya.
Notes:
Asenath🤝Gabriel (hurting their lovers and not apologizing, instead feeling bad and makes something for them to heal instead) Uriel after this probably has a choking kink 😔, the physical fight and Gabriel dislocating her wings here is necessary, trust 🙏🏻 oh and also, the lilies comparison to their relationship in the wedding is actually based off from my other fanfic that I realized I probably won't continue 😭
Chapter 14: Blood Pact, Northern Throne (5)
Summary:
Uriel comes back to Asenath's house with nothing but broken wings with hopes and dreams. She lies and just says she fell off a tree. She tells Raguel of what she saw which she fully believes that Gabriel is a demon in disguise. She desperately tries reaching out with an anonymous name but she gets outsmarted by her rival. In which they just exchange hate letters instead until Uriel confronts her again in person (this time it goes well) She asks for the stolen blood back but Gabriel refuses, until she thinks to make a blood pact—a promise built in blood. They oath to never harm eachother and in consequence they'll loath eachother for life. She meets Rhyan Dravon—son of the Southern Lord who actually seems to be nice and shy, she notices this boy is actually really respectful. And she admires him for it. But something happens during the festival, leading Evangeline to risk her life and status, until she decides to come back to Asenath with her niece and nephew, enchanting their land to be invisible.
Notes:
Arghhh, I hated writing this chapter because I was being so confused at what was happening, yet another filler chapter but will definitely play out in Gaburi's misunderstanding conflict between eachother, and the blood pact idea popped up in my head after researching torture methods (don't ask why lol), until I came across something similar which was from 'fantastic beasts' which was I believe a prequel to harry potter. I found this picture to be what a blood pact is, and I love it. I never really realized this fic is also is similar to Harry potter verse regarding the invisibility cloak lol, that's all, have a good read!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning sun spilled lazily over the Highlands, brushing the frost-kissed pines with gold. A gentle wind stirred the prayer flags strung along the temple rails. Birds sang, but inside the shrine, there was only silence.
Asenath stood by the hearth, grinding herbs into a paste when she heard the soft rustle behind her—too slow to be Solas, too stiff to be natural.
She turned, slowly.
Uriel stood in the doorway, one hand on the arch for support. Her hair was a tangled mess of blonde strands, falling into eyes that were dull, exhausted. There was dried blood near her temple, and more strikingly, a sickly red bruise smeared along her jaw and cheekbone like someone had tried to erase her face with their fist.
But Asenath’s gaze fell lower—her expression sharpening.
Uriel moved wrong. Every step was careful, deliberate. And her wings—
“Uriel,” Asenath said, putting the bowl down. “What the hell happened to your wings?”
Uriel froze. Just for a breath.
Then she let out a rough cough of a laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “Fell,” she said casually, her voice hoarse. “From a tree. Solas spooked me.”
Asenath blinked once. “You. Fell from a tree.”
“Yep.”
“You. A flier. Who sleeps on cliffs. Who has trained with me since she was five. Fell. From a tree.”
Uriel gave a one-shoulder shrug—though it quickly turned into a grimace, her wings twitching and sending a spike of pain down her back. She winced.
Asenath was silent for a long moment, just watching her.
Uriel didn’t meet her eyes.
She slowly walked toward the cushions near the hearth and lowered herself onto them with the caution of a brittle old woman. Her hands trembled slightly. She tried to hide it.
“I’ll be fine,” she mumbled.
“Uriel.”
The girl looked up. There was defiance there, sure—but behind it, rawness. And shame. And something fragile, held together by sheer will.
Asenath crouched in front of her, fingers reaching out. Uriel flinched.
That was all the confirmation she needed.
Asenath's voice dropped, quiet and sharp. “Who did this to you?”
Uriel turned her face away. “I said I fell.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Uriel didn’t respond.
Her eyes were fixed on the fire now, unmoving, face stiff.
Asenath stared at her for a while longer—then sighed, standing up again.
“Fine. You don’t want to tell me? Then don’t. But don’t you dare pretend you're fine while you're sitting there wincing every time you breathe.”
She reached for the healing salves and a fresh cloth, her jaw clenched tight. Asenath pulled the wooden stool close, setting down the bowl of cooling salve. She moved behind Uriel, fingers careful as she began to peel back the blood-crusted tunic. The girl hissed.
Her wings were a mess.
Bent unnaturally, mottled with black-blue bruises from shoulder to bone-tip. The flight feathers were ruffled, some bent out of place entirely. There was a hairline fracture, maybe two, just beneath the scapula ridge.
Asenath exhaled slowly through her nose, setting her jaw.
“Tell me again,” she said, voice low, threading with something dangerous, “how exactly a tree managed to grab you midair, spin you around like a goddamn ragdoll, and dislocate your wings like this?”
Uriel didn’t look at her.
Instead, she was staring out the window, at the pale blue sky above the pines. Her eyes were dull and unfocused, locked somewhere far away.
“I tripped,” she mumbled.
“You tripped.”
“Landed on the roots. Rolled down the mountain. Solas saw it. Ask him.”
“I will,” Asenath muttered bitterly, scooping the salve with two fingers and beginning to rub it gently along the swelling ridge of Uriel’s right wing. The girl jerked slightly but didn’t cry out.
There was silence between them for a while, just the sound of the wind outside and the soft crunch of herbs being worked into bruised flesh.
Then Asenath tried again, quieter this time.
“Who did this to you, little star?”
Uriel’s lips trembled, but she didn’t speak.
Asenath’s touch grew softer. She cupped the space between Uriel’s shoulder blades, palm warm.
“You don’t have to say it all. Just give me a name.”
Uriel shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“The hell it doesn’t.”
“I said I fell,” Uriel snapped suddenly, turning just enough to glare at her—but her voice cracked halfway through. “I was stupid and I fell and that’s all!”
Asenath blinked at her then sighed, her hands withdrawing.
“Fine. We’ll play it your way. But next time you decide to fling yourself off a cliff and cartwheel down a mountain, have the courtesy to break something less delicate.”
Uriel gave a weak laugh through her teeth. “Can’t promise that.”
“Typical.”
Asenath started bandaging the wing joints, wrapping them tightly in gauze to hold the bones steady.
“I don’t know what’s going on in that stubborn head of yours,” she murmured, “but whatever beast you went chasing in the dark… it’s not worth your body.”
Asenath frowned as her fingers brushed over a faint frostburn running along the curve of Uriel’s wing. The bruise underneath it was tinged an eerie blue, a clear contrast to the reddish bruises on her face. She whistled low under her breath, eyes narrowing.
“Falling off a tree doesn’t usually give you frostbite, Uriel.”
Uriel winced and looked away. “Maybe it was a cold tree.”
“Oh, sure,” Asenath replied with a smirk, lifting one of Uriel’s wings higher to examine it. “A cold, brooding, six-foot-tall tree with pale skin and a bad attitude?”
Uriel groaned. “Can you not?”
“Tell me, did this mysterious tree have an Aurelius accent too?” Asenath continued, unfazed. “You sneak off from the Highlands, and the next morning you’re covered in ice burns. Sounds to me like a Northern boy couldn’t keep his frosty hands to himself.”
“There was no boy” Uriel muttered, teeth gritted.
Asenath leaned back, crossing her arms with a knowing grin. “Mhm. So what was it then? Some noble pretty-boy with snowflake magic and a tragic backstory? Did he come all the way down from Aurelia for a secret meetup? then accidentally bash your wings in when things get heated and you both fought?”
Uriel’s cheeks flushed red as she hissed, “I. Fell. From. A. Fucking. Tree.”
Asenath snorted. “Right, and I’m the Duchess of court Eloen. Come on, just tell me which snot-nosed Northern princeling tried to seduce you and ended up committing wing assault.”
Uriel glared at her, red creeping all the way to her ears. “mom, I swear, if you keep talking I’m throwing myself off the nearest cliff.”
“Please,” Asenath grinned. “You wouldn’t even make it to the edge with those busted wings.”
Uriel groaned and buried her face in her hands while Asenath, still chuckling, reached for the healing salve. “Alright, alright. I’ll stop—for now. But if you ever decide to run off again to make out with some snow brat, try not to come home looking like you lost a war to a blizzard.” she said before wrapping bandages on the broken and bent wings.
Absolutely! Here's the next continuation with a warm but emotionally tense sibling moment between Uriel and Raguel, set in the quiet grasslands at sunset:
**********
The sun had already dipped behind the rocky slopes of Thoborn, casting long shadows over the fields as twilight bloomed in shades of violet and gold. The cool wind stirred the tall grass gently, brushing over Uriel’s tangled hair as she lay on her back, arms splayed wide, eyes half-lidded. Her wings twitched beneath her, bandaged and stiff, but she didn’t cry anymore. Not in front of the wind. Not in front of the gods.
She heard boots crunching against the dirt before she saw him.
Raguel’s silhouette approached with the sun behind him, his coat dusted in soot and metal filings, his strong hands still stained from a day at the smithery. He looked exhausted—but there was a gentle warmth in his eyes when he knelt down beside her on the grass.
“Thought I’d find you out here,” he said softly. “You weren’t at supper.”
Uriel grunted in reply.
He sat down beside her, pulling something from the satchel at his hip. “Made something for you,” he added, voice quieter now. “Well… it’s not much. Just a silly thing I did in my spare hours.”
Uriel blinked as he held it out.
It was a tiny doll—stitched from cloth and shaped vaguely like her, with messy white yarn for hair and tiny fabric wings at the back. A thin line of golden thread formed a little flame across its chest on the black dress.
She stared at it.
“You gave it spiky eyebrows,” she said.
He smirked. “Had to capture your rage somehow.”
Uriel held the doll to her chest and closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured, quieter than a breath. “You always give the best things when I feel the worst.”
Raguel looked at her wings—his expression falling into a slow frown.
“…Uriel.”
“I know.”
“How?”
She didn’t answer right away.
Instead, she sat up slowly, arms wrapping around her knees as her wings hung low and tired behind her. Then she turned her head slightly toward him, eyes shadowed by dusk.
“I’ll tell you,” she whispered, “but you have to promise you won’t tell Asenath.”
“Uriel—”
“Swear it. Please. Just this once.”
His jaw tightened. Then, after a moment, he nodded. “Alright. I swear.”
Uriel looked forward again, the wind tugging at her loose shirt, brushing her hair against her cheek. Then she said it, quietly, like a sin peeled from her soul:
“I snuck into Snezhnaya. I wanted to see the daughter of Caelus Aurelius. I… I spied on her. I got caught.”
Raguel blinked, stunned. “You what?”
She smiled bitterly. “She broke my wings. And I think she almost killed me. So yeah. Great idea.”
“…Uriel.”
“She’s scary, Raguel. So fucking scary. Like ice wrapped in velvet and rage. And she—she laughed when she hurt me. Like I was a game.”
Raguel’s face had gone completely pale now, his fists clenched into the grass. “Why would you—?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped, then softened. “I just… I needed to see what she was like. And I regretted it the second I saw her alone. She’s dangerous. And I was stupid.”
The air between them went silent. Raguel exhaled slowly, knuckles white, and looked at her again Uriel was trembling in her shoulders, the stiffness in her wings.
“You’re not stupid,” he said finally. “Just too damn curious for your own good.”
Uriel clutched the little doll tightly in her bruised hands, her fingers shaking as she stared out over the dusk-stained hills of Thoborn. The grass around her swayed gently, soft as breath, and the night insects had just begun their chorus.
Raguel sat silently beside her, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders. She hadn't spoken since her confession. Not really. But something in her still burned beneath the bruises—hotter than her cracked fire.
“There’s more,” she said quietly.
Raguel turned to her slowly, brow furrowed. “More than the daughter of Caelus breaking your wings?”
Uriel nodded once, her mouth dry. She let the silence stretch thin before breaking it with a brittle whisper.
“She has a mark.”
Raguel frowned. “What kind of mark?”
“I saw it—on her wrist. While I was invisible. It was… wrong. Like it moved when I blinked. I don’t know how to describe it.” Her voice cracked a little, eyes wide as if she were reliving the moment. “It looked burned in. Like a brand. Black veins coiled out from it like vines.”
Raguel’s jaw tightened, his blacksmith’s hands curling into fists on his lap.
“That’s not all,” Uriel added, her voice slipping into a frightened murmur. “I think she’s a demon. Or cursed. Or… both. She felt so wrong to me, Raguel. She moved like she could split me in half without lifting a finger. She knew I was there, even when I didn’t make a sound. I knocked over a glass and she still waited five minutes to fuck with me—like she was playing a game.”
Raguel stared at her, torn between rage and horror. “And she did all this because you saw it?”
Uriel nodded slowly. “She said things. Mocked me. Called me weak. Said King Metatron would be ashamed that my fire couldn't even singe her ice.”
“And you still went after her.”
“I didn’t go to fight,” Uriel said, barely louder than the wind. “I just wanted to see her. I don’t even know why. Curiosity. Stupidity. Something about her felt… off. Like she wasn’t just a person. Like she was a wound. And I had to touch it.”
Raguel closed his eyes, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
“She choked me out, Raguel. With her fucking hand that can wrap itself on my throat like it was made to choke me.”
Uriel let out a shaky breath, curling into herself more. “She wasn’t just enjoying it. She was testing me. Like she wanted to see how far I’d go before I begged. She's a demon, Raguel.”
Raguel didn’t speak at first. He stared at the horizon with a furrowed brow, jaw clenched, and chest rising in a quiet, deep breath.
Then he shook his head slowly.
“No,” he said, firm but not harsh. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Uriel flinched. “You think I’m lying?”
“I think you’re scared,” Raguel said, his voice calm but resolute. “And in pain. And maybe you saw something that rattled you—but Gabriel? A demon? Uriel, she’s an Aurelius.”
Uriel frowned. “So?”
“The Aurelius line doesn’t mix, Uri. They’re obsessed with purity. Their bloodline has been untouched by anything impure or unholy for centuries. That’s the one thing even our father admits about them. If she’s Caelus’ daughter, she was born of mana so refined it could sear a normal mage. There’s no way she’s corrupted.”
Uriel’s lips parted, but the words failed to come out. Her eyes dropped to the grass.
“I saw the mark on her wrist, Raguel. It moved. Like it was breathing. And her mana—”
“You were terrified. You were injured. You were spying.” Raguel looked at her now, searching her face. “You’re not trained to sense demonic influence. You’ve never even seen a proper cursed brand.”
“But—”
“Gabriel’s not a demon,” Raguel said again, more gently. “She’s dangerous, yeah. Ice born. Cold-hearted. Probably twisted in the head like most of that court. But that doesn’t make her cursed.”
Uriel’s wings gave a small, involuntary twitch, the movement making her wince.
“Then what is she?” she whispered. “Because something in her isn’t right. And she knew things, Raguel. About Metatron. About me.”
Raguel remained quiet for a long time.
Finally, he exhaled. “I believe you saw something. And I believe she hurt you. But maybe it wasn’t demonic. Maybe it’s just… cruelty.”
Uriel didn’t answer. She hugged her knees closer and looked away, jaw clenched. Raguel set a hand gently on her back, brushing over the stiff, frost-marked feathers with a frown.
Uriel sat alone in the branch of the centre tree of the Highlands, parchment scraps and crumpled drafts littered across the tree branches. Ink smeared her fingers as she carefully folded the latest letter, signing it under a fake name—E.M. Krein, a supposed traveling documentarist interested in regional interviews about powerful bloodlines. She even tried to mimic the calligraphy of capital correspondents, using a pressed seal and a waxed envelope.
Solas cocked his feathery head at her from the window, unimpressed as always.
"She will buy it, Solas. Just watch and learn." Uriel muttered, tying the scroll to Asenath's crow and sending it off to Snezhnaya.
Three days passed. She barely slept. Every rustle outside made her heart jolt, wondering if a raven had returned. And finally, when it did, it carried a note so short it made her stomach drop. It was scrawled in a slanted, sharp hand. Smug and precise. No seal. No return signature.
To whomever this letter will receive,
Miss Astyrax bastard, I take it you're having a great day at your lower class home. I want you to try harder next time, the pen you used is obviously too cheap and expensive fountain pens are mostly used by people you pretend to be.
And if you want to know more about my family, just do your fucking research like a normal person.
Xoxo,
Gabriel Aurelius.
Uriel blinked at the page, cheeks flushing as she slumped back into her chair.
Solas squawked beside her, feathers puffed in silent laughter.
"Fuck off," she hissed, burying her face in her arms. "I'll just write another one. I'm sure Asenath won't mind me borrowing some of her crows."
To Whomever the Fuck This Concerns,
You're such a smug little bitch, you know that? You think you're clever, don't you? Sitting there in your frostbitten castle, giggling into your dainty glass of wine like you’re better than the rest of us. You talk like your shit doesn’t stink, but let me tell you something, Gabriel whatever-the-fuck—you’re not a goddess. You're just a fucking brat with a superiority complex and a cold stick shoved so far up your ass, it’s a wonder you haven’t choked on it yet.
You wanna talk about pens? Pens? As if that proves anything. You clocked me by ink choice—congrats. Want a damn medal for that too? Go ahead and make another tally on your wall of victories like the obsessed little freak you are. I bet you’ve been WAITING for me to write again. You love this, don’t you? Knowing I’m thinking about you. That I have to think about you because I’m the only one who realizes what you really are.
You're not perfect. You're not pure. That mark on your wrist? That wasn’t a family crest. That was rot. Taint. And I saw it. I felt it. You can pretend you’re pristine snow, but I saw the ash beneath the ice. And no matter how many designer pens you own or how many fucking operas you play on your lonely little piano, it won’t change what you are.
You’re a demon. You’re poisonous. And I don’t give a shit how many people you fool.
So keep playing games, bitch. Keep sending your snide little notes and acting like you’re untouchable. One day, someone will see through you just like I did—and when that day comes, I hope you fucking choke on a stick.
With absolutely no respect,
Go to hell,
Not-So-Sincerely,
Astyrax
Uriel ties it up on the bird's feet, feeding it with some corn flakes and bird seeds before letting it fly away with a pouch of snacks on the way.
Then, almost a week later the crow returned, snow on his feathers, returning with a new paper that wrote in sophisticated ink,
To the Blistering Embarrassment of Thoborn,
Aww, you sent me another letter. How sweet. It’s almost tragic how much free time you have—out there in your dusty little hilltop shack, crying into your feather pillow because the big bad Northerner won’t validate your delusions.
Let me be clear: you’re not clever, you’re not scary, and you sure as hell aren’t subtle. You’re a broke teenager with nothing to her name but scorched temper tantrums and a fiery chicken that probably smells like smoke and regret. Is that your emotional support bird? Or just the only thing in your life with the spine to stick around?
And your insults? Gods. I’ve seen sharper words etched on bathroom stalls in the capital. “Demon bitch”? “Ice-cursed freak”? Please. If you’re going to hurl playground names at me, at least be creative. Or better yet—just cry about it in your sad little diary instead of wasting postage. Your poor bird was shivering when it perched through my fucking window, oh and sorry for the fucking delay. I felt so bad for your bird.
I’m honestly flattered that I live in your head like this. You snuck into my home, stalked my daily routines, and now you’re writing me hate letters like an unhinged ex. Should I start sending you signed portraits? Me playing a funeral theme on my piano, just so you have something new to cry over.
Try again, Astyrax. And this time, don’t use a pen that leaks like your dignity.
Sincerely laughing,
Gabriel Aurelius.
P.S. Tell your flame chicken I said hi.
Uriel was so fucking fed up.
Uriel winced as she reached for her cloak, her fingers trembling from the stiffness in her wings. The bruises had dulled to a deep purple, but the bones still ached like hell. She crouched near the window where Solas perched, his golden eyes narrowed in disapproval and his head shaking.
“Come on,” Uriel whispered, brushing his feathers lightly. “We’ve done worse.”
Solas flared his wings, ruffling them with a sharp squawk. He pointed—pointed—with one talon directly at her right wing, then her left. His beak clicked twice, imitating sounds of twigs.
“I know,” Uriel muttered, pulling the cloak tighter around her shoulders. “I know what happened last time.”
Solas didn’t move. He tapped the floor once. Then again. Then jerked his head in the direction of Snezhnaya in the map.
Uriel groaned and leaned her forehead against his. “You little shit. Don’t guilt trip me.” Solas cooed, then poked her bruised shoulder with his beak. She winced again.
“Okay! Fine!” she snapped, then sighed, softening. “If you come with me, I’ll let you fly above the Thobornian shores again. At dawn. No leash. No rules. You can dive into the fucking clouds if you want.”
Solas tilted his head, thoughtful now.
Uriel gave him a pleading look. “Please. I need this. One more time. Just to see.”
For a long moment, Solas didn’t budge. Then, with a sharp flutter of his wings, he jumped up onto her shoulder, giving her cheek a light singe of ember breath.
Uriel grinned, hiding her nerves. “Atta boy.”
They vanished in a flash of light, straight into the jaws of the North.
The cold shimmer of Solas’s teleportation magic fizzled out in the corners of Gabriel’s candlelit room. Uriel stood there, still cloaked in shadows, her breath uneven, her bruised wings twitching faintly behind her. Solas gave a quiet, wary squawk, refusing to leave Uriel's side this time.
Across the room, seated by the massive window with the northern moon haloing her silhouette, Gabriel turned her head lazily.
“Well, well,” she said, voice a slow, vicious purr. “Didn’t learn your lesson, did you?”
Her eyes dropped to Uriel’s wings—still bent, feathers clumsily mended with healing balm and cloth—and she let out a whistle. “Solas, was it? You’re really letting her walk around like that? Thought you had standards.”
Uriel steadied herself, stepping forward with deliberate slowness, wings trembling but folded behind her. Her voice, when she finally found it, was hoarse but even.
“I didn’t come here to fight, Gabriel.”
That made the other girl blink—just briefly—before that same smirk returned. She leaned back in her chair, one leg draped over the other
Uriel pressed on. “I just want to talk. Why do you write to me like that? Why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you?”
Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “You mean besides your family being the reason why mine are dead, the reason why Eden is so hopeless, invading my house, spying on my life, writing me letters like a deranged penpal with issues, and sending a crow dressed like a journalist?” She tilted her head mockingly. “Yeah, I have no idea.”
Uriel’s fists clenched. “I’m serious.”
“I am too,” Gabriel said, voice like honey over broken glass. “But hey—look on the bright side. It’s better I didn’t ghost you. That’d sting more than your brittle ego could handle.”
Uriel felt her breath catch. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Gabriel rose slowly from the chair, the shadows casting long across her face. “What’s wrong with me?” she echoed, stepping closer. “You, Astyrax, wrote me like you wanted answers. Like you were owed them. But you can’t even write a proper sentence, let alone get your story straight. Demon? Really? You come into my city with scorched feathers and a flaming chicken and call me the monster?”
“I saw the mark,” Uriel snapped, her voice cracking.
Gabriel’s expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes flickered—brief and cold.
“And?” she said softly.
Uriel hesitated. “And I know you’re hiding something.”
Gabriel took another step closer. “We all are.”
That shut Uriel up. For a moment, neither of them spoke—just the sound of Solas’s protective growl, still hovering in the air like smoke.
"All I want is the blood you took from me back. I can't make sure you won't curse it, cause you to know my feelings, brew it into something that kills me specifically." Uriel said, looking at Gabriel.
"Brew it into something so I can know your personal life? Oh, I'm not like you Astyrax. I don't play with my potion set." Gabriel said, her grey eyes piercing through the greenery of Uriel's.
The air in Gabriel’s chamber was still, cold, and laced with unspoken tension. Uriel stood at the edge of the carpet, her bruised wings hunched behind her like broken shields, while Solas perched quietly behind her, watching everything with narrowed, ember-gold eyes.
Gabriel sat lazily by the frost-rimmed window, fingers playing with the crimson-stained vial she once stole from Uriel. She tilted it against the light, amused by the shimmer of blood swirling in the glass.
“You came all this way,” Gabriel murmured, not even looking up. “To ask for this back?” She held up the vial like a toy, letting it twirl on a silver chain.
Uriel didn’t flinch. “It’s mine. That blood’s mine. I want it back.”
Gabriel finally turned to face her, that cruel glint in her eyes still lurking, though her tone softened. “Then how about we strike a deal?”
Uriel narrowed her eyes. “What kind of deal?”
Gabriel stood slowly, her steps smooth and deliberate, until she was just a breath away. She held the vial between them, dangling like a pendulum of fate.
“A blood pact,” she said softly. “You and I. We swear—on our own blood—to never lay hands on each other again. Not without consequence. If either of us breaks it…” She smiled thinly. “Our blood will turn against the other. A curse. Our veins will hate one another. And we’ll be enemies until the day we die.”
Uriel blinked. “Why would you offer that?” Uriel’s fists clenched before continuing, “You’re insane,” she snapped. “You think I’d tie myself to you forever just because you want to play fair now?”
Gabriel’s smile curved like a knife. “No. I think you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared—”
“Then prove it,” Gabriel cut in, stepping closer, eyes cold and gleaming. “You came all this way. You begged to know why I hate you, why I didn’t just ghost you and be done with it. But I didn’t. I kept you. So if you really want this to stop—if you really want answers—swear with me. Bind yourself to me.”
Uriel’s lips trembled for a moment, her eyes falling to the vial—her blood, claimed and held like a secret weapon. She hated how calm Gabriel looked. How in control she always was. Her voice cracked as she hissed, “You’re trying to trap me.”
“Maybe,” Gabriel said, almost bored. “But you’re still here. Which means you want something more than just your blood back.”
Uriel just sighed in reply, taking the back of her blood and pouring it in the luxurious looking phial Gabriel handed her.
Gabriel stepped closer, her expression unreadable now—neither cruel nor mocking, just… cold. Focused.
Uriel watched as Gabriel drew a small ceremonial blade from the folds of her coat. Its silver edge shimmered faintly with divine light—holy steel, forged for angels, never meant for games like this. Without hesitation, Gabriel sliced across her wrist, precise and swift. Sacred blood welled up, glowing faintly gold.
Uriel flinched.
Gabriel tilted her arm, letting a few drops fall into the phial. As the two bloods met, they hissed faintly—like oil dropped on fire. The red blood swirled violently for a moment, resisting, then settled into a molten crimson, pulsing once as if alive.
The air thickened. The world outside the room felt suddenly distant.
Gabriel’s voice was low and firm, her eyes never leaving Uriel’s. “By blood and bone, I vow to never raise harm to the one bound to this phial.”
Uriel swallowed. Her own voice came shakier, but she forced it through clenched teeth.
“By flame and soul, I vow to never raise harm to the one bound to this phial.”
The phial glowed bright—then dimmed to stillness. The pact was sealed.
“If either vow is broken,” Gabriel said softly, “the blood within will revolt. It will poison every trace of bond we own. Disgust will spread through our veins. And we will loathe each other—not by choice, but by blood itself.”
Uriel looked down at the phial in her hand, now heavier than it had ever felt.
“I already hate you,” she muttered.
******
That night, the fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls of the small house. Uriel sat still on the rug, her arms wrapped around her knees. The blood phial lay beside her—sealed, cleaned, and silent, like a secret buried too late. Her linen-bound wings ached, but the pain was nothing compared to the churn in her chest.
She didn’t look up when Raguel entered. His steps, tired from the long walk back from the capital forge, slowed as soon as he saw her posture.
“You’re still up,” he said gently. “You alright? Is this about the northern girl again?”
Uriel didn’t answer. She shifted her gaze to the fire. “I made a blood pact.”
Raguel blinked. “You what?”
She turned toward him, her voice steady despite the weight behind it. “With Gabriel.”
His gloves dropped from his hand. “Please tell me you mean a symbolic one. Like a spit-and-shake pact. Or a finger prick with berry juice or something.”
“I gave a phial of my blood,” she said softly. “And she gave hers. We said the vow. That we’d never harm each other.”
Raguel stared at her. Then he dragged a hand down his face and groaned. “Gods above and below—Uriel!”
He paced, boots scuffing against the wooden floor like thunder. “Do you have any idea what she just roped you into?”
“She said it was just to stop the fighting—”
“She’s the daughter of Caelus Aurelius, Uriel!” Raguel snapped, turning on her. “She was probably reciting blood incantations before she could even walk. You think she doesn’t know exactly what Velheim is? That it isn’t going to happen in your lifetime?”
Uriel hesitated. “What do you mean?”
He looked at her, eyes tired and wary. “There’s a prophecy—you’ve heard whispers of it. The child of flame and the child of ice shall participate in a deathly traditional game.”
She nodded slowly.
“Velheim,” Raguel said darkly. “It’s not just some war between houses. It’s worse. So much worse.”
Uriel frowned. “What kind of game is it?”
He stepped closer and dropped his voice like he was afraid the shadows were listening.
“It was once a rite of passage for angelic bloodlines,” he said. “Especially in the East. A way to prove who was worthy to ascend, to lead, to dominate. It doesn’t just include two families. It gathers all potential heirs of power—and throws them into a field without law. No rules. No sides. No mercy.”
Uriel’s lips parted.
“Everything is legal in Velheim, Uriel,” Raguel said. “Murder. Cannibalism. Theft. Bloodletting. Devouring your rival’s mana just to survive one more day. It’s tradition, older than the Order. An arena dressed as divine purpose.”
Uriel’s face went pale. “So it’s a massacre.”
Raguel nodded. “And she knew. Gabriel’s not stupid. That pact wasn’t about peace—it was her sealing you into fate. Binding you to a future she’s already trained for since birth.”
Uriel’s throat tightened. “But… I didn’t know.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “But that’s what makes it worse. She did.”
He looked at her like he wanted to say more—but stopped himself. Instead, he turned toward the window, staring out into the highland dark.
Uriel had never felt more restless.
Asenath’s personal library was vast—shelves spanning the walls from floor to ceiling, thick scrolls and cracked tomes bound in ash-dried leather, old parchment laced with spell-ink and dust older than the monarchy itself. She had combed through volume after volume for hours. Her fingers were smudged with soot, her wings trembling from exhaustion, but there was nothing. No full accounts of Velheim. No histories, no names, no maps—only whispers in ancient tongues and the same repeated omen:
“The child of flame and the child of ice shall participate in the Death Rite, as old as time.”
It was maddening.
She stormed out into the corridor, her slippers echoing with stubborn fire down the marbled halls. Past the trees , through the grass with grazing sheep and lambs, until she found someone who knew.
She spotted her aunt beneath the gnarled fig tree, dressed in red robes trimmed with silver fur, a goblet of wine dangling lazily in her fingers. Evangeline looked impossibly serene—her pale hair braided in loose coils down her back, light purple eyes glinting beneath the last gold shards of daylight. She was humming a song from the old tongue, something no one else in the garden dared sing aloud.
Uriel approached on silent steps.
“Aunt.”
Evangeline didn’t look up, but her lips stopped moving. “You found nothing, did you?”
Uriel blinked. “You knew I was looking?” Uriel’s grip tightened around the tome. “What is Velheim?”
At that, Evangeline finally turned to face her. Her expression didn’t harden. If anything, it softened. But not in kindness.
“You’re trembling,” Evangeline said. “Why?”
“Because Gabriel—” Uriel’s voice faltered. “I mean, daughter of Caelus the cruel.. We made a blood pact. And I don’t know why. I thought it would protect me from her. I thought… if we made a vow not to hurt each other, maybe we could stop being enemies.”
“And instead,” Evangeline said, standing from her seat and brushing leaves from her sleeves, “you sealed your place in a very old, very cruel game.”
Uriel blinked. “So it’s true. You know what it is.”
Evangeline tilted her head, stepping forward, her eyes more serious now. “I didn’t read about Velheim, Uriel. I survived it.”
“I was fifteen,” Evangeline said, lifting her goblet again but not drinking from it. “They crowned me in thorns— Fake Queen Regent of Eden, or so they said. My mother had just flung herself from the spires, and the court needed another person to rule next to the queen fast. I had no allies. Only a grieving ten-year-old Metatron who couldn’t yet hold a sword.”
Uriel’s breath caught in her throat. Uriel couldn't say a thing without shaking “Why? Why'd they include you in these games?”
“Because the past rulers demand it,” Evangeline said coldly. “Because Eden doesn’t believe in rightful heirs by blood, and mostly male heirs win with their older sisters and mothers dying in those games. It believes in survivors. So they needed to test me along with the other noble houses. Velheim isn’t a war. It’s not a tournament. It’s a blood-burning, mana-breaking crucible. Once every cycle, the children of the Great Houses are forced into it—legally. Murder is permitted. Poison, sabotage, mind magic, dismemberment. Even cannibalism.”
“I watched the son of House Dravon burn his twin alive to ascend. I saw Amun Caelora’s brother drain the mana from his own sister until she went mad. I made it out… barely. Because someone dragged me up a cliff while it snowed ash, I survived. But not the champion.”
Uriel’s hand trembled. “So the prophecy…”
“The child of flame and the child of ice shall participate in a deathly traditional game,” Evangeline repeated, her voice now laced with venom. “It’s not just a riddle. It’s a fucking ritual. And it’s happening again.”
Uriel swallowed thickly. “I didn’t know.”
“She did,” Evangeline hissed. “Gabriel knew. Of course she did. She’s the daughter of Caelus Aurelius. Do you think they raise their children without blood in their education? Velheim is etched into her legacy. There's a reason why their line stayed in the North despite the dangers that the broken seal lets out. The velheim games are a way for them to defend the North with children barely in their 20 and eradicate the weak."
Uriel's knees nearly gave out.
“I thought—she seemed like she wanted peace—” Uriel hesitated to say, clinging to whatever promise they made under the blood vow.
“She manipulated you. Because she’s smart. And she knows that if you don’t kill her, she might not have to kill you.” Evangeline stepped forward again, her voice almost gentle. “You think this is about friendship? This is politics wearing your skin, child. You’ve already walked into the arena. You just haven’t heard the gates close behind you yet.”
Uriel looked down at the phial of blood she had tucked in her satchel. Her own blood, sealed with Gabriel’s. She had thought it was sacred. She had thought it meant something. Now it felt like poison in her palm.
Evangeline raised her goblet again.
“Velheim doesn’t wait for you to be ready, Uriel,” she said. “It waits for you to love your enemy just enough… to hesitate. And the daughter of Caelus will use that as an advantage.”
Uriel entered her room, the door creaking softly as she closed it behind her. The cold night air wrapped around her, sending a chill down her spine. She moved toward the large window, pushing aside the curtain to reveal the expanse of Thoborn's darkened sky. Her fingers trembled, still holding onto the weight of her thoughts from the orchard. Evangeline's words echoed in her mind, harsh and sharp like a blade against her heart.
The small figure of Solas, perched at the foot of the bed, was preening his feathers with practiced grace. His sharp, beady eyes followed Uriel’s every movement, but for once, she didn’t mind his presence. She needed something familiar—something that didn’t question her motives or judgments.
Uriel sat down slowly at her bedside table, her gaze drawn to the phial resting there. It had become a strange comfort, though it was nothing but a reminder of her foolishness. The vial of blood that connected her to Gabriel. Her hand hovered over it, and she could almost feel the burn of the pact etched in her veins. Gabriel’s blood, mixed with hers, held power. And yet, the thought of it filled her with a deep, gnawing anger.
"What the hell are you thinking, Gabriel?" she muttered to herself, her voice barely above a whisper. She glared at the glass, watching as the blood shimmered faintly within, streaks of gold flashing through the deep red. She had to admit—it was beautiful in its own twisted way. But it was also a chain. A binding. A constant reminder that she had been dragged into something far darker than she had ever imagined.
Solas chirped softly as if sensing her inner turmoil, his wings fluttering slightly as he hopped closer to her. She didn’t pay him much mind, her focus still fixed on the vial. She hated it. Hated what it meant. The blood pact. The idea that she was forever tied to Gabriel, bound in a way she couldn't escape. It made her sick to think of it. The fury inside her built once again, but this time, it wasn’t directed at Gabriel alone. It was at herself for being so naive, for falling into her own trap.
"I won’t give in to this" she thought, her breath sharp as she closed her eyes for a moment. "I won’t let her have control over me. Not like this. I should have never agreed to make that damn pact."
With a decisive motion, Uriel placed the vial back onto the bedside table, her hand lingering over it for just a moment longer before she pushed it aside. She didn’t need to see it, not now. Not when the anger was still burning so fiercely inside her.
She stood, walking over to the lamp on the other side of the room, and with a flick of her wrist, she snuffed the light out, plunging the room into darkness. The faint outline of the vial was still visible in the dim glow of the moonlight filtering in through the window, but for the first time in hours, Uriel felt the weight of it lessen—just a little.
Solas hopped onto her pillow, curling into a ball with a soft chitter. She lay down beside him, pulling the covers over her body, the cold air still biting at her skin.
As sleep finally began to claim her, Uriel couldn’t help but wonder, with a dark, twisted curiosity—What does Gabriel feel? What does she think of this pact? Does she regret it? Does she even care? The question swirled in Uriel's mind as the night stretched on, and her mind drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Uriel closed her eyes and the exhaustion she felt from the day started to creep up on her. Just then before she knew, The world was white.
Not the soft, gentle white of a Thobornian morning, but a blinding, endless stretch of snow that bit into the skin like glass. Uriel’s boots crunched underfoot as she walked—no, stumbled—through a frozen grove where the trees stood tall and silent like ancient judges. Their twisted branches wore crowns of frost.
She didn’t remember falling asleep.
But here she was.
In her hands, the Sword of Astyrax blazed, its blue flames dancing violently as if alive, as if hungry. It crackled in the silence, casting golden light across her fur-lined cloak and scorched armor. Steam rose from the blade where it touched snow, and it hissed like a beast held back by chain.
Beside her, Raguel stepped forward in heavy black armor, his long dark hair tied back and his face grim. His blade was already wet with the ichor of monsters. Behind him, a dozen skeletal figures lurched out of the fog—hollow-eyed and shrieking.
“Right flank!” Raguel shouted, swinging his sword in a wide arc. Bone snapped. One of the creatures fell backward with a sickening crunch.
Uriel raised her blade instinctively, parrying another skeleton’s jagged spear and slicing through its skull. Sparks lit the air. Ash followed. Her breath was hot in her throat, and she didn’t question the weight in her arms or why the sword knew how to move with her.
Solas screeched above them, a firebird streaking across the sky like a comet. His wings shimmered gold and red, scattering embers as he dived. When he opened his beak, flames exploded from his throat—engulfing the trees in fire and shadow.
Uriel ducked as one tree split open and fell, sending shockwaves through the snowy earth.
She gritted her teeth.
Something about this place itched at her spine. A memory, almost—something sacred and horrifying.
Ahead of them stood a castle—small, sharp, and dark. It was perched at the center of a red river, the current slow but thick like syrup. The bridge leading to its gates was narrow and ancient, bones littered along its sides.
“We have to move,” Raguel said, panting. “The demons are getting stronger the closer we get to the stream.”
Uriel nodded, wiping black blood from her cheek. Uriel stepped onto the brittle stone bridge, the red river churning beneath her like veins carved into the world’s flesh. The castle loomed ahead, windowless, shadowed—its spires like teeth. Every step she took made the flames on her blade hiss louder, as if warning her.
But she never made it to the gate.
A cold hand coiled around her throat.
She gasped—startled, furious—but before breath could form, she was yanked backward, her heels scraping against stone. Her body slammed into the bridge with a harsh thud, the air knocked from her lungs.
Uriel blinked—and there she was.
Gabriel Aurelius.
Hair silver as snow, eyes glinting like winter stars, her boots crunching against frost as she towered over Uriel with a grin that held no warmth.
“You talk too much,” Gabriel said softly, her hand still clenched around Uriel’s neck. “Even in dreams.”
Uriel growled, then punched her across the face. Gabriel’s head jerked aside, hair scattering like powdered snow. The grip loosened—and Uriel flipped up onto her feet, flames bursting from her shoulders as her wings unfurled, blazing with holy fire.
Gabriel laughed, a cruel, knowing sound.
Then her own wings burst out—wider, sharper. Frost swept across the bridge like a tidal wave, freezing Uriel’s fire in an instant.
The two girls lunged at each other.
Uriel’s sword tried to struck Gabriel’s side—clang—sparks flew. Gabriel spun, her spear, a shaft of carved aurora ice slammed into Uriel’s shoulder, launching her back several paces. Uriel flipped mid-air, landed with a roll, then sprinted forward with fire spiraling around her blade.
Gabriel summoned a wall of ice—Uriel smashed through it. Their weapons collided again—a crash like thunder. Their eyes never leaving from eachother, Grey met Green.
They were blurred on the bridge—one flame, one frost—wings cutting through the wind as they clashed and collided with force that cracked stone and shattered air.
Uriel roared, “Why do you hate me?”
Gabriel didn’t answer.
She spun low, slicing at Uriel’s ankles—Uriel leapt over it, twisting midair and striking downward with her flaming sword—Gabriel blocked it with the shaft of her spear, their faces inches apart, teeth bare, eyes freezing.
Uriel’s fury burned brighter—but in that second of hesitation, Gabriel twisted and drove her lance into Uriel’s ribs.
Uriel cried out, stumbled—Gabriel didn’t stop. Her hand snapped out, grabbed Uriel’s wing—already weakened, still bent from their last encounter—and twisted.
CRACK.
Uriel groaned hard.
Then she was thrown, deep down the crimson rivers. Her body spiraled, crashing through the air, until she hit the river with a splash like a dying star. Red water swallowed her whole, freezing, thick, drowning.
Above, the snow kept falling.
And Gabriel stood still on the bridge, watching.
Expression unreadable.
The moment her body hit the river, the cold was unlike anything Uriel had ever known.
Not the chill of Thoborn’s highlands. Not the frostbitten winds of the northern passes.
This was death.
The blood-red river wrapped around her like coiled serpents—vile, living things that dragged her down. Her lungs screamed. Her arms flailed, reaching for light, for air—for Solas—but the current laughed and dragged her deeper still.
Above her, the surface was only a memory. Faint. Silent.
Her wings barely moved. The burning pain from Gabriel’s grasp was spreading through her back like poison, corrupting even her mana. The sword of Astyrax had vanished, swallowed by the stream. Her fire—gone.
Uriel opened her eyes.
All around her, the water shimmered gold and crimson, as if sunlight had tried to touch hell and drowned trying. Shapes flickered past her. A crown. A hand. A broken horn. A familiar face split in shadow. The river wanted her to remember, and to forget, all at once.
She inhaled hard and clutched whatever she could hold, she tilted her head to the sleeping Solas next to her, realizing it was all a dream. But it's like Gabriel's grip on her neck was real.
Uriel stirred to the smell of fried herbs and the sound of someone knocking on her door—not harshly, but rhythmically. Her hand instinctively reached for Solas, who was already awake, preening his golden feathers while perched near the windowsill.
“Up, sleepyhead,” came Raguel’s voice from outside, carrying the usual mix of sarcasm and sincerity. “I swear you sleep like a stone when you’re stressed.”
Uriel groaned, rolling onto her side. Her limbs were sore, her throat dry. The dream still lingered in her mind—Gabriel’s icy grip, the blood river, the clashing weapons. She pressed her face into her pillow, hoping it would vanish.
“I made food,” Raguel called again, softer this time. “And I want to take you somewhere.”
That was enough to get her to sit up.
Ten minutes later, with her cloak sloppily thrown on and boots half-laced, Uriel slouched into the modest kitchen where Raguel handed her a still-warm piece of fried flatbread and a flask of strong herbal tea—of which she immediately grimaced.
“Really?”
“Just drink it. You’ll need your head clear.”
They left the house just after sunrise, with Solas soaring lazily above and the streets of Thoborn still sleepy. As they walked through the dewy paths and ancient streets, Uriel glanced sideways at Raguel.
“So where are we going?” Uriel asked, getting herself ready for wherever Raguel wanted to take her for the Spring festival in Thoborn.
"You'll see." Raguel replied. The journey to the center of Thoborn felt far longer than it was. The snow hung thick in the air, a steady, almost oppressive fall, as if the mountains themselves were holding their breath. The trees stood silent, their branches twisted, bare, and black, as if cursed. The land here was ancient, untouched by time, but not untouched by blood.
Uriel’s cloak trailed behind her as she moved beside Raguel, the wind sharp against her skin. Solas flew above them, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings with a nervous energy. Uriel couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching them from the shadows of the trees, something more ancient than either of them cared to confront.
“Why this place?” Uriel finally broke the silence, her voice breaking through the wind’s constant whisper. “Why not go back to the palace or—”
“Because it’s where the first angelic blood pact began,” Raguel cut her off, not slowing his pace. “The blood oath was sealed here, long ago. The temple in the center of Thoborn holds the power of the first pact—those who swore bonds not by choice, but by fate. It’s the only place that can show you what you’ve truly tied yourself to.”
Uriel didn’t respond. The knot in her stomach tightened with each step as they neared the ruins of the old temple. The columns were broken and jagged, the walls crumbling with age. Yet, even now, the ancient magic still hummed beneath the surface. There was a pulse to the stone, a rhythm that seemed to beat in time with her own heart.
They crossed the threshold of the temple, and the air inside felt thick, heavy with an energy that made Uriel’s skin prickle. The walls were lined with intricate carvings—symbols of angels, blood, and storms. Runes that glowed faintly in the dim light, casting eerie red reflections on the crumbling floor.
Raguel stopped near the altar at the center of the room, and Uriel hesitated, glancing around at the strange, sacred space. The place had a somber weight to it, as if time itself was afraid to pass here.
“This is where the first blood oaths were made,” Raguel explained, his voice low and somber. “This is where the very essence of power was traded and bound between angels and other beings.”
“But why?” Uriel asked, her gaze following the patterns on the walls. “Why blood? Why not a promise or a vow?”
“Because blood is the most honest bond,” Raguel said. “It doesn’t lie. Blood knows. It remembers. It doesn’t need words—it just is.”
Uriel frowned, uneasy with the cryptic response. “So, the pact between me and Gabriel—this is a ritual that’s been done before?”
“Yes,” Raguel replied. “But not in your time. Not like this. This is the ancient blood pact, the one that binds two beings irrevocably. You think it’s just some petty promise you made. You think it’s just a simple oath. But it’s more than that. The blood is tied to the soul. The bond, once forged, cannot be broken unless one of you dies.”
Uriel’s heart skipped a beat. “So, you’re saying... if I break my oath with her...”
“You can break the oath,” Raguel interrupted, his tone darkening. “But the bond? The bond between you two cannot be undone. You’ll always be connected to her. Even if you despise her. Even if you loathe her with all your being, that thread of connection will always exist. The blood will keep you tied together.”
Uriel’s hand instinctively went to the phial in her pocket—the phial containing their blood. Her fingers brushed against the cool glass, a subtle warmth from the blood inside radiating against her skin. The vial seemed to pulse with life, as if it knew something she didn’t.
“Then, what do I do?” she whispered, her voice soft but desperate. “If there’s no way to break the bond, then what was the point of all of this? The oath... The blood pact?”
Raguel stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder, his eyes hard and intense. “You can break the oath. You can rebel against your word, but you’ll suffer the consequences. The blood will loathe you. You’ll never be free from it.”
Uriel stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. “So, the blood... It will curse me if I go against it?”
“Precisely,” Raguel said. “If you try to break the oath, if you fight against the bond, then your blood will become a curse. You’ll feel it, every time you draw breath. It’s the price of rebellion.”
“Then... what should I do?” Uriel’s voice was barely a whisper now. She felt lost, trapped in a maze of her own making.
Raguel’s gaze softened, though his words remained serious. “You’re tied to Gabriel, Uriel. Whether you like it or not, you share a connection now that cannot be undone. But that doesn’t mean you have to like her. You don’t have to forgive her. What you choose to do with that bond is up to you. But you can’t fight it without consequences. Not without suffering.”
Uriel glanced down at the phial again. The blood inside shimmered, golden veins snaking through the red liquid like a living thing. She could almost feel Gabriel’s presence, distant but there. The blood remembered her—just as it remembered Uriel.
“This is my choice, then?” Uriel asked, her voice shaky.
“No,” Raguel replied. “The choice was made when you swore the oath. But how you handle it—that is your choice. You can fight her. You can embrace the bond. But either way, you will always be connected.”
The silence in the temple grew heavy. Uriel turned her gaze toward the altar, the red markings on the stone seeming to shimmer with hidden meaning. Her heart beat louder in her chest, each thrum resonating with the blood in the vial she held.
The connection was real. And there was no going back.
The warm air of the Thobornian day hit Uriel’s face as she stepped out of the temple beside Raguel, the ancient doors groaning closed behind them. The incense still clung faintly to her hair and dress, but the sunlight made everything feel less heavy. She blinked at the brightness, adjusting to the chatter and foot traffic of the lively stone paths.
Raguel smiled faintly, glancing at her. “Still thinking about the blood pact?”
Uriel sighed. “I’m trying not to.”
He nudged her shoulder. “Well then, I’ve got just the cure.” He pulled a small coin pouch from his belt and waved it like a reward. “Let’s go get you a sugar rush so vicious it’ll knock that philosophical dread right out of your head.”
Uriel laughed—genuinely. “Lead the way, oh wise one.”
They darted into the marketplace, a chaotic festival of colors and scents. Flags fluttered between high wooden poles, children chased after paper phoenix kites, and every corner of the air smelled of grilled meats, fried spices, and honeyed fruits.
Raguel, as always, let her drag him toward whatever caught her eye. First, it was the candied plums—sticky and bright red. Then, she grabbed a twisted pastry dusted with sugar and filled with orange custard. He raised an eyebrow when she bought five. “For later,” she claimed. They disappeared within minutes.
By the time she found the cotton candy stall, she was humming under her breath, eyes almost sparkling from the sugar pulsing through her veins. The spun sugar was so big it covered half her face when she bit into it.
“You’re going to explode,” Raguel muttered.
“I will ascend,” Uriel replied around a mouthful.
They didn’t realize they were walking into one of the busiest parts of the square until Uriel bumped hard into someone and nearly dropped her entire stick of cotton candy.
“Watch where you—” she began, but stopped when she looked up.
The boy she’d slammed into was tall—almost as tall as Raguel—with a thick fur-lined cloak and a golden chain across his chest that shimmered with the House Dravon crest, a lion. He had short red hair, bangs combed back sophisticatedly and pale yellow eyes that widened as soon as he realized who she was.
“I—!” He stepped back instinctively, hands raised. “I’m sorry, my lady—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t looking—” his two wings shivered softly as he looked at the girl infront of him, shyly backing away.
Uriel blinked. “Are you…?” she trailed off, narrowing her eyes.
He gulped. “Rhyan. Rhyan Dravon. My father is—”
“Rhogar Dravon. The Lord of Thoborn,” Raguel finished beside her, suddenly tense.
Uriel tilted her head. “And you’re his son.”
Rhyan nodded quickly. “You’re—Metatron’s daughter.” He said it with a strange mix of awe and dread.
Uriel cocked an eyebrow. “And you’re acting like I just summoned you for execution.”
Rhyan looked mortified. “No! No, I just—I mean— I-i'm sorry.”
She grinned, biting into her cotton candy again. “Relax, Rhyan Dravon. I’m not that scary.” Her eyes twinkled. “The prophecy hmm? Gee what a life ruiner. I don't burn people.”
To both her and Raguel’s surprise, that made Rhyan chuckle nervously. “Noted.”
They ended up walking together toward the lantern rite plaza, the night settling over Thoborn with a bloom of stars above. Uriel finished the last of her snacks, her fingers still sticky with syrup and sugar, while Raguel bought lantern paper.
Rhyan stood nearby, looking a little lost.
“Never done this before?” Uriel asked, noticing him fiddling awkwardly with the unlit lantern in his hands.
He shook his head. “No. I always watched from the ramparts. My father doesn’t like me attending public rites.”
Uriel took his lantern and gently lit the base with a snap of magical flame from her fingertip. “Well. Then I suppose this’ll be your first real one.”
She handed it back. “Hold it steady.”
Together, the three of them released their lanterns into the sky, watching them join the thousands floating upward like stars born from the earth. The light shimmered against their faces, and for the briefest of moments, Uriel glanced sideways at Rhyan who was looking up at the lanterns with a cute smile.
The warm glow of thousands of lanterns filled the night sky, and for a moment, Rhyan felt something he hadn’t in years—peace. The air smelled of fire lilies and cinnamon, and Uriel's laugh, light and unguarded, echoed softly near his shoulder as she nudged Raguel about some joke. Rhyan didn’t even realize he was smiling.
He looked up, watching his lantern drift higher and higher until it blurred into the heavens. “So that’s what it feels like,” he murmured. “To let go.”
But the moment fractured.
Boots.
Dozens of them. Sharp, in rhythm, heavy against the stones of the festival plaza.
He turned instantly.
A procession of soldiers marched in from the southern quarter, pushing through the crowd. Their armor shimmered under the moonlight, but it wasn’t Thobornian steel.
It was gold-lined, smooth, and engraved with concentric sun discs.
Ophirian.
Rhyan froze, then stepped in front of Uriel and Raguel on instinct, his hand immediately going to the small blade hidden beneath his cloak. His jaw clenched. “You two,” he said quietly but firmly. “We have to leave. Now.”
Uriel blinked. “What? Why?”
He didn’t look back, only subtly guiding them toward the alley behind the lantern stalls. “Ophire and Thoborn… we’re not on speaking terms anymore. My father proposed a trial against Amun Caelora just last week. The Council of Ithrial hasn’t even ruled on it yet, and Amun—he’s furious. He wants war. He’s not waiting for judgment.”
Raguel frowned. “Why would he show up here now, during a rite?”
“Because,” Rhyan whispered, “he wants to make a statement. Probably.”
Just then, the crowd let out a sound—not a scream, not yet, but a gasp that echoed across the stone.
Rhyan’s heart sank as he peered past the archway. The Ophirian guards parted like a tide, and at their center walked a man draped in robes of night black and sapphire blue, eyes glowing faintly under a hood laced with gold thread.
Amun Caelora.
Even from a distance, Rhyan could feel the pressure of his mana in the air. The scent of burned parchment and cold ash.
Amun didn’t speak. He simply walked forward until he stood before the towering Great Cathedral of Thoborn—an ancestral landmark, its stone etched by generations of Dravon kings and blessed by Ithrial’s high priests.
Then, he raised a single hand.
Blue fire flickered to life in his palm—slow at first, like a snake unwinding.
Then it surged.
A great arc of sapphire flame erupted from his fingers, lashing through the night air with a sound like a roaring dragon. It struck the base of the cathedral with such force the earth shuddered. Pillars of white stone cracked, stained glass shattered outward in a rain of fire-tinted shards, and within seconds, the cathedral began to collapse, swallowed by the magic.
The crowd erupted into screams.
Uriel’s eyes were wide in horror. “That was…”
“An act of war,” Rhyan said bitterly, gripping the hilt of his obsidian warhammer. “He just buried our sacred halls beneath fire and ruin. Without Ithrial’s leave.” He turned to them both, urgency overtaking his gentle nature. “You have to go. You shouldn’t be seen here.”
Uriel hesitated. “But you—”
“I’m the son of the man Amun’s challenging. I’ll find my way out... Eventually..” His voice cracked slightly, but he straightened. “You both are Metatron’s spares. If he sees you, this won’t just be a warning shot. He’ll paint it as a declaration.”
Raguel pulled Uriel behind the alleyway, his grip firm. Rhyan gave her one last look. “You saved my first lantern. Now I’m saving your last.”
The scream of blue flame devouring sacred stone echoed across the plaza like a funeral bell. Firelight bathed the park in an eerie azure glow, reflecting off panicked faces and festival streamers now dancing in chaos.
Uriel clutched Raguel’s arm, eyes locked on the crumbling cathedral in the distance as they walked with the crows away from the plaza, her breath caught somewhere between disbelief and dread. She and Raguel couldn't really fly away as the plaza was guarded by a protective glass dome.
People were screaming, running into one another, trampling stalls and lanterns, some reaching for weapons. A few Thobornian guards, their uniforms gray and iron-bound, unsheathed blades and began to approach the Ophirian front.
“No!” Rhyan shouted, louder than anyone and had heard him all night. “Stand down!”
The guards paused, confused.
“I said stand down!” he commanded again, running between them and the Ophirians, arms spread wide. His voice cracked with urgency, but his stance held firm. “Do not engage. We will not give them the excuse they want.”
He turned back to the civilians. “Everyone, move to the west garden! Guards—escort them! Prioritize the elders and children! This is not a battlefield!”
The Thobornian soldiers, reluctant but trusting him, hesitated before lowering their weapons. The people, too shaken to argue, began to move with them—slowly at first, but soon in a stream, ushered out of the plaza.
Uriel looked at him from behind a collapsed stall. “He’s… stopping the fight.”
Raguel nodded grimly, tugging her hand. “He knows this was bait. Amun wants a reaction. If Thoborn strikes first, it gives Ophire every right to retaliate.”
Uriel looked back once more as Rhyan guided a crying boy through the smoke, holding his shoulders gently and shielding him from the stampede. His eyes were hard with resolve, but his touch never lost its softness.
She swallowed the lump in her throat.
“He’s different,” she whispered.
“He’s what a future lord should be,” Raguel replied.
They darted between the crowd, unnoticed, slipping into the shadows while Rhyan kept the Ophirians at bay—not with violence, but with defiance that refused to be twisted into war.
The smoke hadn't yet cleared from the cathedral’s remains when a sudden, unnatural silence spread through the Thobornian streets.
It wasn’t caused by fear, nor the magic still lingering in the air—but by the arrival of a singular presence.
A pale woman in robes of red and violet, shining hair pale as snow, stepped through the crowds like an exiled goddess returned. Evangeline Astyrax’s red cloak with the golden Astyrax sigil stitching billowed behind her, untouched by the soot or panic that smeared the faces of fleeing civilians. She moved past the guards and terrified children alike, eyes only for one thing: the one who dared to set Eden’s heart ablaze.
The Ophirian soldiers moved aside without command, chilled not by her appearance—but by her name. For even among the enemy, her shadow was long.
Amun Caelora stood at the ruined gate of the cathedral, hands clasped behind his back, blue fire crackling faintly at his fingertips. The wind stirred the edges of his cloak, marked by the sigil of Caelora—a serpent inside of a broken mirror.
He turned as if he’d been expecting her.
“Evangeline,” he said smoothly. “The queen who never was.”
She came to a halt a few feet from him, gaze as cold as the winds of Vireon. “Amun.”
He looked her over, something unreadable glinting in his eye. “You’ve aged with… dignity.”
“And you’ve aged without restraint,” she snapped. “What in Ithrial’s name is the meaning of this?”
Amun only tilted his head, almost amused.
“A lesson. For Thoborn. For the court of Caelestis. For the Astyrax children who think the world will keep bowing just because they inherited it.”
Evangeline stepped closer.
“There are children here,” she said, voice suddenly low, sharp as broken glass. “Mothers. Elders. Merchants and smiths. You think they’re your enemies now too?”
“Too late for that,” Amun said coolly. “Your nephew’s little speech in the high council made certain of it. You all condemned me before I even spoke.”
Evangeline’s fists clenched at her sides. “I condemned you when you burned my father’s memory and tried to rewrite Eden’s truth in your own image.”
Amun’s smile flickered—but not with humor. “Ah, but you know the truth, don’t you? The real truth. About your family's past."
Her expression didn’t falter.
“Don’t test me, Caelora.”
He stepped forward, blue flame licking around his boots but never touching her. “You’re too late to stop me, Evangeline. I’ve already started the fire. All you can do now is choose where the ashes fall.”
For a moment, the square was utterly silent. Even the wind dared not stir.
Then Evangeline spoke, voice quiet but commanding.
“Leave Thoborn. Or next time, I won’t ask.”
Amun’s expression didn’t change—but his flames receded, curling back into his skin like vipers retreating beneath a stone.
“Enjoy what’s left of your highland peace, Astyrax,” he said. “It will not last the winter.”
Evangeline stepped forward, the ruined stones of the cathedral crackling beneath her boots. Her voice dropped, low and furious.
“They’re children, Amun.”
He turned halfway, his ever changing colors of eyes flicking toward her—unblinking, untouched, once yellow was now red.
“And?”
The single word landed like frost on bare skin.
Her jaw tightened. “You call this justice? You burned a sanctuary. You brought soldiers into a park. For what? To make a statement?”
Amun didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
Behind him, one of the Ophirian guards moved—too quickly, too confidently—and stepped toward her, hand reaching for her wrist.
In a blink, Evangeline turned and struck, her fist cracking into the soldier’s cheek with a sickening snap of bone. Another moved to grab her—she ducked, twisted, and drove her knee up into his ribs. As he folded, gasping, she drew her bow in a single fluid motion, arrow nocked and aimed not at their throats—but at their pride.
“I am Evangeline Astyrax,” she declared. “Princess of Caelestis. Head of the High Council. Sister of your King. Queen Emerita. Mother of the three angelic triads. You dare lay a hand on me?" She snapped.
She stepped forward again, bow still drawn. “You think you can walk into Thoborn and desecrate its heart? Harm its people in broad daylight? This is not justice. This is war. And let me make it perfectly clear—Eden’s court will not pardon you.”
The wind howled through the broken cathedral, lifting ash and torn banners into the air.
Amun’s lip curled ever so slightly. “The court is fractured, Evangeline. And your king is a ghost behind marble walls. You speak of war—yet you do not see the war already begun. Your brother made a mistake of making me master of coin." He replied. "This is payback for Thobornian rebels burning the Ophirian great glass sept."
She didn’t lower her bow. "Don't fucking lie to me. The flames that consumed the Ophirian sept were caused by an accidental fire and lit the Ophirian powder stored beneath the sept." She replied.
And then, with a gesture, Amun turned away. “Stand down,” he ordered his guards, voice flat. “She’ll get her message through her own blood soon enough.”
Evangeline watched as the Ophirian troops withdrew, boots echoing on the marble, leaving only ruin behind.
Only when the last helm vanished through the haze did she lower her bow, breath steady despite the tremor in her limbs. Not of fear—but of rage barely restrained.
She turned, cloak sweeping behind her, and made her way through the smoke and shattered stone to find Raguel and Uriel—still hidden in the crowd, eyes wide with everything they had just witnessed.
Without a word, she reached for their hands.
“Come,” she said. “We’re going home.”
The wooden door slammed shut behind them. Silence lingered in the small cottage—until the shrill voice of the television shattered it.
“OPHIRIAN SOLDIERS CAUSE DESTRUCTION OF THOBORN’S CATHEDRAL. Former Queen Regent Evangeline Astyrax along with the Son and Daughter of King Metatron Astyrax Caught in the Crowd.”
The footage played again—flames licking the bones of the cathedral, screaming civilians, and, unmistakably, a flash of silver hair and violet eyes in the smoke: Evangeline, talking to Amun Caelora just before she draws her bow to the men.
Asenath stood rigid before the screen, arms crossed, her face carved from stone. “Well?” she said coldly, turning to them. “What in the hell were you thinking?”
“We didn’t do it,” Raguel said at once. “We were just there—trapped like everyone else. We tried to help—Uriel—”
“I know you didn’t do it,” Asenath cut in, eyes blazing. “But the world doesn’t care. Look at that headline. You’re in it, with the enemy's name in bold. They’re going to spin this into a war crime tied to the royal family.”
“The people of Thoborn were ambushed in the day of their celebrations, love.” Evangeline said tightly, her hands still trembling from the mana she'd spent. “It wasn’t just Ophirian soldiers. There was something else there—something cloaked. I felt its magic. This was orchestrated.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that your faces are now everywhere,” Asenath growled. “And I don’t have the strength to keep fighting assassins in my own kitchen. Fucking hell, now the people know the spare heirs of the king is here in Thoborn, they'll send people here. You better fucking fix this—the three of you. I am not running again.”
Uriel clutched her cloak closer.
“You won’t, love.” Evangeline said, stepping forward. Her voice was calm now—measured, deliberate. “We’re not going anywhere.”
Asenath blinked. “You’ve gone fucking mad. Gods, you're still too young for Astyrax madness to come for your arse, Eva.”
“No,” Evangeline said. “I’m going to enchant the house.” She lifted her hand, fingers already glowing with runes of concealment. “A protective barrier. No one sees us. No one finds us. Not by sight, not by spell, not even by scent.”
Asenath’s brows furrowed. “You’d need layered sigils. Ethereal folding. Triple-lock reinforcement.”
“I have it covered,” Evangeline said. “It will be hidden from the eyes of anyone, and impenetrable to magic not cast from this bloodline.”
She turned to Uriel. “We’ll be safe here. You can train. Rest. Grow stronger.” Uriel nodded. Raguel placed a hand on her shoulder.
Asenath sighed, rubbing her temples. “Fine. But if this house turns into a siege fortress, I want the west cellar reinforced. And no fire sigils near my herb storage.”
Evangeline stood at the center of the cottage, the floor beneath her bare feet etched with chalk runes in the shape of the royal sunburst of Caelestis. The fireplace flickered unnaturally, casting long shadows as wind swirled outside, howling like the cry of forgotten gods. Raguel closed the shutters. Uriel stood beside Fenris, her hand buried in the direwolf's thick fur. Solas, her phoenix, perched on the rafter above, plumage glowing like a cinder about to ignite.
Asenath watched silently, arms folded, but the tension in her jaw betrayed a rare flicker of unease.
Evangeline raised both hands, palms aglow with ancient sigils that pulsed with forbidden light. Her voice, when it came, was low and melodic—less a chant and more a river of words, each syllable older than the kingdom itself.
“By the blood of stars and the root of flame,
Let veil be drawn and truth reclaimed.
Let hearth and harvest, beast and bone,
Be seen by blood—and blood alone."
The wind surged around the house, carrying ash and frost—and then everything went still. Evangeline’s eyes glowed violet as she whispered the sacred names into the enchantment,
"To Asenath of House Vaelen, keeper of the green flame.
To Evangeline of House Astyrax, the queen no longer crowned.
To Raguel of House Astyrax, vanquisher of lies.
To Uriel of House Astyrax, the unburnt and bond of dawn.
To Fenris, direwolf born of the Southern ash.
To Solas, bird of the Skagos, fire-borne from the cradle of flame.”
As each name was spoken, a rune flared and vanished into the floor. The final names had been spoken, and the runes etched in firelight pulsed like the heartbeats of stars. Silence settled again over the highland cottage. But Evangeline remained standing, her eyes distant, unfocused.
She raised her right hand, and with her left drew a circle over her palm with her fingertip. A thin line of light traced her skin, glowing gold, then red, then violet. A spell of Astyrax.
She lifted her hand to the air—and a soft hiss, sharp and ancient, poured from her lips like steam from a cracked world. It was not meant for mortal ears.
“Ssuven thaé vorrh'kai—
Jor'gon selemn voreth sil'kai.
Thuviel ara kan, sken ravann shai.
Vey n'alor vaethin.”
The words coiled like serpents in the air, twisting around her wrist, drawn by fire and blood. This was High Edenian—true speech—what the old texts called the tongue of silver and bone, reserved for monarchs and monsters.
A white flame erupted from her palm—no heat, no smoke, just cold-burning truth. It hovered, crackling with violet threads of mana, and then split into four streaks of light. Each streak struck the corners of the house—north, south, east, and west.
With a sound like a bell tolling underwater, the world shuttered.
The orchard vanished.
The house disappeared.
The animals’ pens, the garden paths, the footprints in the dirt—all wiped from the sight of other angels and monster alike.
Evangeline lowered her hand, the fire gone, her face pale and drawn. “It is done, we don't have to run. It's enchanted with old Astyrax incantations, the twin spell to the one that raised Caelestis in the air."
Notes:
Arghhh Rhyan Dravon is such a gentleman in this fic by doing the bare minimum. Also ackkk, Evangeline finally calling Asenath by a lover's name is so arghhh, they're so cute, hope nothing bad happens (😉), oh and also Gaburi's pact is about never laying a hand that intends to harm eachother and the consequence if they break the pact is that they'll loath eachother's blood instead. The enemies to lovers is actually enemies who'll desperately try to kill eachother while waiting who'll break the vow first. Ahhh I love Gaburi so much it's hurting me to only know there's not even 50 fics of them but a lot in this fandom prefer Joongdok—I love the potential Gaburi offers so much.
Chapter 15: Die Hard, Die Loyal, Northern Throne (6)
Summary:
Uriel goes back to Asenath to beg her for the invisibility cloak once more. She spies on Gabriel again to see how horrific the Northerners really were and now she figured out why Northern people don't starve during winter, but it's a win win situation where they lessen demons and solve their hunger problem (😭) Uriel gets the hell out of there but Solas played a joke on her and teleports her to a new estate that she's unfamiliar with, a poor almost tearing apart ancestral home with fox sigils. She meets Jophiel Talisa here and finds out that the house Talisa has oathed themselves to her family, gaining Jophiel's protection and friendship. But then Thoborn is once again in trouble because of a demon raid. But Uriel with some others find out Amun Caelora made a deal with a demon king. Uriel finds out that Michael was actually in touch with Amun Caelora and everything goes spiral from there. Little does the merciful and naive young Uriel know that Michael (and temporarily Gabriel) will be the reason why her life will go downhill.
Notes:
This chapter is a pain in the ass to write considering I will have to think of the plot of the characters I mad up now and I get confused because of similar names. Anyways Jophiel is finally introduced after Uriel's clumsiness, which by then they talk shit about all the other houses, lmao I bet they gossiped before and during Velheim games. Anyways, I wanna yap yap about them so bad and nothing's stopping me, Amun Caelora you bastard I want you to leave them alone but if you didn't exist no one would be behind everything. Yeah anyways, Enjoy my long ass chapter, though I warn you there are talks of cannibalism and uncomfortable views about women here so please read with caution. Anyways, Michael screentime and I think I made him way too soft here but it's novel accurate Michael who's in his facade of fakeness. It hurts me to think Evangeline cared for Michael so much like he was her own son. I must imagine how bad she must feel when she knows Raguel dies by Michael (idk if she will ever live that long enough to see).
If Michael was Evangeline's son, he would have lived differently and probably did grow up with good mana.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Nightfall in the Highlands always brought a sacred kind of stillness. The wind had gone to sleep, and the pines swayed only slightly, whispering secrets in the dark. The hearth in Asenath's cottage flickered gently, casting golden shadows across the stone walls.
Uriel crept through the corridor, her bare feet making no sound on the cold wood floor. She peeked around the archway into the study, where Asenath sat in her usual chair wrapped in midnight blue robes, fingers turning the pages of a weathered book that smelled of age and storm. Her snow-white hair shimmered under the moonlight, and a copper kettle steamed nearby with a faint herbal scent.
Uriel cleared her throat softly.
“No,” Asenath said without looking up.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Uriel replied, trying to sound innocent.
“I know that look, child,” Asenath muttered. “It’s the look you wear when you’re about to do something reckless and believe sunflower seeds and stubbornness will save you.”
Uriel sighed and walked further into the room. “Please. Just once more. I need the cloak.”
Asenath turned a page without a word.
“I need to go back to Snezhnaya,” Uriel added quickly, before Asenath could interrupt. “There are things I need to know, and Gabriel isn’t going to tell me unless I see them myself.”
Asenath finally looked up. Her pale green eyes gleamed like shards of opal in the dark. “You almost got caught last time. You realize if anyone—especially Amun Caelora—knew who you really were, you wouldn’t return at all.”
“I know. But I won’t get caught.”
A long silence stretched between them. The fire popped once, as if punctuating the moment.
“I’ll bring the cloak back before dawn,” Uriel promised. “You have my word.”
Asenath studied her face for a while longer, then closed her book with a sigh. She rose, moved to a locked chest behind her, muttered a charm under her breath, and slowly opened it. Nestled within the folds of black velvet was the cloak of invisibility—stitched with threads of moonlight and woven shadow.
She handed it over wordlessly, her eyes warning more than her mouth ever could.
Uriel grinned. “You’re the best.”
Asenath rolled her eyes and went back to her chair. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Uriel wrapped the cloak carefully over her shoulders and stepped out into the crisp night air. The moon was a bright, pale eye overhead, watching as she was about to do something stupid again, but this time, with her sword sheathed and blood pact in her pockets.
Solas, the ancient phoenix, was curled up near a pile of cracked stone runes. He was a towering mass of embered feathers and molten gold, wings tucked tightly, long tail curled around like an angry cat refusing to be touched. His beak was buried beneath one wing, and his other wing hung over his head like a blanket, shielding him from the world.
Uriel took a cautious step forward.
“Solas,” she whispered.
He didn’t move.
“Solas,” she said again, louder.
The wing twitched.
Uriel shuffled a little closer. “I need a favor.”
Solas slowly peeked one glowing golden eye out from under his wing and made a sharp, offended squawk.
Uriel held up her hands. “Okay, okay, I know I said last time was the last time. But this is—seriously—the last time.”
Solas slowly stood, massive talons clicking against the frosted earth. He puffed up, wings flaring dramatically, and crossed both of them like arms across his fiery chest.
His feathers crackled softly, and he gave a long, withering caw.
Uriel blinked. “Don’t give me that attitude, feather brain.”
He hopped once in protest and turned his back on her with an exaggerated shake of his tail feathers.
Uriel smirked. “Fine. Guess I’ll eat all the sunflower seeds myself.”
Solas stopped.
She slowly pulled out a small linen pouch. The scent of honey-roasted sunflower seeds filled the cold air.
He turned slightly.
“These are the rosemary ones,” Uriel added, wiggling the pouch. “Limited stash. Imported.”
Solas turned fully now, tail flicking with interest.
“And,” she said slowly, “you get to sleep in my bed for a whole month. I won’t kick you off, I swear.”
Solas squawked once more—deep and grumbly—then strutted toward her with the slow arrogance of an emperor who had allowed his underling to live another day.
He extended one claw. She placed the pouch in it reverently.
Satisfied, Solas spread his mighty wings, the sky lighting with embers around him.
Uriel grinned and pulled her cloak tighter around herself. “Snezhnaya, please.”
With a beat of fire-forged wings, Solas lifted into the air—and the world around her vanished in a burst of golden flame and snowlight.
The firelight dissipated in a blink, and Uriel stumbled slightly as her boots landed against ancient frostbitten stone. The eastern corridor of Snezhnaya Castle stretched out before her like a frozen spine—arched ceilings, grim sconces glowing with ghostly blue flame, and the distant hum of cold wind brushing through unseen cracks. The moment she regained balance, Solas gave a judgmental squawk and vanished into the shadows above the rafters, wings flaring silently.
Uriel adjusted the cloak of invisibility over her shoulders, pulling the hood tight. Her breath fogged in the air as she crept forward, boots soft against the icy marble floor. She hadn't gone far before she heard voices.
Descending from the dark stone staircase of the Agonizing Chambers were three figures—graceful and cloaked in authority. Their words were hushed, but she caught fragments as they walked down the hall.
There they were.
The three siblings she’d only seen from afar last time: Theon, Lucan, and Selene.
Theon, tall and broad-shouldered, stood with arms crossed, his cloak half-draped across his sword belt, posture that of a commander. Lucan leaned lazily against the banner of Aurelius, twirling a silver ring around his finger, smiling half-formed as if he didn’t take anything seriously. Selene, stood by the hearth, traced a pattern into the frost-laced table with one gloved finger—her vivid blue eyes glowing like glacier fire, hunting for something.
Uriel squinted. The resemblance was uncanny.
Gabriel’s kin. No doubt.
“…She’s progressing,” Theon said. “Better than we expected. That charm she cast to silence the demon scribe’s screams? Advanced wandless spells mastered in pure control. I’d say she’s nearly ready.”
“You mean obsessively ready,” Lucan scoffed, flipping his hair. “She’s practically living in the Agonizing Chambers. When was the last time she slept in an actual bed?”
Selene didn’t look up. “You know how she works. Control over the battlefield starts with fear. She’s mastering that.”
“And her victim list is indeed growing.” Theon added. “Mostly demons, but the way she interrogated that elite scribe—flawless. No mana waste, no evidence left. Clean extraction.”
Lucan smirked. “And she’s still got the prettiest face in the North after Selene. That helps.” he joked. The ever growing Lucan still had his charisma and charm.
Selene shot him a look. “Velheim doesn’t care for faces, Lucan.” batting her eyes, she looked around as if sensing prey.
“No,” he admitted, “but charm spells and illusions are better cast when your enemy stares a little longer.”
They all chuckled. It wasn’t cruel—just... Northern. Hard. Cold and practical, like steel forged in blizzard.
Uriel’s grip on the wall tightened.
She wanted to believe Gabriel had a soft side—she had seen flickers of it. But this? This was her family speaking of her as if she were already a weapon. A sharpened blade, ready to be unsheathed.
The stone steps spiraled downward, cold and narrow, as Uriel descended deeper into the belly of Snezhnaya Castle. Her fingers brushed against the slick walls, damp with condensation and lined with dust. She had wrapped the invisibility cloak tighter around herself, her breath shallow, eyes wide. The silence here was not peaceful—it pulsed, breathed, and warned.
The corridor at the bottom stretched into a heavy blackness, flickering dimly with torchlight. Uriel’s feet brushed against parchment scraps and broken chains. Then, a hum—a quiet melody, almost childlike—reached her ears. It was coming from behind the thick, iron-rimmed door slightly ajar at the end.
Uriel slipped through.
The Agonizing Chambers were nothing like she imagined—they were worse.
Charts of demon anatomy lined the walls, sketched in black ink and stained with rust-colored splatters. Male and female diagrams were nailed alongside diagrams of wings, claws, and limb-joint rotations. Surgical tables gleamed under mage-light, and power tools hummed softly nearby, their mana reserves glowing blue.
At the center of it all stood Gabriel.
Clad in her apron, her white hair tied back neatly, she stood over a trembling demon scribe—half-flayed, strapped down by iron runes, his wings severed and his horns cracked. The stench was unbearable: scorched flesh, old blood, and dark mana seeping like smoke from his wounds.
Gabriel hummed to herself as she traced her scalpel down the demon’s thigh, following etched anatomical lines on his skin with eerie precision. She worked not with rage, but with grace. This was a ritual. A lesson. A craft.
The demon gurgled a plea in a forgotten tongue. Gabriel only tilted her head, lips curved in fascination, then held up a chart beside her.
“Now,” she murmured, tapping the drawing with her scalpel. “Shall we go for the kidneys? Or maybe the spine?” She smiled, not cruelly—but with genuine curiosity.
She turned and picked up a gleaming injector filled with a viscous black serum—the same kind Uriel had never seen before. She jabbed it gently into the demon’s neck. “This one helps you stay conscious while your pain receptors remain... active,” she whispered.
Gabriel turned back to her task. Her movements were elegant—she flayed flesh along muscle grain, scraped cleanly along the spine, separating meat from bone with practiced, surgical strokes. "Mmm," she mused, inspecting the tissue. "Good marbling. Northern breeds always yield the best cuts."
Gabriel leaned over the trembling demon scribe, scalpel glinting under the cold mage-lights. Her voice, sweet and lilting, barely masked the menace beneath.
“You scribes always taste a bit more... refined, is it because you only sit on a chair barely doing anything make your flesh softer?” she mused, tilting her head as she examined his bleeding, trembling body. Her fingers drummed thoughtfully on the blood-slicked chart beside her—each line detailing which cuts to harvest, which nerves to avoid for maximum preservation.
Then she crouched, eye-level with him, her hair brushing against her shoulder, lips curving in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“So tell me,” she said softly, as though they were discussing something mundane. “What would you prefer to be turned into?”
The demon’s eyes rolled back in terror, saliva foaming from his mouth from the serum, earning a disgusted scoff from Gabriel.
Gabriel’s smile widened. “Mollo soup? Or perhaps roast meat with herb glaze? A hot pot, simmering with bone marrow and northern spices?” She trailed the scalpel teasingly along his ribcage.
He whimpered, his cracked mouth unable to form words. “No? Not a soup kind of demon?” she pouted. “What about borscht? With fresh beetroot and seared liver? The crimson would match your mana so beautifully.”
The demon screamed then—raw and panicked—but she only chuckled, her laugh light and almost musical.
“Not very helpful, are you? That’s fine,” she said, straightening with a sigh and flicking the blood from her blade. “I’ll choose for you.”
She turned to the charts again, pointing at various cuts with surgical delight.
“We’ll keep the liver for searing, take the belly for stroganoff… back meat for slow grilling. Oh! And the lungs—those will go well in a stew if I soak them in brine.”
Uriel, still hidden by the invisibility cloak in the corner, could barely breathe. Her knuckles whitened as she clutched the stone wall, bile rising in her throat. This wasn’t just torture—it was butchery turned into an art. A ritual. A game.
Uriel emerged from the Agonizing Chambers in silence, the iron door closing behind her with a groan that echoed down the corridor like a warning. Her boots clicked softly against the stone floor as she made her way through the frost-bitten halls of Snezhnaya. The torchlight flickered, casting long shadows that danced like ghosts behind her.
She didn’t stop walking until she reached the highest tower of the castle—a lonely spire lost to time and snow. The air was thin up here, and the cold gnawed at her fingers through her gloves. The wind howled as if trying to claw its way in.
Without hesitation, Uriel slipped her fingers beneath her cloak and pulled out a single phoenix feather she plucked from Solas—warm, red-gold, pulsing faintly with ancient fire.
She plucked it from where she had tucked it into her coat lining, just over her heart.
Her jaw clenched. Please… anywhere but here.
With a firm hand, she crushed the feather.
The air twisted. Flames curled into the tower like living silk. From the embers stepped Solas — winged, massive, and silent. His fire didn’t burn her — it enveloped her like a second heartbeat. He looked at her only once, his eyes glowing with something unreadable.
Uriel reached for him.
The world vanished in firelight.
When the flames cleared, Uriel found herself landing on something soft.
Grass?
She groaned and sat up, brushing dirt and ash from her knees. Around her were rose-colored bricks, crumbling statues, and a garden left to grow wild—thickets of herbs and trees tall enough to hold memories.
The estate beyond was quiet. Old, regal in a faded way, parts of it moss-covered and gently falling apart. A worn sigil hung above the ivy-covered walls: a fox crowned in flowers.
"Die hard, Die loyal." was lettered in gold below the banner.
Talisa, Uriel realized with a dull thud in her chest.
She cursed under her breath and narrowed her eyes up at the cracked estate. “Damn it, Solas…”
Then she stilled.
She could feel it—eyes watching her.
From the branches of a nearby tree, a figure shifted.
A girl with red hair and six pearl white wings sat perched between the limbs, dressed in simple white robes. Her eyes were a soft hazel, steady and calm, and on the back of her robes was the sigil Uriel had just seen.
A fox.
The girl tilted her head curiously.
“...You fell from the sky,” she said lightly, almost like an observation, not a question.
Uriel stood slowly, dusting herself off with as much dignity as she could manage. Her heart pounded as she registered the simplicity of the scene: the garden, the tree, the girl. But the sigil screamed louder than anything else.
“You’re a Talisa,” Uriel said, not accusing—just quiet.
The girl blinked, then smiled slightly, hopping down from the tree without a sound. “And you’re not exactly local.”
Uriel hesitated, her gaze lowering to the grass. “I’m… no one,” she muttered.
The girl extended a hand anyway, still smiling.
“I’m Jophiel,” she said. “And this is my family’s very old, half-crumbling estate. You’re welcome to stay, sky-girl.”
Uriel looked at the hand.
Then at the sigil on her robe.
House Talisa. Die brave. Die loyal.
“Uriel,” she said. “Just Uriel.”
"Are you parentless? No offense though, sky-girl." Jophiel asked curiously, her hazel eyes studying Uriel's green ones. "You look like a Western descent."
"None taken. I guess you could say that. I'm only my father's bastard so I don't have a last name." Uriel replied. "My mother died at the siege on scorching skagos."
Uriel followed Jophiel past shelves of ancient books, old maps pinned to wooden beams, and the warm scent of citrus tea lingering in the halls.
Jophiel explained, “Our father—the head of the house—is at the southern borders of Thoborn, talking to the border council. He left my siblings charge until he returns.”
A young boy with unruly red curls darted out from a corridor, wielding a wooden sword. “Intruder?!”
“No, Rickon,” Jophiel sighed. “Put that down.”
Rickon blinked at Uriel. “She has weird eyes.”
“She’s a guest,” Jophiel said. “Behave.”
From upstairs came a soft, commanding voice. “Jo? Who’s here?” a girl, older than Jophiel asked, she had red wavy hair and wore a thin chemise. Her wings were definitely heavier than Jophiel’s.
“Angelica,” Jophiel said warmly. “This is—uh—Uriel.”
Angelica paused. Her hazel eyes narrowed.
Uriel felt the weight of recognition in that gaze. Angelica descended the last step slowly, stopping in front of her.
“You’re princess Astyrax,” she said quietly. “I recognize your face.”
Jophiel’s expression shifted to awe. “Wait—what?”
Uriel shrugged. “Yeah. I guess.”
Angelica gave a short bow. “My apologies, Princess. We didn’t recognize you sooner.”
“Don’t,” Uriel said, fidgeting. “Don’t call me that. I’m just... me.”
Angelica stepped back and nodded respectfully. “Fair enough.”
"You literally told me you're a bastard of your father's blood." Jophiel nudged, brows furrying and still confused.
"Am I wrong? Obviously I'm not illegitimate." Uriel spoke before trying to hold in a laugh at Jophiel's stern face and confusion.
The dining hall of the Talisa estate was warm and worn, lit by candlelight and a hearth fire. The long wooden table was set simply—roasted vegetables, Thobornian rootbread, and herb stew filled the room with a homely scent.
Uriel sat awkwardly between Jophiel and Rickon, Jophiel's younger brother unsure whether to speak or just chew. Angelica sat across from her, still occasionally stealing glances as if trying to reconcile her childhood memories of royal courts with the quiet girl who had tumbled into their garden.
Then—
The heavy iron door creaked open.
Boots stomped across the hall floor, and in strode a tall figure clad in iron-plated armor, still marked with dust and scratches. A deep crimson kingsguard cape hung from his shoulders, the fox sigil glowing subtly on the chest plate.
His hair was a bit darker than Jophiel's, but shared more pigment than Jophiel's. His jaw was square, and his hazel eyes immediately swept the room with a soldier’s instinct.
Cassian Talisa.
The eldest. The sword of House Talisa. A known name in every war camp from Ophire to Eloen.
"Jo," he said with a small nod, unfastening the clasp of his armor as he stepped in.
“You’re back early,” Jophiel beamed.
Cassian’s eyes fell on Uriel.
He stilled.
The air grew heavier.
“She’s an Astyrax,” Angelica said quietly, standing halfway out of respect.
Uriel shifted, unsure what to do.
Cassian studied her. “The third one? Or is it another of Metatron's offsprings that I don't know of?”
“Uriel,” she muttered.
He lowered his helmet gently onto the table, stepping closer.
“Ah, I see,” he said. “The one they call the ghost daughter.”
Uriel flinched slightly at that name, but said nothing.
Cassian exhaled, then gave her a short nod—deep, and meaningful. Not the kind given to nobles, but to warriors. "The one who lived. The blonde basta-"
Jophiel interjected quickly, “She landed here by accident. I offered her a place to rest. It didn’t seem right to turn her away.”
Cassian looked at his younger sister. “You did well.”
Then, to Uriel: “You’re safe in this house. As long as I draw breath.”
Uriel blinked at him. No one had ever said that to her before.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He smiled faintly, setting his sword against the wall and joining them at the table.
As dinner resumed, the tension softened. Jophiel nudged Uriel playfully, whispering, “He’s scary, but he makes the best fire tea.”
Cassian didn’t look up. “I heard that.”
The night air in Thoborn was cool, scented faintly with pine and smoke. Moonlight bathed the Talisa estate in silver, casting shadows through its stone arches and quiet gardens. Most of the house had gone to sleep—but Uriel couldn’t.
She wandered through the quiet corridors, looking for Jophiel. There was something heavy in her chest she didn’t know how to name. She followed instinct, and found herself walking barefoot toward the back of the estate, where a small stone gate opened into an overgrown yard.
The Talisa graveyard.
The space was small, ringed with ancient willow trees. Simple stone markers stood in the earth, many of them weather-worn. But one in the center was newer—its edges sharp, its engraving clear. A single candle flickered at its base.
Jophiel knelt in front of it, silent. Her red hair was loose, flowing over her shoulders. She wore a shawl over her nightclothes, and her wings were folded tightly against her back.
Uriel stepped closer.
Jophiel didn’t turn. “You couldn’t sleep either?”
Uriel shook her head. “No.”
She looked at the gravestone.
Naevern Talisa
Beloved sister, brave heart.
Fell with honor in the Skirmish of Blackvale.
A small fox symbol had been etched below the words.
Uriel’s voice was gentle. “She was your sister?”
Jophiel nodded, eyes still on the flame. “Our eldest. We used to call her the Flamekeeper, because she was the firstborn—and the loudest. She was the one who made sure we all stayed together after Mother died and Father was sent south.”
Uriel sat beside her on the grass, folding her knees.
“How did she die?” she asked.
Jophiel’s lips trembled just slightly, but she spoke.
“She died saving the prince.” Her voice was quiet. “Michael. The demons broke through the line in Blackvale and one of them threw a javelin toward his back. She saw it coming, and she… she stepped in.”
Uriel was silent.
“I don’t know if he even remembers her name,” Jophiel said bitterly. “But we do. Rickon still lights a candle every year.”
“She must’ve been brave,” Uriel murmured.
“She was stupid,” Jophiel whispered. “But that’s what we do, right? ‘Die hard. Die loyal.’ That’s the Talisa way.”
"Does your family always have to die? Is it seriously necessary?" She asked but Jophiel no longer replied.
The candle at Jennifer’s grave flickered one last time before it died in the breeze. The night fell quieter still, the trees whispering overhead like ghosts.
Uriel rested her chin on her knees, arms wrapped around them, still sitting in the grass. She looked sideways at Jophiel, her voice hushed.
“Jophiel… what is House Talisa, really?”
Jophiel blinked, surprised by the question. Then, after a pause, she exhaled and tilted her head toward the sky.
“We’re not like the great Houses. No grand palaces, no vast armies. We’re not Aurelius or Caelora or Vhalor.” She plucked a blade of grass and twisted it in her fingers. “But a thousand years ago, my ancestor knelt before yours. But we knelt genuinely. No fakeness.”
Uriel looked at her.
Jophiel continued, “the first recorded Talisa, he swore an oath before the throne of Eden, to the first crowned Astyrax. He said House Talisa would be the shield to the flame. That no matter the bloodshed, no matter the cost, we would protect your line.”
Uriel looked back down at the grave markers. “And you still keep that oath?”
Jophiel nodded. “Every single generation. My sister died for it. My brother wears the Kingsguard colors because of it. My father fights in the South still bound to it. If we didn't, we'd be called traitors and be framed as oath breakers and treason to the crown.”
A silence fell between them again. Then, Jophiel added, softer. “We’re the forgotten sword-arm of the crown. We don't get the glory, but we bleed just the same.”
Uriel didn’t answer immediately. She stared forward at the cold ground.
Jophiel leaned back, arms resting on her knees, face turned toward the dark skies. “We were once farmers, you know. Until the first flame crowned Eden.”
Uriel raised an eyebrow.
“My great ancestors pledged loyalty to the Astyrax king when no other family dared to. Swore we would be the blade behind the throne, the armor for the crown. For a thousand years, we’ve kept that oath. We protect your house—your family—even when the world forgets we exist.”
Uriel stared forward, silent.
“But,” Jophiel added, more bitterly now, “there is a cost. One no one speaks of.”
Uriel looked at her. “What cost?”
Jophiel hesitated. Then, quietly, she said:
“Your women. The consorts. The daughters. The queens.”
Uriel froze.
“They die,” Jophiel continued. “Not by war. Not by plague. They fall. From towers. From balconies. They drown in still water. They vanish into forests and leave nothing but silk behind.”
Uriel’s face went pale.
“We stood watch as your mothers broke. Your sisters wept. We buried royal women in secret graves the historians will never name.”
She looked at Uriel now, her tone unflinching. “And every time it happens, they whisper the same thing in court.”
“What?”
“That House Talisa failed again.”
Uriel’s chest tightened.
“We were your guards. Your shadows. We were supposed to be there before they jumped. But they never tell us when it hurts too much. Never scream loud enough.”
Uriel looked down, ashamed.
“I didn’t know…” she murmured.
Jophiel sighed, rubbing her thumb across the hilt of her dagger. “It’s not your fault. None of this is. But it’s the truth.”
Uriel’s voice cracked slightly. “Did they all want to die?”
Jophiel turned to her, and her answer was honest.
After that, Uriel followed Jophiel to the Talisa common room where she slept at the couch, wrapped in Talisa sigil etched blankets. So she started counting sheeps, mentally still cussing out Solas.
After the night, the morning sun had already touched the walls of the Talisa estate when the clatter of steel echoed through the halls. Uriel stirred awake in the unfamiliar common room, heart already uneasy.
She rushed out barefoot, robes still half-laced, and nearly bumped into Jophiel in the corridor. Jophiel looked pale, hair undone, eyes wide with confusion.
They followed the noise to the front hall—where Cassian Talisa, eldest of the Talisa siblings, was already donning his iron armor. The golden trim on his kingsguard cape shimmered faintly under the dim estate light.
He moved fast, buckling plates, tightening leather straps, strapping his longsword across his back.
“Cassian!” Jophiel called, stepping toward him.
He didn’t answer.
“Brother, what’s going on?”
Still no reply. He only reached for his helm, face grim as the grave.
Behind them, quiet footsteps approached—Angelica Talisa, eldest sister, tall and composed even in her morning gown. Her usual softness was replaced by the weight of bad news. In her hand, folded and smudged with ink, was a newspaper.
She extended it silently to Jophiel.
Jophiel unfolded the paper. Uriel leaned in beside her to read the headline:
DEMON LEGIONS BREACH SOUTHERN BORDER — THOBORN STRUCK IN THE NIGHT
Beneath it, a grainy magical photograph showed pillars of smoke and the broken banners of Thoborn soldiers, blood soaking the frost-covered soil. At the bottom, the words: "Casualties still uncounted. Southern stronghold compromised. Assistance requested from central command."
Jophiel’s hands trembled.
Cassian’s voice finally cut through the silence—low, controlled, and heavy with finality."Be safe, you three. Go down to the basement and hide."
“Cassian—” Angelica started.
He looked back just once.
“I’ll send a raven if I survive.”
Then he kissed Angelica’s forehead, then Jophiel’s. “Stay together.”
Uriel stepped back as the door swung open and the cold wind poured in. Cassian stepped into the light, his silhouette framed like a soldier walking into legend.
And then he was gone.
Jophiel stood frozen with the paper still in her hands, mouth slightly open, the words too slow to come.
Uriel, for once, had nothing to say either.
Only the distant sounds of marching and wind, and the whisper of a world unraveling.
..........
The candlelight in the Talisa estate flickered violently.
A rush of wind burst through the halls, and the flames in the hearth roared with ethereal light. Evangeline Astyrax stepped through the smoke—her violet eyes fierce beneath her red hood, her long hair swept by an invisible current of magic.
Uriel turned, half-expecting a ghost. "Aunt Eva?"
Evangeline didn’t waste time. “The borders have fallen. The King commands your return to Caelestis—immediately. Both you and your brother.”
Jophiel stiffened at the door. Cassian rose from the corner, armor half-strapped on. Rickon peeked down from the staircase, eyes wide. The house, suddenly, felt too small for the panic settling in.
Uriel stood firm. “I’m not leaving them!"
Eva blinked.
“They protected me when no one else did,” Uriel said, her voice unshaking. “House Talisa has stood for House Astyrax for generations. If we run, they run with us.”
There was silence, save the crackling hearth.
Evangeline studied the young princess—her kin, her niece—and for the first time in years, there was something like pride softening the lines in her face. “...You sound like your mother.”
She extended her hand toward the fireplace. Magic shimmered at her fingertips like snow catching starlight. With a single whisper in the Old Tongue, she flung the sparks into the fire.
A warm, humming pull surged through the air. The fire warped into a twisting portal of violet light.
The palace of Caelestis towered like a dream—silver spires piercing the clouds, and ancient wards glowing faintly under the rising sun. Yet its beauty felt cold, its corridors hollow.
Uriel stepped through the glimmering portal with her heart pounding in her chest. Evangeline stood beside her, her violet robes flowing as she motioned for the Talisa siblings to follow the attending guards. Angelica, ever composed, led Jophiel and Rickon toward the guest wing.
Uriel didn’t move. Her breath caught.
Standing ahead in the marble foyer—battered, breathless, and bloodstained—was Raguel Astyrax.
“Uriel…?” his voice cracked.
She broke into a run.
He dropped his sword and caught her in his arms just as she slammed into him. For a heartbeat, all the war and politics, all the curses and prophecies, faded. He hugged her close, forehead resting against hers.
Asenath stood by, not daring to show her face to the people, where Evangeline lightly brushed her hand in hers as a way to comfort her beloved as Asenath watched the two with unreadable eyes. “Come. There’s someone you must see.”
The towering doors to the royal balcony creaked open under Evangeline’s magic. The wind was sharper here, laced with mountain frost and the scent of cloud pine.
Uriel and Raguel stepped forward beside her.
And at the far edge of the balcony, framed by the pale sky, stood Prince Michael Astyrax—draped in a heavy cloak of steel-threaded velvet, his holy sword slung across his back, glinting like morning fire. His golden hair was windblown, yet regal. His hands were gloved. His boots, blood-soaked.
He turned at their approach.
Eyes—purple like Evangeline’s—met theirs.
The silence bit deep.
Michael’s gaze lingered on Uriel first. Cold. Measuring. Then shifted to Raguel—his lips twitching upward into something half-brotherly, half-mocking. A glint of amusement—or disdain.
Without a word, he stepped aside from the railing and opened the gilded doors to the war council hall.
Then, like a ghost with a crown waiting to fall, he vanished into the palace, leaving only the sound of armored footsteps and the lingering scent of sword oil and sacred fire. A true Astyrax.
The throne room of Caelestis felt colder than usual.
Torchlight licked at the stone pillars, but could not chase the chill that settled once Metatron Astyrax descended the steps of his iron throne.
He stopped in front of his children — half-blooded, unchosen, inconvenient. His violet gaze scanned Raguel, then Uriel. Silent. Calculating.
“I’m placing both of you under containment,” he said at last.
Uriel blinked. “Containment?”
“You will remain within the palace walls. No excursions. No gates. No warfronts.”
Raguel stiffened. “We just came from a battlefield—”
“Exactly,” Metatron cut in. “And that will be the last.”
He turned his back to them, stepping toward the fire-lit mural of Eden carved into the wall. “You are an Astyrax. That name, if nothing else, must be preserved.”
Uriel stepped forward, voice sharp. “We're not glass. We’re not as fragile as you think.”
Metatron’s lips barely moved. “You were raised like feral beasts in the Highlands. I will not have the remnants of royal blood raised by witches marching into wars they don’t understand.”
Raguel’s voice cracked like thunder. “Asenath is not a witch—”
“Then what is she?” Metatron turned around sharply. “A failed knight? A disgraced flamekeeper who ran from court and took my children with her?”
Raguel's jaw clenched. “She raised us better than you ever could.”
The words echoed.
Evangeline, standing beside the throne, stiffened. Her eyes flicked toward Raguel, sharp and unblinking, like a blade drawn without sound. The room grew heavier.
The air in the throne room was suffocating.
“I should’ve had you drowned with you in the cradle,” Metatron growled, his voice like cracking thunder.
Raguel didn’t flinch. “Then maybe you should’ve done it yourself, coward.”
A beat.
Then—
“You speak like your mother,” Metatron hissed. “That heretic. That witch.”
That word dropped like venom.
And then—
“Enough!”
Evangeline’s voice exploded through the hall. Her heels struck hard against marble as she stepped between the king and his son, her lavender eyes glowing with rage.
“You will not speak of her that way,” she snarled. “Not in front of them. Not in my presence.”
Metatron raised his brows, surprised—but not silenced.
“You defend her again?” he said lowly, lips curling. “You’ve never stopped. All these years—still clinging to your old flame?”
He leaned in, his next words cruel.
“Still in love with that witch, Evangeline?”
The room fell silent.
Raguel stood frozen. Uriel stared at her aunt, breath caught.
Evangeline’s jaw twitched.
Then—crack.
Her palm struck his face. Hard.
The sound echoed across the throne room.
Metatron’s head turned with the force of it, stunned into silence.
“You don’t get to talk about her,” Evangeline seethed. “You don’t.”
He slowly turned back to her, fury brewing in his eyes.
“She raised them,” Evangeline snapped, stepping back toward the twins. “She loved them when no one else did. When you abandoned them like ghosts.”
Evangeline’s voice cut through it. “Captain Merek,” she said sharply, gesturing to one of the phoenix sealed purple-cloaked Kingsguard. “Escort the heirs out of the hall. Now.”
The Kingsguard hesitated only a moment, then began to move forward—
“Stop.”
Metatron’s voice was low, but it was iron.
Merek froze mid-step.
“I said stop,” Metatron repeated, eyes locked with the knight’s. “You are not hers to command.”
There was a pause.
“You swore your oath to the crown, not to the woman who warms its shadow.”
Evangeline’s eyes narrowed. “And you forget that the children she’s protecting carry the same blood as yours.” Evangeline said, taking off her pin as the hand of the King and threw it on the ground. "Goodluck finding a new hand, your majesty."
Metatron stood slowly from the Iron Throne, the Astyrax cloak cascading behind him like a purple tide. “He obeys me. As does every sword in this palace.” he said, picking up the pin that Evangeline threw.
Uriel tensed. Raguel stepped subtly in front of her.
Captain Merek looked between them—between the king, the heirs, and the woman who had once led armies under the phoenix banner.
“I serve the realm,” Merek said at last, neutral, controlled.
Metatron’s stare was cold. “Then serve it from your post. And stay your hand.”
The knight backed away, though unease lined every step.
Evangeline exhaled slowly, rage simmering just beneath her skin. She turned sharply on her heel.
"You two. You're coming with me." Evangeline said, climbing down the stairs that lead to the throne.
The fire crackled gently in the hearth, casting shadows across the polished stone and velvet drapes. The walls were lined with grand portraits—silent watchers draped in gold and purple, each bearing the solemn mark of rule: violet eyes and either silver or golden hair.
Uriel stood at the center of the chamber, spinning slowly in place. Her gaze swept from one painting to the next.
All men.
Kings with swords raised in battle. Princes in robes of flame. Highlords with crowns and blood on their hands.
Not a single woman.
Evangeline noticed her silence and stepped beside her, folding her hands neatly.
“Strange, isn’t it?” she said, voice like the cool wind brushing a tombstone. “To stand in a hall of rulers and realize half their blood was never painted.”
Uriel blinked. “Where are they?”
“The women?” Evangeline gave a faint, bitter smile. “Buried. Forgotten. Or erased.”
Uriel’s throat tightened. “Why?”
“They were never seen as rulers,” Evangeline said. “Not truly. Even when they shaped policy, won battles, birthed heirs—they were called ‘consorts’ or ‘caretakers.’ Never ‘sovereign.’”
She gestured up toward the wall behind the largest throne-like seat.
“All save for me.”
There, centered above the mantel, hung a painting in newer oil: Evangeline Astyrax, robed in white and lavender, a quill in one hand and a staff in the other. Her amethyst eyes glowed with something unreadable—grace, perhaps, or warning.
“I commissioned it myself,” she said. “The court was scandalized. But I reminded them I’ve ruled longer than most kings lived.”
Uriel looked at her—a flicker of admiration catching in her chest.
Evangeline turned and pointed to the oldest painting. “That is Altheon the Radiant. Burned his own brother at the gates of Thalos. They called it justice. I call it a message.”
Next was King Damaris, the tyrant of storms. Then Eryndor the Hollow, who outlawed marriage after losing his bride to madness. One by one, the stories spilled like dust off cobwebbed tomes.
All men. All rulers. All violet-eyed, flame-kissed.
Uriel stepped back, unsettled.
“So where are the queens?” she asked.
Evangeline’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Dead. Most of them by their own hands.”
Uriel looked at her, startled.
“They were raised to serve, not reign,” Evangeline went on. “To sacrifice, to bear heirs, to watch their sons rise while they faded. Some couldn’t bear it.”
The words clung to the room like smoke.
Uriel murmured, “I didn’t know…”
“Of course not,” Evangeline said softly. “No one talks of the suicides. No one speaks of the ones who walked into the sea, or leapt from towers, or drank the same poison their husbands gave them. House Astyrax raises kings. It buries its queens in silence.”
Raguel had been quiet this whole time, but now he pulled out a small notebook from his coat and began to jot something down.
Evangeline looked at him curiously.
He spoke without looking up. “History only remembers what it’s allowed to write.”
He turned a page and tapped the edge. “But Michael isn’t written in these halls yet.”
Uriel’s gaze sharpened. “He should be.”
Raguel nodded grimly. “He will be.”
Evangeline turned away from the fire, walking toward the window where the snow-stained rooftops of Caelestis stretched below them.
“When his story is told,” she said quietly, “I only pray it doesn’t end like theirs.”
Uriel glanced up at the violet-eyed kings watching them from gilded frames.
And for the first time, she understood—
This family’s legacy wasn’t just stained in blood.
It was designed to forget those who bled quietly.
The siblings wandered deeper into the vast, echoing chamber, their footsteps hushed by thick velvet rugs of imperial black and crimson. Dark purple tapestries, embroidered with silver phoenixes and spiraling fire motifs, hung like quiet judges along the walls. The flickering candlelight gave the room the feeling of being halfway between a chapel and a crypt.
Uriel trailed her fingers across an obsidian pillar, her gaze drifting upward.
There—etched in gold above the domed ceiling, surrounded by arching painted flames—was the Astyrax family motto:
"Of fire and blood."
She stared at it for a long time. The words felt heavy now. Not just a saying—but a sentence.
"Fitting," Raguel muttered beside her, arms crossed. "Though I wonder which came first—the flame, or the bodies it burned to keep the fire alive."
Uriel didn’t answer. Her eyes had fallen onto one painting in particular.
The most recent.
At the far end of the room, looming above a black marble fireplace, hung the official portrait of King Metatron Astyrax.
Unlike the ancient kings depicted in holy or violent scenes, Metatron’s portrait was hauntingly still—a solitary throne, the king seated in full regalia. He wore robes of midnight violet, embroidered with threads of burning gold. A phoenix sigil rested behind his head like a halo. His long white hair framed a face sculpted with cold detachment. His violet eyes were sharp, almost inhuman, like he was still watching the room even now.
In the quiet hush of the Astyrax common room, where the firelight danced against dark stone and portraits of long-dead kings stared with purple eyes, Uriel finally broke the silence.
Her voice was soft, almost afraid of the answer:
"Aunt Eva... what exactly is Michael?"
Evangeline’s gaze lingered on the hearth, flickering with restrained emotion.
She didn't speak at first.
She simply closed her eyes.
And then, a soft hum of angelic resonance filled the room. Golden light pooled from beneath her feet. Symbols of memory—threaded in old celestial script—gathered in the air like drifting embers.
And in that solace, Evangeline closed her eyes.
A dim birthing room. Heavy curtains. Candles burning low. A young Evangeline—her white hair unbound—stood at the door, breath shallow.
Beyond her, the birthing bed was already soaked in blood.
The queen—Metatron's wife—lay limp, her skin cold, her eyes open but unseeing.
In her arms was a newborn boy, blood-soaked and trembling.
He was silent. Not even crying.
His tiny hands clutched his mother’s hair, his wings twitching weakly—six of them visible, gray at the edges.
Then, just once—just once—he let out a soft whimper, so quiet it was barely a cry.
Evangeline stepped forward.
Her voice trembled. "Where is Metatron?" She asked one of the midwives. To only realize Metatron was out in the North.
No one blessed him.
No light filled the room.
Just Evangeline, dropping to her knees, wrapping the prince in her arms before the blood cooled completely. She mourns her nephew, wishing she could be his mother instead and bless him with her light.
The memory shifted.
Michael—still small, perhaps three or four—ran down the golden halls of Caelestis, laughing. His six wings shimmered in the sunlight. He chased butterflies, followed Evangeline’s voice, clung to her skirts when scared.
She raised him like her own.
Taught him how to speak, how to pray, how to glow with grace.
But every now and then—
A crack.
When he was alone, he would sit still in corners. Silent. Unblinking. As if listening to things no one else could hear.
Evangeline’s voice echoed as she narrated the memory to Uriel and Raguel.
"He was born without the King’s blessing. The moment Metatron arrived, it was already too late. The soul had been shaped. I tried… I gave him light. Grace. Purpose. I made him laugh. I raised him like my son. But…” she said to Uriel and Raguel.
The clang of swords rang in the distance, but here, in the eastern courtyard, the air was still — sun filtering through carved arcades and casting dappled shadows across the pale stone.
........
Uriel decided to explore the corridors and stepped lightly, drawn by the low murmur of conversation and the familiar silhouette of Jophiel Talisa, who stood beside a tall boy in half-armor, his gauntlets slung over his belt and soot still streaking his fingers.
He looked their age—maybe sixteen or seventeen —with sharp features, long black hair curling downwards and a smith’s burn mark curling up one wrist. The crest on his cloak was a faint silver crescent over a raven: House Noctis of the North.
“Jo?”
Jophiel looked up, blinking—and smiled. “Uriel. You found us.”
Uriel stepped closer. “You know him?”
Jophiel grinned, glancing at the boy. “We worked near each other. I help out at the Eastforge smitheries whenever I can. He used to come in and buy leftover ores, or barter swords from the older smiths.”
The boy gave a polite bow. “Davos Noctis, bastard of Carrick Noctis. And, uh… part-time pest to your friend here.”
Jophiel snorted. “More like full-time pain.”
Uriel’s lips tugged in a smile, but her eyes were already watching Davos carefully.
He had a serious air beneath the boyish grin — the kind born from bad news.
“So…” Jophiel tilted her head. “What were you saying about the North?”
Davos sobered. “There are whispers. Movements near the Blizzard Barrows. Villages found hollowed out. We sent ravens, but no reply.”
“The council hasn’t responded?” Uriel asked.
“They waved it off. Said it was ‘common border tension.’” His jaw clenched. “Even though Lady Gabriel Aurelius reported strange howls beneath the snow. Her direwolf pups have been restless.”
At the sound of Gabriel’s name, Jophiel turned toward Uriel.
And caught the faintest flicker.
A tightening of her mouth. Her fingers curling inward.
Just for a second.
Jophiel raised an eyebrow. “You know her?”
Uriel’s voice was steady, but soft. “We’ve met.”
Davos didn’t catch the tension and kept going. “The council keeps ignoring the North. They act like Gabriel’s just a child with too much pride, but she’s the only one sending accurate reports. She even—”
He stopped when he noticed the air shift. Uriel had looked away, her violet eyes distant now.
Jophiel didn’t press, but she noted the reaction. Quietly.
She looked back at Davos. “You think it’s connected to what happened in Thoborn?”
Davos nodded. “The pattern’s too perfect. Southern demons rise, Northern borders stir, and no central command responds.”
Uriel whispered, “Then someone wants the chaos.”
They all fell silent.
Around them, the sound of training echoed again —blades clashing, shields slamming—and it felt like the kingdom was holding its breath.
Uriel trailed just behind Jophiel and Davos as they passed a row of empty armor stands, sunlight barely slipping through the tall slit windows. They were nearing the upper quarters of Caelestis, where the stone turned darker and the air held the bite of altitude.
Davos glanced back over his shoulder. “The North’s getting colder by the hour,” he muttered. “Not just the wind. Frostwalkers are growing restless again. First time they’ve been sighted this close to the third wall since the Era of Agony.”
Uriel stiffened. “Gabriel’s family is in charge of the North. Why hasn’t the council done anything?”
“They have,” Davos replied bitterly. “Sent letters. Words. Whispers. But not one soldier. Not one shield. House Aurelius is stretched thin, trying to mend a wall that’s older than the mountains.”
He paused, eyes dark. “And while they fight to hold the line, House Barron sharpens their blades.”
Jophiel frowned. “Barron? They’ve always resented Aurelius’ dominance in the North. I thought they were just mountain lords.”
“Not anymore,” Davos said. “They’ve allied with two merchant clans from the Ironmark. Buying steel. Paying off experienced knights. There’s talk in the council that House Barron might soon contest the Lordship of the North—and the Aurelians can’t afford to split their focus right now because if house Aurelius falls, the whole North and possibly Eden will be infected frostwalkers."
Uriel’s jaw tensed. “That’s ridiculous. Gabriel’s family saved the North in the last demon siege. They’re not traitors.”
Jophiel turned to her, eyebrows raised. “You speak like you know them.”
Uriel hesitated. Her mind returned to the memory she’d buried—the blackened mark that had curled on Gabriel’s arm. The way the fire didn’t seem to fear her.
The silence that lingered too long.
“I… I saw something,” she admitted quietly. “A mark on Gabriel. It looked like a binding. Something infernal.”
The hallway quieted. Even the wind seemed to stop.
Davos blinked. “You mean to say—”
“She’s a demon.. of some sort.” Uriel whispered.
Jophiel stared at her in disbelief. “No. No, that can’t be. Gabriel is—”
“She isn’t what we think,” Uriel interrupted. “I saw it with my own eyes. She didn’t even flinch.”
Davos exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “If that’s true, and the Barrons catch wind of it… they won’t need a rebellion. The council would hand them the North out of fear.”
“And the Aurelius name would fall with it,” Jophiel murmured.
Uriel looked up. The spires were just ahead, sunlight piercing through high windows like the eye of judgment. “Then we need to know more. Before someone makes Gabriel a scapegoat.”
"I'm getting a hint you're getting too obsessed with proving she's a demon." Jophiel replied.
The air grew warmer as they ascended, despite the thinning stone and open-air design of the upper spires. A scent lingered—ash and old myrrh. Uriel’s senses sharpened. Something was wrong here.
Davos motioned for them to stop. Just above, the low echo of footsteps on the marble spiral. A figure in long robes—jet black with embroidered gold—moved ahead, a sword at his hip, a cloak like oil catching the wind.
“Amun Caelora,” Jophiel whispered. “What is he doing here?”
“He’s not supposed to be in the Spire of Solas,” Davos muttered, drawing Jophiel and Uriel closer to the inner alcove. They ducked behind a wall of carved obsidian, just out of view.
Uriel dared a peek.
Amun reached the highest chamber — an open shrine, abandoned by time. There, an ancient brazier still burned… with no wood, no oil. Just flame. Unnatural. Flickering and blue.
Amun stood before it like a priest at altar.
Suddenly—clang!
Uriel had brushed her elbow against a rusted ceremonial censer resting on a pedestal. It toppled and crashed against the floor with a sharp metallic echo.
Amun froze.
He turned.
Golden eyes narrowed. His fingers twitched toward the hilt of his blade.
But there was no one in sight.
“…Ghosts,” he growled lowly. “Of course. Bloody Astyrax specters, always watching.”
He kicked the censer aside with his boot, muttering something in a language Uriel didn’t recognize. The brazier flared in response.
Jophiel’s breath caught. Uriel held her mouth.
Then — it spoke.
Not Amun.
The fire.
A voice, like molten metal sliding down bone.
“The border burns. Thoborn smolders. Our end of the pact is fulfilled, little king.”
Amun bowed his head, but not in reverence — in negotiation.
“And now mine. You’ll get the gate — as promised. A drop of royal blood for an open path. But not yet. Not until the North bows.”
The fire hissed. Laughed. A face flickered in the flame — horned, shifting. “Delay us too long… and we’ll burn you next.”
Amun smiled, dark and cold. “You won’t. You need me. And I always deliver.”
He turned away from the brazier, descending back toward the stairs.
Davos, Jophiel, and Uriel shrunk further into the wall, hearts pounding as the footsteps passed.
When the echo faded, Davos whispered, “What in the saints’ names was that?”
“Amun,” Uriel breathed, “made a pact with the demons… He started the siege at Thoborn.”
Jophiel paled. “Then he’s not after land. He’s after blood. Royal blood.”
Uriel looked up the stairs, toward the dying flame. “…Michael,” she whispered. “He’s walking into a trap.”
Uriel's breath came fast as she reached beneath her tunic and pulled free the folded length of Asenath's invisibility cloak. Moon-woven silk shimmered between her fingers, cool and alive with protective enchantments.
“Go,” she whispered to Jophiel and Davos, eyes burning with purpose. “Go back to the living quarters. Tell no one yet. Not until I’m sure.”
“But—Uriel—” Jophiel started, grabbing her wrist.
Uriel only shook her head. “Please. If he’s going after Michael, I need to see it myself.”
Before they could protest again, she swung the cloak over her shoulders and vanished into air, only a faint glimmer left behind before even that melted away.
Jophiel clenched her jaw, clutching Davos’ arm as the two of them turned and vanished down the shadowed stairs.
---
Uriel moved like a wraith. Silent.
Amun’s boots echoed faintly as he descended from the spire, his cloak trailing like a shadow of its own. He took unfamiliar turns—avoiding the main corridors, passing old war rooms and locked archives. He was checking the walls—his gloved fingers dragging across seams, knocking quietly, as if seeking for something hidden.
Uriel’s heart thundered. She kept pace, steps as light as breath.
Then—he stopped.
Michael’s door loomed ahead, carved in blacksteel and etched with celestial runes. The private quarters of the Crown Prince.
Amun stood before it, gaze sweeping left and right. He reached into his cloak and pulled a small orb — it pulsed with demonic sigils, flickering like embers. He rolled it in his hand once, then whispered in a language that tasted like smoke in Uriel’s ears.
The orb vanished.
Amun pressed his palm against the door.
No knock.
No words.
Just a long silence—
Then the door opened. Slowly. On its own.
He slipped inside.
Uriel clenched her fists, steadied her breath—and stepped in after him.
..............
Michael’s chamber was dim, quiet. The kind of stillness that felt carved from magic. Candles flickered faintly on high shelves. The bed was untouched. Armor hung on the walls like trophies. His sword, a double weilded sword that can be split in two blades rested, unsheathed, across a small shrine of fire lilies.
Amun stood at the center of the room, eyes scanning everything with strange familiarity. Not to harm. To study.
He murmured, almost to himself:
“Too clean. Too calculated. You were always like your mother.”
Uriel inched closer, careful not to touch anything. Not to breathe too hard.
Amun walked toward the sword. He didn’t touch it—but he stared into its blade like it might answer him.
“Did he leave it behind on purpose…?”
He looked up, suddenly still.
"You’re not here, are you, prince?”
And then his gaze swept the room again — this time, sharper. Slower.
“But someone is.”
Uriel froze. Why does someone always sense her presence despite the invisibility cloak.
His eyes narrowed — not quite at her, but through her.
A moment passed like eternity.
“Astyrax ghosts again?” Amun muttered, a bitter smirk on his lips. “You’re all too nosy for your own good.”
Then he reached into his cloak again—and drew out a blade blacker than night, humming with the same corruption she’d seen on Gabriel’s mark. He raised it—
And stabbed it into the floorboards.
The room shuddered. Cracks splintered outward like a spiderweb of corruption, slithering in glowing red veins through the wood.
Uriel gritted her teeth. The cloak sparked slightly at the hem. She backed away, careful not to step in the spreading rot.
Amun stepped back, satisfied.
“Tell your master I fulfilled my part,” he said to the blade. “Now give me hers in return.”
The blade hissed in response, drinking in the light.
Then — he vanished, leaving only the dagger behind, still humming with power.
Uriel was alone.
Or so she thought—
Until a deep voice came from the shadows behind the shrine.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Uriel turned sharply.
Michael was standing there, half-armored, blood on his collar and in his hair from the recent battle. His expression unreadable.
The moment Amun vanished, the black dagger shivered, pulsing red—
Then it rose.
Spinning once in the air, it lurched across the room with terrifying speed—straight toward where Uriel stood, cloaked in shadows.
CLANG—!
Uriel twisted sideways, the blade barely missing her cheek. The hem of her cloak tore, flickering into visibility. The dagger hit the wall behind her and embedded itself deep into the obsidian stone, glowing furiously.
“Damn it!” she hissed, pulling off the rest of the invisibility cloak. No use hiding now.
As the torn cloak fell to the ground, Michael’s head snapped in her direction.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t look shocked.
Didn’t even blink.
He only narrowed his glowing violet eyes.
Uriel stood there, breathless. Still alive. But trembling with fury and disbelief.
"What the hell was that?” she shouted, voice cutting through the quiet like a blade of its own. “That weapon was alive. It listened to him!”
Michael stepped forward, the light from the fire lilies casting an eerie glow on his face. Blood still stained the collar of his white armor.
“Uriel,” he said, calm. Too calm.
Uriel didn’t let him get further.
“What the hell were you doing with Amun Caelora?”
The room seemed to hold its breath.
Michael stared at her. His mouth didn’t move for a moment—but something flickered in his eyes. A memory. A warning. A command, maybe.
“It’s not what you think.”
Uriel’s hands curled into fists. “Oh, really? Because what I saw was you letting that thing crawl into your room and speak to a demon-possessed weapon like it knew you.”
Michael's jaw tensed.
“I didn’t invite him.”
“But you didn’t stop him either,” she snapped. “You knew he’d come.”
He looked away, just for a second.
That was enough.
“You’ve known something was wrong this whole time,” Uriel said, her voice lower now, colder. “And you let it fester. You let it into this castle. What are you, Michael?”
Silence.
The prince raised his gaze, something ancient and burning coiling in his irises. Michael walked past her slowly, toward the embedded dagger.
He gripped its hilt with his bare hand.
It didn’t burn him. It obeyed.
He pulled it from the wall with ease. The glowing veins receded, curling back into the blade.
"Whatever you saw,” he murmured, “keep it quiet.”
“No,” she said. “Not until I know what you’re hiding.”
Michael turned to face her, the dagger now hanging loosely in his grip.
The dagger dimmed. The enchantment faded.
Michael turned away from her, walked back to the arched doorway—and extended a hand.
“Come inside. You should see what he left behind.”
Uriel hesitated only a second before stepping in.
The doors of the prince's chambers closed behind her with a deep clang.
The room had been torn apart by some kind of sorcery—papers scattered, glass cracked, holy relics toppled from their shelves. The once-immaculate war maps of Eden had burn marks across their borders.
With a flick of his fingers, Michael restored it all.
Golden threads of mana floated from his hand like falling stars, mending what was broken. The incense returned to its pot. The relics hovered back to their rightful places. The map of Eden reformed, glowing faintly with marked borders—some pulsing red: Thoborn, the North, even Thalos.
“I didn’t summon Amun,” Michael said, turning to her, voice lower now. “He comes of his own will. He always has. Ever since I was little.”
Uriel stared at the flickering red pulses on the map. “Then why let him speak?”
“Because he’s not just targeting me.”
He stepped forward and pointed to the Northern wall, where a sigil of House Aurelius flickered with cracks.
“The frostwalkers? The demon hordes in Thoborn? The fires in the coastal cities? That wasn’t random.”
“You think Amun started it all?" Uriel asked naively.
Michael gave her a cold look. “I know he did.”
Uriel felt a shiver crawl down her arms.
Michael cleared his throat. "He's targeting the heirs—those with royal blood, blessed or not. The Maelions. Even the Dravons. All being cornered or distracted. But he’s not trying to kill you.” Michael turned back to the map. “He wants the throne. All of Eden. To wipe the Astyrax name from history—and rewrite it in his.”
Uriel stared at him, pulse quickening. “Why now? Why not years ago?”
Michael’s expression hardened. “Because as long as Evangeline and Metatron live, no one can touch us. Not you. Not Raguel. Not even me."
He looked her in the eyes. "We are the heirs. But we are not the power. They are.” he said, talking about the older generations of the Astyrax line.
Uriel’s throat tightened. “So… he’ll try to kill them first.”
Michael nodded once. “And when they fall, we’ll be the next. Now go back to Raguel downstairs, tell him what you know." He said, emotions unreadable but the malice visible in his face somehow.
Uriel ran.
The golden doors of the prince's chambers clicked shut behind her as she fled, feet skidding silently across the polished obsidian floors of Caelestis. She clutched the edges of her cloak tightly around her, heart pounding like war drums.
She had to tell Evangeline. She had to warn Metatron.
Michael was in danger—or so she thought.
But even before her footsteps faded into silence—
A stone panel in the wall shifted.
From the shadowed passage behind the cold wall of the prince's chamber, a figure emerged. His smile was serpent-slick. His cloak was stitched with golden embroidery in the shape of a hissing snake.
Amun Caelora.
He clapped slowly, the echo too loud for the small space.
"You really are your father’s son,” Amun said smoothly, stepping fully into the room. “I never expected you'd become such a good actor, little prince.”
Michael stood motionless, back turned to him.
“She suspects you now,” Amun added. “That girl—Uriel. She has fire in her bones.”
Michael finally turned, gaze calm, arms folded.
"Let her suspect.” Michael didn't make an expression.
“You’re not worried she’ll reach the others?” Amun asked.
Michael’s smile was thin. “It doesn’t matter. None of them will live long enough to stop what’s coming."
Amun grinned wide now, eyes glinting like razors.
"Good. Then we begin where we planned.” He waved his hand and the map on the wall shimmered, centering on the North—the cold fortress of House Aurelius. “Lord Caelus Aurelius dies first. His heirs with him. We let the frostwalkers breach the wall—blame it on failed diplomacy, stretched borders, weakness. The North falls from inside.”
Michael stepped closer, golden hair aglow under flickering candlelight.
“Then we turn to House Dravon. They’ve grown soft in their mountain keeps. They won’t see us coming.”
“And the throne?” Amun asked with mock deference.
Michael walked toward the map. His hand hovered over the heart of Eden—Caelestis, its spires shining bright. “Let Metatron waste his strength watching the wrong sons.” Michael said, pressed his hand flat on the throne’s marker on the map "When it crumbles… the crown will fall to me.”
Amun bowed low, but his grin never faded. "As we agreed. Eden reborn, under fire… and blood.”
Michael's eyes trailed across the map, narrowing at the top edge—where Eden’s bones were buried beneath the endless frost. The North. His gaze lingered over the haunted sigil of House Aurelius.
"The frostwalkers,” he murmured. “Are they truly… sentient? Or just beasts wearing ice?”
Amun’s grin widened, shadows dancing on his scarred face from the low candlelight.
"You sound fascinated, little king.”
Michael’s voice dropped lower, curious. "Is it true, then? Was the Night King… reborn?” Amun tilted his head but said nothing.
For a moment, only the sound of crackling fire from the hearth echoed between them.
Then—"If he was,” Amun whispered, “he would’ve been asleep beneath the blood-ice, waiting for the sigil to burn again. And now?” He began to chuckle—softly, manically. “Let’s just say… some ancient things never die, they only forget."
Michael didn’t flinch. He studied the North like it were an old riddle he was ready to solve.
Then Amun’s smile sharpened as he turned back to the golden-haired prince.
"If we win, my prince… You’ll need a queen.” Amun Caelora smirked while speaking like the snake he was.
Michael's brows furrowed slightly. "A bride?” he asked, tone unreadable.
"Not just any,” Amun purred, circling behind him like a serpent coiling around its prey. “The last wolf of House Aurelius… the little beast who rides direwolves and speaks to snow.”
“Gabriel.”
Michael stilled. "She's unruly, a savage."
“She’s powerful,” Amun corrected. “And once her house is ashes, and her will is broken…” He exhaled slowly. “You’ll take her. And the North will kneel.”
Michael looked back at the Northern edge of the map.
“And of the heirs? The line of succession will be pure, yes. But also a chance that Aurelius ice shall dethrone Astyrax fire.”
Amun’s grin split wider.
“Born of light and shadow. The perfect rulers for a new Eden. One untouched by angels or kings past.”
Michael did not respond.
But his silence was no longer neutral—it was complicit.
And outside, in the shadows of the hallway, the last embers of Uriel’s cloak flared faintly… She was still there. She had heard everything.
“Gabriel Aurelius…” he muttered, almost thoughtfully.
His tone wasn’t mocking, nor amused. It was curious. Wary.
"I know the line. As pure as northern snow. The true frostborne,” he said. “But why her, Amun?”
He turned, narrowing his violet eyes at the older man, who stood a step behind him. “She’s fifteen. The same age as Uriel. Lacking experience. Lacking depth."
His voice had an edge, not of morality—but of strategy.
Amun’s reply came slowly, savored like poison on the tongue.
"Age of fifteen who's never lost a battle. She has the loyalty of the Northerners, savagery of her ancestors, and the blood of Caelus running like ice through her veins.” Amun stepped forward, his voice lowering with fervent conviction.
"She commands legions at an age where most noble girls are learning courtly smiles. She tamed a direwolf. She holds the frostwalkers at bay. The men sing her name in the winds and whisper it before sleep like a prayer—or a warning. Obedient and honest like the pup she is." Amun kept continuing.
Michael turned back to the map, jaw tense.
“You want me to wed a child.”
“By the time we win this war,” Amun replied, brushing the edge of the table with one gloved hand, “she will be of age. And by then, she will be broken, remade, and molded—perfect for a king.”
Michael’s gaze darkened as Amun's words washed over him, but the weight of his thoughts was heavier than the fire crackling in the hearth. He folded his arms across his chest, the cold resolve in his posture as he turned to face the older man.
"No, you don't understand, Amun," Michael said sharply, his voice a low growl, the tension in it undeniable. "House Aurelius loathes House Astyrax. We always have. The past... the bloodlines, the politics—it’s in the veins. The North does not bow to the likes of you. Or her."
Amun’s smile faltered just slightly, the hint of mockery still curling at the edges of his lips.
"Gabriel, the Aurelius heir, wshe will stand next to you as a woman of your breeding, carrying your blood, sitting on the Iron Throne beside you. You think it’s a matter of age or experience? It’s about belonging."
Michael stepped closer to the table, pressing his hand against it with force, his sharp eyes locking with Amun’s.
"A Northerner as queen consort?" His voice was thick with disdain. "They’re savages, Amun. They’ve always been. They do not belong anywhere south of the North. The north is their domain. The one place that’s still sacred."
He glanced back toward the northern map again, his mind racing. His fingers drummed against the table, restless, irritated. He could hear the old chants of his ancestors in his mind, the weight of his lineage pressing on his soul. "She’s a wildling. A child, yes, but still—a wildling. And you expect me to bend myself to that... to rule beside her?"
Amun’s smile deepened, almost an indulgent laugh escaping him.
"And yet, it’s the wildness you crave, isn’t it? The purity of a people who don’t play the games you and I do. Their strength... that’s what you admire most. Just as you admire the frozen wastes she controls—how natural it is for her."
Michael’s jaw clenched. He hated the way Amun spoke—so confident, so unbothered by Michael’s refusal. But beneath that, a sliver of doubt began to crawl at the back of Michael’s mind.
"She’ll never kneel," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper now. "Not to me. Not to anyone in the South."
"Then you’ll break her. As you should."
Notes:
How I wish Michael just had Evangeline as his mother, they would have lived happy of Metatron just shut the fuck up. Anyways, house Astyrax is broken and messed up as hell. 😔😟 The next chapter is all about the North again, but this time where Gabriel's life goes downhill and has absolutely nothing to lose in the velheim's so that'll hopefully boost her hate towards Uriel more. Anyways, have a good day!
Chapter 16: Winter is coming, Northern Throne (7)
Summary:
A lot has happened in this chapter but this is mainly focused on House Aurelius lore, like I mean a lot. Introduction to many own characters here that will play major roles in this story, though they won't show up they will pretty much haunt the narrative.
Notes:
Finally I'm getting to write house Aurelius lore, and one thing I've noticed is that it's always tied to the Astyraxes. Anyways, I probably will update a chapter per month since I've got a lot of workload again 💔 goodbye to my ao3 hyperfixation, anyways, enjoy!!
Chapter Text
——————Dominion of Aurelia, Gabriel———————
The sky was the color of steel, and the winds whispered of old ghosts as four riders made their ascent toward the Northern wall.
Gabriel rode at the front, her cloak billowing behind her like a banner of twilight. Blizzard trotted beside her horse, her thick white coat shimmering against the snow, ears pricked at every sound. The she-wolf had been restless since they left the gates of Snezhnaya, nose to the wind, sniffing something in the cold that Gabriel couldn’t feel — not yet.
“Easy,” Gabriel murmured, reaching down from the saddle to brush her hand against Blizzard’s fur. “We’re almost there.”
Behind her, Theon rode with quiet focus, his direwolf Greyfrost keeping pace beside him — a massive creature with slate-gray fur and piercing pale eyes. Lucan’s steed carried two sacks filled with obsidian gear, and beside his mount trotted Smokewind, black as pitch, nearly vanishing against the snow-shadowed trees. Selene followed, her steed steady, and her silver-furred direwolf, Skye, moved like moonlight on ice.
Pack and kin, all of them.
Their horses bore the weight of crates lashed in thick leather: replacement blades, spear tips, and arrowheads all forged from dragonglass — obsidian mined from the deepest fissures of Mount Dravon of the South and enchanted for use against the undead. Regular steel wouldn’t serve them beyond the Wall. It never had.
As they crested the last rise, Castle Black emerged from the whiteness—an outpost of black stone built into the foot of the second wall itself. The ancient barrier of ice loomed above them, hundreds of feet tall, glittering like a god’s tombstone. It had stood long before Aevon Astyrax ever dreamed of uniting the realms.
The gates groaned open, revealing black-clad sentinels and a courtyard half-buried in snow. Smoke rose from chimneys and braziers, and the air smelled faintly of coal, frost, and sweat.
A tall figure stood waiting at the center — Caelus Aurelius, Lord of Frost, Master of Warfare and Warden of the North.
He wore a bearskin cloak and a hardened look that the cold hadn’t touched. His gray-streaked hair was tied back, his expression unreadable as he watched his daughter dismount of the horse and steady Blizzard.
“You made good time,” he said. “The scouts said the frost walkers were stirring past the Shattered Vale. Only one came back breathing.”
Gabriel met his eyes. “You said it was just one walker.”
Caelus shook his head. “That’s what the south likes to believe.” He motioned to the crates. “Replace everything. Steel is useless up here. One cut from a walker and your blade might as well be wood.”
Lucan and Theon were already unloading gear, handing out obsidian points and new spearheads.
Selene stepped forward, brushing snow from her shoulders. “And what’s the plan if we run into more than one?”
Caelus turned toward the Wall and the howling wind beyond it. “Then you run. You run fast. Well, good luck. I need to prepare the soldiers.” he said, turning back just for him to open his wings and fly away gracefully, leaving behind his stuff on the war horse.
Gabriel narrowed her eyes, resting a hand on Blizzard’s back. The she-wolf growled low.
The gates of Castle Black groaned open, ancient chains rattling as a chorus of wolves padded through the snow. Behind them rode the heirs of the North—cloaked in black and silver, bearing the obsidian edge of war.
Inside the courtyard, the air smelled of smoke, iron, and frostbitten wood. Snow crunched under their boots as the group dismounted. Dozens of soldiers stood at attention in their patched black cloaks, faces weathered by snow and silence.
Then, one of them stepped forward—a weathered man with a gray beard and a long scar down the side of his jaw.
“Lord commander” he said, dropping to one knee as his hand struck his chest in salute. “The Frost Watch welcomes the blood of Caelus.”
Theon stepped forward, steady and unflinching, his dark grey eyes sweeping the garrison. “At ease, brothers.”
A murmur of respect passed through the crowd. These men knew him not just by title, but by the weight of years. Theon Aurelius, firstborn of the North, had trained with them as a boy and bled beside them as a man. He was more than a prince to them—he was Lord Commander of the Frost Watch, and his word held power even here, in the shadows of death.
“We’ve brought dragonglass,” Theon said. “You’ll find replacements for every steel edge. Spear points, swords, daggers. Distribute them tonight. Nobody carries iron at the wall.”
The soldiers moved quickly, retrieving crates that were towed by the war horse and unpacking them near the forge. Flames roared to life, casting glass that turned to obsidian charred weapon when held.
Lucan and Selene exchanged nods and began unstrapping their own weapons. One by one, the cousins handed their blades to the blacksmiths and replaced them with dragonglass-crafted tools—cold, black, and unyielding. The tips shimmered with a faint, eerie sheen in the firelight.
Gabriel lingered beside Blizzard, her gloved fingers resting on the direwolf’s fur. The she-wolf had stopped walking and was now pacing the edge of the courtyard, ears flattened, tail stiff, nose constantly twitching toward the Wall.
“She’s nervous,” Selene said, watching her.
“She knows something’s wrong,” Gabriel murmured. “She hasn’t stopped pacing since we passed the first wall."
As if in response, Blizzard let out a low, tremulous whimper. She backed away from the forge flames and turned to face the towering white mass of the Wall, her teeth bared at the cold wind whispering through its ancient cracks.
Gabriel stared at the Wall too — its sheer, frozen face stretching endlessly upward into a gray sky. It wasn’t just a barrier. It was a warning.
She turned slowly, her eyes catching on the aged cloth framed behind thick glass in the war room—a map etched in silver threads and frost-worn ink. The image depicted the entirety of the North, its concentric rings of ice like ripples frozen in time.
At the center was Castle Snezhnaya, vast and spired, the heart of House Aurelius and the crown jewel of Winterfell’s capital. Roads spiraled outward like veins from its gates, threading through towns and garrisons, frozen rivers and long-dead forests.
Encircling it was the first ring: Wall Aurelius. Seven hundred feet high, carved of eternal ice and warded with ancient runes, it stood as a titan among barriers—raised long before the Dominion Wars by Lord Aurelius the First to guard the last bastion of true civilization.
Beyond that, the second ring: Wall Black. Smaller at five hundred feet but no less formidable. Its patrol outposts dotted the inner rim like watchful eyes, manned by the Frostwatch and led by the Lord Commander himself.
And furthest still, the remnants of the third—Wall Bachorov. Once three hundred feet high, now a broken scar across the outer wilderness. The map showed its gaps in faint red, marked with symbols of ruin and decay. No light beyond it. No cities. No protection. Just the wasteland where the wind howled and the dead walked.
By nightfall, Castle Black had quieted into murmurs and firelight. The temperature plummeted, and with it came the kind of silence that only snow knew — thick, choking, as if the wind itself held its breath.
At the base of the Wall, torches burned in great iron sconces as the final preparations were made.
Theon, clad in black wolf-fur and silver-stitched leather, stood at the gate flanked by his cousins —Lucan, sharpening his dragonglass longsword with rhythmic precision; Selene, checking the seal on a pouch of black powder; and Gabriel, already crouched beside Blizzard, fastening her wolf’s armor and whispering quietly in her ear.
“She doesn’t like it,” Gabriel muttered.
“She doesn’t need to,” Lucan said, sheathing his blade. “She just needs to follow.”
“She always follows,” Gabriel replied coldly, locking eyes with him.
Their bickering was silenced as the ground trembled faintly beneath their boots — the slow grinding of the Frostgate, the massive inner door that led directly into the tunnel beneath the Wall. Forged from blacksteel and old runes, it bore the name Othrys, etched into the frame with angelic sigils long forgotten.
Beyond that stood a second gate — older, bone-white, carved from weirwood and ancient ice, wrapped in chains of blessed iron. It was known as Thrym’s Maw, the final threshold between life and death.
As the Frostgate opened with a rumbling groan, six figures stepped forward from the shadows.
They were tall and gaunt, cloaked in layered black and silver. Their skin glimmered faintly with angelic runes along their necks and collarbones, half-blood angels. Warriors once cast out from the upper dominions for impurity, now bound to serve at the edge of the world.
Their captain bowed to Theon. “We ride with you, Lord Commander.”
“Then ride quiet,” Theon answered. “We find one walker, not a war.”
The air thickened as they passed into the tunnel. Wind howled faintly from the other end, carrying with it a stench none of them dared name — old rot, long frozen.
Gabriel kept close to Selene as their footsteps echoed against ancient stone and frost-bitten steel. The wolves padded beside them, unnervingly silent, as if sensing the sacred nature of the moment.
When they reached Thrym’s Maw, two Night’s Watchmen stood with massive iron cranks, hesitating only a moment before one of the Skyborn Sentinels muttered a binding prayer.
The gate shuddered and opened, its chains hissing like snakes.
And just like that, the wind was alive — rushing in with screams carried on the blizzard’s back.
Beyond the gate lay the true North. “keep your eyes open” Theon said.
The winds howled louder now, shrieking like voices lost in the storm. The trail had disappeared completely. Even the mountain beneath their boots felt uncertain, as if the land itself no longer trusted them.
Gabriel walked at the front, her face half-covered in a scarf of black wool, her breath freezing as it left her lips. She raised a gloved hand slowly, palm open to the air.
A single flake landed against her skin.
It melted.
Red seeped into the creases of her palm — but not red exactly. It was blood, yes, but tinged with a strange, blue phosphorescence, like moonlight captured in water. Another flake fell. And another.
She stared in horror.
“It’s not snow,” she whispered. “It’s blood.”
Selene looked up, eyes wide. “It’s hailing blood.”
Lucan grimaced, “This is a trap.”
Before anyone could speak again, a roar tore through the storm, loud and massive, a sound that shook the snowdrifts around them. Then—
CRASH.
The white burst apart as something huge lunged from the side — a hulking figure with glowing blue eyes and frost-covered fur: an undead bear, jaws frothing with shadow.
It slammed down toward Theon with claws like jagged blades.
He spun just in time, the bear’s paw smashing the earth where he had stood. He grunted and drove his dragonglass blade into its ribs. The blade hissed as it punctured cursed flesh — the bear screeched, black ichor splattering the snow.
But it didn’t fall.
It didn’t even bleed right.
The beast rolled backward into the storm and vanished, swallowed whole by the white.
“Where is it!?” Lucan spun in circles, eyes wild.
Gabriel’s heart pounded. She looked to Blizzard, who was stiff, ears raised, growling low. The other direwolves had formed a circle around them, teeth bared to the dark.
Then they heard them.
Low growls. Deep. Wrong.
Not their wolves.
A chorus of snarls rose around them — the sound of something not quite animal, not quite dead, moving through the snow in a circle.
Gabriel's breath caught. “There’s more of them.”
Selene drew her sword, dagger strapped outwards from her wrists. “They’re herding us.”
Theon’s voice was steady, even as blood dripped from his sleeve. “Brace yourselves. This isn’t a hunt…”
They came from all sides.
Undead wolves, their pelts matted with frost and shadow, burst through the veil of snow with unnatural speed. Their glowing eyes shimmered like moonlit flame, and their snarls carried the chill of the grave.
“Behind us!” Selene shouted, spinning to slash a wolf lunging for Lucan. Her dragonglass dagger sunk deep into its throat, but even as the beast died, two more took its place.
Gabriel thrust her spear forward as the undead bear surged through the storm once more, jaws wide, shrieking. The tip of her dragonglass spear struck its chest — it shrieked and stumbled, but again, it didn’t fall.
“Why won’t you die!” she snarled.
Just then — she heard it. A low growl behind her.
She turned, too slow.
A frost-walker wolf had slipped past the defense ring, leaping directly at her back.
But Blizzard was faster.
With a savage roar, the white direwolf lunged, intercepting the undead mid-air. They collided in a blur of fur and blood. Blizzard tore into the thing’s neck with furious precision, the force of her jaws snapping its spine with a sickening crack. The corpse crumpled beneath her.
“Blizzard!” Gabriel gasped.
The direwolf turned toward her, blood-splattered and snarling, before returning to her side with practiced instinct — never leaving Gabriel again.
“Theon!” Lucan called, dragging his blade from the chest of a fallen beast. “We’re surrounded! We need to fall back!”
“I know!” Theon shouted, dragging a wounded sentinel to his feet. “Grab what we can, we’re not dying here!”
Selene and two Skyborn hacked through the wolves around them, shielding the group’s retreat. Lucan kicked one creature back and severed its limb, tossing the twitching frostbitten leg into a pack.
Gabriel, panting and bleeding from a scrape on her neck up to the cheek, plunged her spear one last time into the wounded bear. This time, it let out a hollow screech and collapsed — not dead, but stunned long enough.
“Go!” Theon roared.
The group surged backward, dragging corpses and limbs, covered in blood and snow, with the wolves at their heels. Blizzard and Skye took the rear, biting and slashing to buy them time for the others to gather the bodies.
Behind them, the storm screamed—and the night itself came alive with howls.
.........
The gates of Castle Black groaned open as the party emerged from the blizzard, bloodied, breathless, and dragging frostbitten remains.
“Open the bastion doors!” Theon barked. “Now!”
The blacksteel-reinforced gates — known as The Maw — swung wider as soldiers of the Frostwatch rushed forward. Lanterns glowed like pale suns in the snow-dark. Skyborn guards, halfblood angels with blades of obsidian and wings dusted with ice, took position with practiced grace.
Gabriel stumbled inside with Blizzard at her heel, soaked in blood — not all of it her own. She looked up just in time to see Commander Aereth Frostwing land from the tower, his silver and porcelain wings folding back behind his fur cloak.
“You weren’t supposed to engage,” he hissed, voice low and razor-sharp.
“We didn’t,” Selene said grimly. “They engaged us.”
As the wounded were brought in and the remains dragged onto a frost-coated slab for examination, a young scout came running across the courtyard, boots slipping on ice.
“Commander! My lords!” he panted. “You need to see this—now.”
Theon stepped forward. “What is it?”
The scout’s face was pale, his nose blue with cold. “We climbed the western lookout. There’s a—”
He stopped, as if saying it aloud made it more real.
“There’s a horde coming. At least a dozen dozen strong. Undead. Not just beasts. Not just frost walkers. People. Northerners. Hundreds. Maybe more.”
Silence.
Then Lucan muttered, “Gods…”
Gabriel felt a chill deeper than snow crawl down her back. She looked to Selene, who stared back grimly.
“These weren’t just strays,” Gabriel whispered. “That wasn’t a hunt. That was a warning.”
Behind them, the corpse of the undead bear twitched — just once.
Theon's voice was low, sharp. “Get the dragonglass ready. Light the wards. Wake the ravens. We’re not keeping this a secret anymore.”
The courtyard of Castle Black was cloaked in black ice and flickering torchlight. Shadows of wings stretched long across the snow as the Frostwatch gathered in silence. The mountains groaned in the distance, not from avalanche, but from something deeper.
A circle had formed.
In its center knelt Ser Kael Morrin, stripped of armor, trembling but not from cold. His once-proud silver wings, ragged and frost-touched, were bound with chain and flame-soaked cords. His wrists bled where the silver bindings dug into his skin, and his veins pulsed black like ink beneath parchment.
Theon Aurelius stood before him, a silent judge beneath the pale firelight, flanked by Gabriel, Lucan, and Selene. The onlookers said nothing. No one dared.
“He turned on Ser Gavrik in the dark of the barracks,” Theon said grimly. “Claimed to see shadows in his flesh. Slaughtered him like a beast.”
“He was not one of us anymore,” Kael spat, teeth stained. “He was already dead—I saw it in his eyes.”
“No,” Selene muttered. “What you saw was in your eyes.”
Theon's gaze never wavered. He turned, and from the forgekeeper he took a heated brand carved like a sunburst—the sigil of the Wall’s justice. He pressed it to Kael’s wings. The smell of burning feathers filled the air. The wings twitched, cracked, and split. A symbol of divine fall.
Kael screamed, not in pain — but something deeper. A spiritual unraveling.
“May the sky never take you again,” Theon said.
Gabriel turned her eyes away. Blizzard growled.
When the screaming stopped, Theon drew his sword—black dragonglass etched with frost-runes. He stepped forward, gripped Kael’s chin with steel-gloved fingers, and slit his throat cleanly. Not a drop of red blood splattered on the snow, instead it was black. It hissed and steamed, as if boiling from within.
Kael’s body crumpled. His limbs curled in like burnt leaves. And all was silent.
Theon turned to the watching soldiers—Skyborn, mortals, halfbloods, outcasts and alike to be pawns in the battle.
“There will be no mercy for those touched by the dark. This wall stands not just against the dead— but the lies that walk like men.”
Theon turned from the frost-bitten window, the distant shrieks of the wind howling like ghosts beyond Wall Black. His jaw was clenched, shoulders squared beneath his dark fur cloak, the sigil of House Aurelius stitched boldly over his chest—an iron wolf crowned by the sun.
Gathered around the long wooden table, a map of the North stretched open and held down by rusted iron weights, were his cousins. Selene stood closest, her long white cloak dusted with snow, Skye at her feet with ears twitching. Lucan leaned over the map, fingers tracing the outer defenses of Castle Black, while Greyfrost lay motionless behind him, eyes watchful. Gabriel stood silently, one hand resting on Blizzard’s head as the direwolf paced with anxious steps, her growls low and constant like distant thunder.
Torches flickered, casting wavering shadows against the walls of the Lord Commander's chamber. The cold seeped even into the stone, but none of them flinched from it. This was the North—they were born of ice and fire, tempered by ancient blood and bound by duty.
"The Wall cannot fall," Lucan said grimly, looking to Theon. "Not here. Not while we still breathe."
Gabriel’s eyes glinted, her wings tucked behind her under her thick coat. “They’re coming fast, and they won’t wait for dawn. We need archers on every ledge. Use fire and obsidian both.”
Selene nodded. “The tunnel gates are our weakest point. Collapse them if it comes to that.”
Theon listened, then finally spoke with the weight of command. “Hold the second gate with the mortals, and bring the Skyborn up to the southern watch. Any soldier touched by dark mana, I want them burned. The traitors among us were a disease—we won’t let it spread again.”
The cold bit deeper than any blade as the four of them moved through the storm, cloaked in black and silver, their forms near-invisible in the swirling white. Even their direwolves—Blizzard, Greyfrost, Skye, and Theon's shadowy beast—were silent as they crept beneath the storm-shrouded veil of night.
The air was thin, howling through the ruined branches of dead trees, frost crackling with every step. Theon's teeth clenched from the chill; even with layers of thick furs, his breath froze at his lips. Beside him, Gabriel moved like a whisper, her spear clutched tightly, eyes narrow beneath her hood.
Then, they saw it.
Just beyond a jagged outcropping of ice, a lone frost walker lurched along the treeline—its gait crooked, limbs stiff, skin stretched thin over blue-glowing veins. It hadn’t noticed them. Not yet.
Theon didn’t hesitate.
He lunged like a wolf, his arms wrapping around the creature's brittle frame, slamming it into the snow. Before it could cry out, his gloved hand clamped over its rotting mouth. Its eyes flared in sudden, unnatural light, but Theon growled low, burying it deeper into the ground.
“Now!” he barked through the storm.
Two men from Castle Black rushed forward, binding the frost walker in blacksteel chains reinforced with runes. It hissed and thrashed, but it was no match for their strength. They began dragging it back toward the wall, the wind deafening.
But then the howling changed.
It was no longer the blizzard. It was the wild.
A guttural, snarling chorus rang out from the mist.
Gabriel’s head snapped up. “Wargs,” she whispered. “Dead ones.”
From the white came shapes—furred and massive. Bears with their eyes frozen solid, wolves with exposed ribcages, stags whose antlers were blackened with rot. The undead beasts of the North had found them.
“Formation!” Selene shouted, sword drawn as Skye snarled.
Lucan stepped beside Theon, blade ready. “We hold them back. Get that corpse to the Wall!”
Snow exploded around them as the first beasts charged. The North had sent its horrors—and the cousins of House Aurelius would meet them in the dark, blades drawn and fangs bared.
The storm shrieked like a beast with a thousand mouths, tearing through the trees and howling across the wastelands of the North. The night had become a storm of white and gray, but beneath it, shadow moved—frost walkers, silent and ceaseless, pouring from the crevices of the snow like a plague reborn.
The heirs of House Aurelius stood outnumbered, cloaked in the heavy furs of the North, but already crusted with frost. Their breath fogged the air in ragged bursts. Every movement was labored. Every second dragged against the weight of the blizzard and the crushing cold. But they stood.
They had tracked a lone frost walker just beyond Wall Black, baited by its broken steps and dragging limbs. Theon had leapt first—catching the creature in a brutal grip, one gloved hand clamping its mouth shut, the other driving a blade of dragonglass beneath its ribs. It spasmed in his arms, but he held it firm. Others from the Watch emerged from the white void to take the wretched thing away in silence.
But the trap had already closed.
The snow around them erupted—figures rising like tombstones torn from their graves. Dozens. A colony of frost walkers. Some still wore the remnants of fur and armor, ancient Northerners long dead. Others crawled on all fours with broken jaws and flayed arms. Behind them, looming from the frost, came the beasts.
Undead animals of the North—silent, massive, and grotesque.
The cousins turned in formation. Lucan took the left flank, blades in both hands, already striking as the first walker lunged. His dragonglass split it cleanly at the neck. Selene had an arrow nocked before the next one reached her, loosing it through a pale skull that burst apart in shards. Skye and Greyfrost tore through the underbrush with bloodied teeth and snarls, darting between the legs of their masters like shadows of war.
Gabriel stood at the center, her spear of etched obsidian spinning in a dance of death. She moved like she'd trained for this her whole life—and she had. The aura of her mana lit the air around her in flickers of pale gold, steam rising from her skin despite the frost.
Blizzard, her direwolf, leapt into a throng of the walkers, slamming one into the ground and biting through its spine, then ducking beneath the claws of another. The snow turned red and black with rot.
And then the ground thundered.
It came like a mountain on four legs—a bear, undead, its body bloated and split down the spine where ice had forced its way through muscle and bone. One eye was gone. Its maw was torn open unnaturally wide, revealing rows of jagged, ice-encrusted teeth. It roared a soundless cry, a rumble that rattled through the storm.
It charged straight for Selene.
She turned just as it loomed above her, massive claws raised, breath steaming with the scent of long-rotted death.
But Theon was faster.
He hurled himself into its side before it could descend on her, his axe buried deep into its shoulder. The bear buckled, snarling without voice, swiping wildly as Theon clung to its back. It thrashed through the snow, crashing into a tree, snapping trunks as it tried to shake him off.
Selene scrambled back, dragging her sword from the chest of another walker, her eyes wide but steady.
Lucan and Gabriel moved in unison. Lucan slashed low, severing a leg at the knee. Gabriel vaulted forward, her spear plunging into the bear’s exposed eye socket, driving dragonglass deep into its skull. The beast reared back, mouth frozen mid-roar, then collapsed like a falling glacier.
It was not over.
The walkers came still—crawling, dragging, rising.
The heirs did not speak. Their breaths were blades in the air. They moved as one—wolf and warrior, shadow and snow. Each walker felled was a memory carved in ice. Each strike, a prayer to the old gods that someone might remember the names of the living.
And amid it all, the storm howled on.
Selene turned, panting, frost crusting her lashes, as the last of the walkers collapsed into the snow behind them. The silence that followed was not peace—it was anticipation. Even the wind paused, as if holding breath.
But then she saw it.
Beyond the fields of the dead, high upon the jagged ridge of the mountain face, pale shapes stood—rows upon rows. Silent. Watching. Unmoving like statues carved into the very bones of the mountain. There were hundreds—perhaps thousands. Their eyes gleamed like shards of moonlight through the storm.
Selene's chest tightened.
"They’re waiting," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "They're watching us."
She took a step back, boots slipping on the half-frozen earth. Her foot caught on a root, and she fell with a grunt, her dragonglass blade reflexively drawn out as she tried to catch herself. The edge bit through something soft beneath the snow—a body.
There was a strange sound—wet, muted—and her hand shot back, covered in a smear of pale blue blood.
The corpse she’d landed beside was a woman.
Or had been.
Her face was sunken and bruised with death, skin pulled taut over frostbitten bones. Her belly, distended and oddly preserved, had split where Selene’s blade had sliced—just below the navel.
And something moved inside.
Selene recoiled, horror rising in her throat. “Theon! Lucan—Gabriel—here!”
They rushed over at once, weapons still bloodied. Theon dropped to a knee, pulling Selene away gently as Gabriel leaned down beside the corpse, eyes sharp, mouth grim. Lucan stood watch behind them, sword ready in one hand, pulling Blizzard closer with the other.
Theon peeled away the snow-dampened furs from the body’s stomach, and what they saw hollowed the breath from all their lungs.
A child.
No more than a fetus—frozen, but intact. Curled within the opened womb. Pale as snow. Its tiny hands clenched. Eyes closed.
But its skin was not entirely human.
Veins of blue-black frost webbed its tiny body. Its mouth was slightly open, and within the hollow lips, they saw teeth—sharper than they should be.
Selene turned away and covered her mouth.
Gabriel didn't speak. Her eyes burned with cold fire as she stared down at the infant, then to the corpse of the mother. Her thoughts swirled—questions she could not voice.
Lucan stood slowly, his breath thick with frost. “They’re… breeding.”
“We need to tell lord Caelus about this, as fast as possible." Theon said, eyes wide and gloved fingers poking at the flesh of the child.
Under the bitter gaze of the mountains and the frozen moon, the four heirs of House Aurelius worked in grim silence. The snows had slowed, but the cold had only deepened—biting into flesh, stiffening bone. They moved with practiced resolve, gathering what they could from the corpse of the frostbitten woman. Gabriel knelt by the opened body, carefully extracting the strange fetus and wrapping it in enchanted cloth—its frost-coated limbs still curled as if asleep.
Selene, face pale but determined, helped Theon and Lucan sever the arms and legs with precision, storing each in separate insulated packs lined with dragonglass. The dead mother’s eyes stared into nothing, but her body still pulsed faintly with an unnatural warmth, the remnants of the child’s stolen life energy. Lucan muttered a prayer under his breath—not to the gods, but to the Old North.
When their task was done, Selene turned to Gabriel and nodded.
They both spread their wings.
Frost clung to their feathers instantly, the high-altitude winds seizing their flight in howling gusts. But the two cousins pressed on, streaking through the pale clouds with stiff movements, their cloaks snapping violently behind them. Castle Snezhnaya glimmered below like a sleeping beast of stone and ice—its high towers dusted white, great iron braziers burning along the outer ramparts.
They landed hard in the courtyard, wings faltering under the weight of frozen sleet. Guards quickly moved to secure the bundles from their arms, rushing them through the keep to the Maester’s laboratory—deep within the stone heart of the castle.
Inside, the chamber was already alight with firelight and alchemical glow. The Grand Maester, a gaunt man wrapped in thick furs and metal rings, stood at the ready, eyes widening at the sight of the fetus.
He muttered, “By all the gods above and forgotten…”
Selene and Gabriel wasted no time.
“We’ll assist,” Gabriel said, already pulling her gloves off, fingers raw and red. “We want to test its regeneration, the blood consistency, and any runes hidden in the marrow.”
The Maester nodded slowly, still stunned. “Very well… but this is no longer death. This is design.”
The hours that followed were cold, methodical, and filled with uneasy revelations. The child’s blood was thick, congealed like frozen tar. Its bone marrow glimmered faintly with a strange inner light, reacting to dragonglass like flame to oil. Limbs twitched under heat. One of the harvested arms curled when exposed to celestial iron.
The Maester’s blade gleamed under the amber light of the hearth, his hands precise as he performed the vasectomy on the frost walker fetus—its veins dark and unnatural, pulsing faintly even in sedation. Sweat glistened on his brow despite the cold in the chamber, his breath forming clouds with each exhale. Gabriel and Selene stood silently nearby, arms crossed, watching every incision, every twitch of the specimen's limbs with quiet tension.
Then the Maester paused.
He looked up from the operating table, eyes sunken with sleeplessness, but bright with a fevered conviction. His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"This… this is not just a thing of death," he rasped. "It is death with memory. With instinct. They keep parts of who they were… some spark that refuses to die. And if we let them past the walls—if we let fear blind the court—we will all become this.”
He gestured toward the twitching fetus, now stitched and sealed with silver thread soaked in blessed oil.
"I propose we bring one. Alive. Bound in dragonglass. Bring it to Caelestis itself. Let the court see what becomes of those who fail to act. Not a limb. Not a scroll. A creature. A witness."
Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “That would terrify the people.”
“Good,” the Maester whispered. “They should be terrified.”
Selene stared at the creature on the table—its glassy, lidless eyes now open, its breath barely visible. She swallowed hard, then turned to Gabriel.
“We show them the fate that awaits us if we wait behind walls and do nothing. And we don’t bring it as a trophy. We bring it as a warning.”
Gabriel’s wings folded in behind her as she stepped closer to the specimen, asking for Selene to go get a book from the family library.
The chamber had grown quiet, save for the steady drip… drip… drip of melted frost walker blood pooling beneath the dissecting slab. She stood across from the Maester, watching as he cleaned his tools with methodical care—almost too slow, too deliberate.
And then she saw it.
For the briefest flicker, as the torchlight hit his face, his eyes shifted. Not just a trick of the light. They bled from their usual frost blue hue to something deeper—red, not natural, not human. A predator’s red. And worse still, they flickered yellow at the edges. As if something inside were breaking through.
Gabriel’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t move.
“You’re not… the Maester,” she said quietly.
He looked up, head tilting just slightly. The expression was polite. Too polite. His hands stopped moving.
Gabriel took a slow step back, fingers tightening on the hilt of her dagger, hidden beneath her fur-lined cloak.
“You’re wearing him,” she continued. “Like a coat. Like his skin. You’re just another mask.”
A smile crept onto his face—but it wasn’t the Maester’s. The lines didn’t match the skin. It stretched too wide, teeth too white.
“And you always were the clever one, little wolf,” the voice said, shifting — not in sound, but in soul. Colder, smoother, echoing like it came from somewhere far deeper than a man’s throat.
“Amun,” Gabriel whispered, hatred frosting over her features.
The being in the Maester’s shape dipped his head. “Such a cruel thing to accuse me of,” he mused. “And yet—so accurate. I must say, the body was useful. A bit brittle. But he had access to things. Rooms. Secrets. Blood.”
Gabriel’s wings bristled beneath her cloak.
“You won’t leave this place,” she said.
He smiled wider.
“Oh, child… I already have.” And with that, his form shivered—the skin bubbling like boiling oil before collapsing into a puddle of rot and empty robes. Only the Maester’s face remained… stretched like a mask, still staring with glassy, dead eyes.
Gabriel stood frozen, bile rising in her throat.
From behind her, she heard Selene’s footsteps returning—and the sound of distant wind, wailing like something ancient had been loosed from its cage.
Selene stepped back into the chamber with an armful of ancient tomes bound in cracked leather, her breath a mist in the frigid air.
“I found three records with matching glyphs—two predate the Convergence,” she said, then stopped.
Her gaze landed on the floor.
The Maester’s robes were crumpled in a dark puddle. His face—not his head, but his face—lay discarded like a mask, its pale flesh sagging, the eyes wide and frozen in glassy horror.
Selene dropped the books.
“Gabriel?” she whispered.
Gabriel stood motionless, her hand still gripping the dagger under her cloak, knuckles pale. “It wasn’t him,” she said, voice low and strained. “It was Amun.”
Selene’s eyes narrowed, her lips parting in a breathless realization. “He wore his skin?”
Gabriel nodded. “He was in this room. Listening. Watching. We fed him everything.”
Selene stared at the remains, then looked to the dissected frost walker corpse on the slab. The fetus had already begun to blacken from exposure. The parchments transcribed from its throat lay blood-smeared but intact. The truth was spreading through their veins now—dangerous knowledge in dangerous hands.
“We need to move,” Selene said at last. “Before he wears another face.”
Gabriel finally looked at her, a strange calm settling into her features—the calm that came before bloodshed. “To where?”
Selene’s gaze was sharp. “Back to the South. To Wall Black. Castle Black.”
She knelt and began gathering the documents, rolling them tight and sealing them with wax. “We bring the live one. The frost walker we caught. We show them. The Lords. The Council. Everyone.”
Gabriel’s eyes darkened. “You think they’ll believe us?”
Selene met her gaze. “They’ll have no choice. We’ll drag the monster before them. Let them smell the rot. Let them see what’s waiting beyond those walls if we let our guard fall for even a moment.”
She stepped forward, picking up the Maester’s face. The skin was cold and sagging in her hand like a wet cloth. “This is what happens when we stop questioning the people who claim to protect us.”
Gabriel nodded grimly. The message had to be sent.
The hearth in Lord Caelus’ study crackled with a low, constant flame, casting long amber shadows on the walls lined with tomes older than the kingdom itself. He sat alone at his desk, eyes narrowed at a brittle, leather-bound volume—its Aurelian script half-faded by time, its margins inked with notes in his own hand. The northern wind howled faintly outside, rattling the frosted panes like restless spirits.
A knock sounded—soft but steady.
Caelus glanced up, recognizing the rhythm. “Enter,” he said without lifting his voice.
The door creaked open to reveal Selene and Gabriel, cloaked in grey and silver, their cheeks still flushed from the cold of the upper halls. Their eyes gleamed not just with worry—but purpose.
“Father,” Gabriel greeted softly.
Selene dipped her head. “My lord.”
Caelus closed the book and stood with quiet dignity. “Sit,” he said, gesturing to the small round table near the hearth. It was set with a steaming kettle and three bone-china cups etched with the sigil of House Aurelius — the iron wolf crowned by the halo sun.
He poured the tea for each of them himself, the motion slow and methodical. The scent of northern pine leaves and frostroot rose from the steam.
Selene wrapped her hands around her cup but didn’t sip. “They won’t listen to letters anymore,” she said. “The rumors will die out like the last ones.”
Gabriel looked to her father. “We think it’s time the rest of Eden sees what we’ve seen.”
Caelus leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “That wouldn’t work,” he said, voice low and firm. “The lords would never travel up the Wall. Not even if the sky cracked open.”
Gabriel met his gaze, steady and unyielding. “No, father. We bring the infected to them.”
Selene nodded, her voice calm but resolute. “Three angel frost walkers… and a few bears. In chains. Bleeding frost.”
“They’ll have no choice but to believe,” Gabriel added. “Even Amun will have to watch.”
The flames in the hearth hissed as the wind outside roared louder. Caelus stared into his cup for a long moment, then rose from his seat and crossed to the window, staring out toward the white blur of the far horizon.
Gabriel stood from her seat, adjusting the clasp of her fur-lined cloak. “I’ll make preparations. If we ride before dawn, the frost walkers won’t thaw in the light.” Her voice was level, but her eyes lingered on Caelus for a moment—seeking reassurance, or maybe strength.
Caelus nodded once. “Go, daughter.”
She offered a respectful bow and exited, the study door sighing shut behind her.
Only silence remained—save for the wind moaning faintly beyond the stone.
Selene didn’t rise. Her hands curled loosely around the cup, untouched. The tea had gone cold.
Caelus poured more into his own, now quietly watching her. “You’ve been silent since returning from the outer woods,” he said. “Even your letters felt... withheld.”
Selene’s gaze dropped to the floor for a moment, then rose again—meeting his with quiet intensity. “We passed the ridge just west of Black Hollow. There were claw marks, father. As tall as the gates. Frozen blood in the shape of hands. Burnt trees with no ash left behind.”
Caelus’s jaw tensed slightly. “An infected beast, maybe. The hounds can cause that.”
Selene shook her head. “It wasn’t just destruction. It was arranged. There were bones stacked like altars. Carved stones, with symbols I don’t recognize. I... think someone—something—is leading them.”
He stiffened. “You mean the old tales.”
Selene’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think the Frost King is alive.”
The hearth crackled louder, as if the name itself had weight. Caelus stood frozen beside the window, his hand resting on the sill. When he finally turned, his expression was grim, aged far beyond his years.
“We built Castle Black to hold the storm,” he murmured. “But the mortar is cracking. The men are tired. The wall... it groans at night, Selene. Even the steel wolves howl like they know something is coming.”
Selene finally sipped the tea, now lukewarm. “Then we tell Eden. Not just about the walkers, but what they follow.”
Before Caelus could bring quill to parchment, the door creaked open once more without a knock. A cold gust swept in—along with the towering shadow of a man wrapped in black wolf-fur, snow clinging to the shoulders like frostbitten armor.
“Still brooding in your den, little brother?” came the familiar, gravelled voice.
Selene straightened slightly in her chair, her fingers going stiff around her cup. “well good evening to you too, father.” Selene smiled, in which her father smiled back.
Arwyn Aurelius stepped into the study, boots heavy with snowmelt. He was older than Caelus by nearly a decade but bore the same pale hair and carved, angular face. His shoulders were broader, his hands more scarred. Behind his frostbitten beard, his eyes held the bleak clarity of a man who had stared too long beyond the Wall.
“You should be resting, old man.” Caelus said, not unkindly.
“There’s no rest left for us. Not anymore,” Arwyn replied. He turned to Selene. “Your brother sent word. He requests you and Gabriel return to Castle Black at once. Said something stirred in the Frostwood—something he didn’t want to name in writing.”
Selene’s ocean eyes darkened. “Did he say if anyone was hurt?”
Arwyn shook his head. “No injuries. Not yet. But he asked for you by name. He wants Gabriel with him too. I’d wager whatever he saw chilled him worse than the wind.”
Caelus exhaled through his nose, the tension returning to his posture. “This complicates things.”
“Then simplify them,” Arwyn said, stepping toward the desk. “Write the letter. Call the lords. Tell them what they’re too cowardly to ride North for."
Caelus finally picked up the quill, ink trembling for only a second.
“We show Eden what death wears now,” he said, dipping it in black ink. “Before it walks through their gates wearing angel skin.”
Selene stood slowly, bowing her head to both men.
“I’ll gather my things. Gabriel’s probably already cursing me for taking too long,” she said with a small, tired smile.
Caelus offered a nod, his fingers already brushing the parchment. Arwyn reached out and placed a brief hand on her shoulder as she passed—a quiet show of protection and respect. The door shut gently behind her, and silence bloomed.
The only sound was the soft scratching of the quill as Caelus began to write.
Arwyn moved toward the hearth, though the fire had long gone cold, then turned his gaze toward the far wall, to the tall, aged portrait half-faded by time and smoke. Three young children stood there in solemn finery: the eldest boy tall and grim even in youth; the middle son with a glint of fire in his pale eyes; and between them, a small girl with hair like starlight—Cornelia.
“How long has it been since you’ve looked at this?” Arwyn asked quietly.
Caelus didn’t pause. “Too long.”
Arwyn’s voice dropped. “Cornelia would’ve kept the realm united. If she had lived.”
Caelus’s hand paused at the mention of her name, the ink bleeding just slightly into the parchment, continuing to write to Caelestis.
“She would have, if our sister had lived long enough to be crowned as queen consort to Aenys Astyrax.” he said at last, mentioning Metatron's and Evangeline's older bastard brother.
"I still remember you marching down South after retrieving news Cornelia was beheaded by royal decree." Caelus said, writing the letter.
"The hour of the wolves, they kept praising." Arwyn smiled as he looked at their painting, in which Caelus chuckled.
"You were what? 18 and already commanding a Northern army? Hard to believe a man like you has regrets, old man." Caelus asked him, recalling vividly in his childhood. "Let us wait until the right time will come, Arwyn. We'll show the South what awaits. After all, in winter, they freeze." Caelus ended the conversation.
Arwyn nodded faintly while looking at the snow falling outside. "A man like me has many regrets, such as not seeing my kids grow up." Arwyn smiled bitterly, recalling Theon, Lucan and Selene grow up every time he comes back from the frost watch.
The snow was deeper than it had been days before—high enough to bury bones, soft enough to muffle footsteps. Moonlight danced across the drifts as the four figures trudged up the desolate hill in silence, breath low, weapons drawn but held close. Not a word was spoken. Not a bird in the sky. The woods below the Wall had gone deathly still.
Somewhere in the wind, a distant growl.
“Keep low,” Gabriel whispered.
They moved like phantoms, weaving between jagged stones and ancient, skeletal trees. Frost crackled underfoot, and every snapped twig sounded like a warning. Selene knelt briefly, inspecting a set of paw prints in the snow. Large. Fresh. Swerving wildly. “Bear cub,” she mouthed.
Theon didn't wait. He slipped into the woods like a shadow.
Moments passed—quiet as snowfall—until a sudden, piercing roar shattered the calm. Branches broke. Snow flew into the air like white smoke. And then they saw it.
Theon had ambushed the infected cub and was now wrestling it to the ground. The creature, frothing and pale-eyed, flailed with terrifying strength. Its fur was scorched in places, its ribs showing, and its breath steamed like boiling tar. Theon grunted, teeth bared, as he fought to bind its legs with iron-wrapped cord.
Gabriel and Lucan rushed to aid him when the low thunder of footfalls made the ground tremble.
Selene spun.
“No…” she breathed.
From the thickets beyond came more—six, seven, no—ten of them. Infected beasts. Wolves with spikes of black ice growing from their backs. A horned elk with one antler twisted like a spear. A mountain lion half-fused with rot, dragging one leg as it snarled. And behind them, lumbering up the hill like a moving glacier, a towering shape emerged from the mist.
A mammoth.
Its flesh was blue-grey and partially sloughed off, exposing layers of sinew and bone. Fungal frost crystals glimmered across its hide. And its eyes—its eyes burned white like twin stars, staring directly at Gabriel.
She stepped back, heart pounding.
“Run!” Lucan shouted.
But the mammoth charged.
The hillside shook. Trees splintered under its weight. Gabriel dove to the side just as a massive tusk tore through the space where she had stood. The wind from its charge knocked her flat, snow flying in all directions. The beast let out a monstrous, gurgling bellow that made even the smaller beasts hesitate.
Selene raised a fire ward but it fizzled in the cold. Lucan hurled an ensnarement chain at a leaping wolf. Theon finally silenced the cub with a runed clasp and rolled just in time to avoid a bounding stag infected with frostrot.
Gabriel scrambled to her feet as the mammoth reared, preparing to strike again. The storm winds howled through the mountain pass, thin and sharp as blades. Snow whipped their cloaks and stung their eyes as the four ran — no, fled — down the winding slopes beneath the northern cliffs.
Theon was ahead, his sword unsheathed, dragging the unconscious baby bear slung over his shoulder. Gabriel and Selene followed close behind, while Lucan brought up the rear, eyes casting frantic glances over his shoulder.
Behind them, the trees shook violently — as if something colossal was tearing through them.
And then came the first trumpet-blast of a roar.
A mammoth’s wail. Twisted. Wrong. Infected.
The mountains boomed as a dozen frost-maddened mammoths broke through the tree line, eyes glowing like burning coals inside shattered sockets, mouths rimmed with black foam and icicles. Their massive forms shook the ground with each step, tusks glistening with blood and corruption.
“Run!” Theon shouted, his voice nearly drowned in the wind.
They bolted toward the only open expanse in sight — the glittering basin at the valley’s heart, where snow did not pile and the air turned eerily silent.
A frozen lake.
Their boots slid as they reached it, but they didn’t stop. There was no time to think. Behind them, the beasts descended — tusks smashing trees, hooves pulverizing snow and stone.
The lake cracked softly under their feet, delicate like glass beneath the weight of fate.
They made it halfway across when Gabriel screamed, “They’re still coming!”
The mammoths had reached the shore and halted—massive forms panting steam and fury. The largest among them stepped forward, its rotting face stitched with ancient black iron.
It tested the ice.
Then it charged.
“Scatter!” Selene shouted, veering left, sparks rising from her fingertips.
The mammoth’s thunderous charge brought it halfway across—before the ice beneath it shattered with a deafening CRACK. The beast roared as its massive frame plunged into the black depths below. Ice caved and closed over it, its cry cut short beneath the water.
Silence.
Then came the circling shadows overhead.
Gabriel looked up, horror growing in her chest.
Snow vultures. Infected. Dozens of them. Their wings blotted out the moonlight, their talons sharp and ready.
Lucan drew a slow breath. “We can’t go back… We can’t go forward…”
“We stay together,” Theon said, stepping closer. “We hold.”
Gabriel dropped to her knees, rummaging through her pack with trembling hands. The cold bit deep, and the infected snow vultures above shrieked in anticipation. Her fingers wrapped around something sharp — cold and obsidian-dark.
Dragonglass.
“I didn’t even realize I brought these…” she whispered, stunned.
“What?” Selene asked, eyes never leaving the mammoths pacing at the lake’s edge.
Gabriel stood and shoved a small bundle of dragonglass-tipped arrows into Selene’s gloved hands. “Use them. Aim for the skulls. If anything can pierce that rot, it’s these.”
Selene didn’t hesitate. She summoned her bow from thin air, nocked an arrow, and fired.
The shard sang through the air toward the nearest mammoth.
But just as it was about to strike, a blast of freezing air pulsed from the creature’s maw — the arrow froze solid mid-flight, snapped, and clattered to the ice like a stone.
“Damn it,” Selene cursed, nocking another. She tried again. Same result. The cold they wielded was not natural.
Lucan snarled. “It’s no use. They’ll just freeze whatever we throw—”
“No,” Selene murmured, her eyes narrowing as they lifted toward the jagged ridges above.
She turned, breath visible in the air, and drew the next arrow not toward the beasts… but to the snow-packed slopes high above.
“What are you—” Theon began.
“Trust me.”
She loosed.
The arrow flew high into the shadowed peaks — where it struck a ledge crusted with hanging frost.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then a thunderous crack echoed like the wrath of the gods.
The mountains shuddered. Then they broke.
Snow and ice began to fall — slow at first, then with unstoppable speed. A roar louder than any beast filled the valley as an avalanche cascaded down the slopes.
The mammoths panicked. Their massive feet slipped on the frozen edge as they tried to flee, their bellows turning into wails as the white tide swallowed them whole.
“Run!” Selene shouted.
The four turned and sprinted across the cracking ice, slipping and skidding, breath tearing through their throats. Behind them, snow thundered across the lake’s edge, chasing them like a monstrous wave.
They didn’t look back.
Only when they reached the treeline on the far side and the avalanche settled in a muffled crash did they finally fall to their knees — exhausted, frozen, but alive.
Gabriel laughed softly between gasps. “Remind me… never to doubt your aim again.”
Selene grinned, still panting. “And remind me to thank you for bringing arrows."
Theon stood, brushing ice from his coat. “Come on. We’ve got beasts to cage — and a world to warn.”
The wind howled past the turrets of Castle Black, battering the ancient walls as if trying to tear them down stone by stone. Snow swept across the training yard where a small campfire flickered weakly against the cold. Around it, the four young Northerners sat huddled — Selene tending to Blizzard, Gabriel sketching rune symbols into her journal, Theon sharpening his sword, and Lucan staring into the flames.
The great black gate groaned open behind them.
Arwyn Aurelius stepped through, a towering shadow wrapped in thick black furs, snow crusting his shoulders. His boots crunched as he approached the fire, and all four lifted their eyes.
“Father,” Theon greeted first, rising to his feet. Selene followed, and soon Gabriel and Lucan too, each one stiffening into formality.
But Arwyn’s face softened at the sight of them. “At ease. I’m not here to shout,” he muttered, shrugging off his cloak and taking a seat on one of the wooden stumps by the fire.
“You made it back early,” Lucan said.
“I came straight from the Wall,” Arwyn replied, brushing frost from his beard. His voice was gravel. “Wanted to see what sort of madness you four dragged home from the mountains.”
Gabriel gave him a sheepish glance. “The frost walkers are in the lowest cages, secured and chained.”
“They’re… different,” Selene added, almost hesitantly.
“I know.” Arwyn’s gaze drifted past the fire, as if seeing something far beyond the yard. “They didn’t scream. They didn’t even resist. I looked into their eyes just now. And I don’t think we’re dealing with beasts anymore.”
The fire crackled.
Arwyn leaned forward, his voice lower, grave. “For the past three mornings, I’ve led patrols beyond the trees at dawn. Frost men—whole tribes of them—have been appearing from the forests. Not to fight. To beg. Clawing at the gates, calling down their gods, some even kneeling in the snow. One man tried to slit his own throat just to be let through.”
“What?” Theon sat up straighter.
“They’re being hunted,” Arwyn said simply. “Worse than hunted. Driven. And it’s not just them. The wildlings from the northwest mountains keep whispering about a ‘White King’ walking again, raising armies with no voices, no minds, only cold.”
A heavy silence fell.
“Tracks in the forest,” Arwyn continued. “Large ones. Disturbances in the trees. Snow fallen wrong. As if something huge moved through it at night. And once, I thought I heard breathing. Not a bear. Not a mammoth. Something… colder.”
Selene swallowed. “Do you think it’s him?”
“I don’t know,” Arwyn replied. “But whatever’s coming, it’s moving fast. Too fast for us to hold the wall for much longer.”
He looked to each of them, his eyes tired, worn by years of vigilance. “You did right, bringing those walkers south. If the lords won’t climb the Wall to see the truth, we’ll drag the truth down to them.”
Lucan leaned back, arms crossed, though his voice trembled slightly. “We’re not ready.”
“No,” Arwyn said. “We’re not. But neither is Eden.”
And as the wind wailed through the stones once more, the fire flickered violently—its light dancing across the walls like the ghost of something ancient, something waking.
——————Dusk, Castle Caelestis, Uriel———————
The ancient stone halls echoed with every step Uriel took, her bare feet quiet against the cold marble. The light had dimmed into that purplish twilight, when shadows were long and secrets crept just beneath the walls. The silence of the palace gnawed at her—a silence too vast, too heavy.
She walked the upper gallery alone, arms crossed, cloak trailing behind her like a whisper of flame.
That’s when she heard it. The unmistakable screech of talons scraping stone and a heavy flutter of wings slicing through the dusk.
Uriel stopped.
Slowly, she turned to the tall window that overlooked the Western Spires. And there he was.
Solas.
His crimson feathers were streaked with soot and frost, wings tucked in, his massive form perched awkwardly on the narrow ledge, as if he'd been flying for days. His eyes glowed like twin embers, watching her with unreadable depth.
Uriel's arms stayed crossed as she approached, unblinking.
“Do you know what time it is, Solas?” she asked coldly, voice slicing through the silence. “It’s been five days. Five. I’ve sent whispers, runes, notes… I even considered burning a small hill. And nothing.”
She came to a stop beneath him, staring up at the phoenix like a furious mother at a guilty child.
“Meanwhile, jellyfish are walking naked, sea turtles are climbing trees, and sharks—sharks—are flying in the sky,” she added flatly. “And finally, finally you come back to visit me?”
Solas gave a low, crackling squawk in response— raspy, unapologetic. A puff of smoke curled from his beak like a shrug.
Uriel narrowed her eyes.
“That’s it? That’s your defense?”
He gave another squawk. Then, annoyingly, preened a wing as if the conversation bored him.
Uriel sighed, her stern façade cracking. “You’re impossible,” she muttered, though there was the smallest smile tugging at her lips.
She turned away to lean on the windowsill beside him, her voice softer now.
“Where did you go? I… I thought something happened.”
Solas let out a low hum, not quite a song, not quite silence—and pressed his head gently against hers. Warmth radiated from him, pulsing with something ancient.
And for a brief moment, the stillness in Uriel’s chest cracked—not with fear, but with knowing.
Something was coming. Solas knew. And now… so did she.
The palace of Caelestis groaned in its age, its high towers sighing beneath the breeze as Uriel slipped from the Hall of Books, Solas glowing softly in her palm. Night had fallen over the Capital, but sleep eluded her—as it often did in places steeped in too many secrets.
She padded down an unused corridor, the kind that even servants seemed to avoid. The tapestries were older here, faded with time, and the portraits bore names she'd never heard whispered in court.
Solas pulsed a pale gold.
"You're curious too," Uriel murmured.
The light guided her to the end of the hall, where a massive portrait stood draped in thick black velvet, dust lining the embroidered edges. A rusted plaque beneath the frame was barely legible.
“IX.”
That was all it said. Ninth.
Uriel tilted her head. “The ninth king…?”
With cautious hands, she reached out and peeled the heavy cloth aside. Dust danced into the air like ancient ash. The face that stared back at her was not what she expected.
The man in the portrait bore no white hair, no lilac eyes, none of the crystalline paleness the Astyrax line was famed for. Instead, he had ocean blue eyes, hair the color of storm-worn iron, and a crown of obsidian and wolfbone. He looked nothing like Metatron. Nothing like Evangeline. And certainly not like her father.
Her brow furrowed.
He was young, regal, but not Astyrax. Not truly.
No silver. No violet flame.
Beneath the frame, the nameplate had been violently scratched out. Only ghost-carved impressions remained.
Uriel’s breath trembled.
Who…?
Behind her, a familiar voice spoke.
“Dinner is ready, Uriel.”
She turned.
Evangeline stood at the doorway, framed in shadow like a ghost of the past come to collect its secrets.
But when her eyes fell on the uncovered portrait, she stopped. Her breath caught. For a heartbeat, the fake queen emerita of Eden looked not like a queen of logic and grace—but like a girl who had not buried the dead well enough.
Uriel didn’t ask for permission.
“Who is he?”
A long silence passed. Then Evangeline moved forward and stood beside her, eyes on the man in the painting.
“Aenys Astyrax,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Ninth King of Eden. My older half-brother.”
Uriel stared, confused. “But he’s not in the histories. Not even in the mausoleum.”
“He was erased. By command of the Crown. By me. Something me and Metatron agreed to just forget about him.”
Uriel blinked. “Why?”
Evangeline looked away. Her voice turned cold.
“Because he was born of a lie.”
“Our father, Orubos—the Mad King—ruled before Metatron. A tyrant cloaked in religious fervor and dragonbone armor. As his madness deepened, he began to obsess over a prophecy found in the Black Scrolls of Vireonic maesters. It spoke of a ruler of ice and fire, a child of North and South blood, destined to unite Eden or tear it asunder.”
“To fulfill it, he disinherited me—his trueborn daughter—and sent me away to the Velheim Trials, a scheme to keep me from succession. Meanwhile, he legitimized his bastard son, Aenys, a boy he’d sired in secret with an unknown woman in skorching skagos.” she continued.
Evangeline’s tone grew darker. “He sent me away to Velheim when I was barely seventeen, forced to compete in the blood trials under the pretense of honor and tradition. While I was gone, he legitimized my older brother, Aenys. No one knew who his mother was. The court whispered she wasn’t of noble blood, but Father didn’t care.”
She glanced at the portrait with contempt. “He wedded Aenys to Cornelia Aurelius, a last name that's familiar to all of Eden—to fulfill a twisted prophecy, to unite fire and frost in one bloodline. He believed the child of such a union would bring eternal dominion. But that child never came. Only bloodshed.”
Uriel’s gaze didn’t leave the portrait. The man’s eyes, though painted, seemed to follow her, cold and accusing. Her brow furrowed. “But why?” she whispered. “Why would the Mad King wed a bastard to a Northerner? Everyone knows the stories… how Northern queen consorts fared in the South. They were never welcomed. Always hunted. Isn’t that why Queen Elira of old House Black of the North turned her blade on herself?”
Evangeline nodded slowly, folding her hands in front of her. “Yes. History screamed against it. But Father was never one to listen to history—only to prophecy. He thought himself above fate, as if he could twist it into his image.” She stepped forward, brushing dust from the bottom edge of the portrait frame.
“The prophecy was old, Fragmented. Far different from the one where two people are to wield the throne—one of ice and fire. The scrolls were buried in the catacombs of Vireon, guarded by mad priests and whispering ghosts. They spoke of a child born of fire and ice, one who would bring eternal dominion over the realms… One heir instead of two.”
Uriel glanced at her sharply. “A single child.”
“That was the mistake,” Evangeline said bitterly. “The prophecy was mistranslated by Father… and by the septons who bowed to his gold. He believed that if he married Aenys—his own bastard son—to Cornelia, the strongest ice-born daughter of the North, their union would bear the child foretold. He thought he could breed prophecy into being.”
“But he was wrong?” Uriel asked.
Evangeline met her niece’s gaze. “The original scripture—what little we’ve recovered since—says not one child, but two souls. Two flames in opposition. ‘Born of ice, born of fire. One shall bend to the crown, the other restore it.’ or so they said. ”
Uriel went still.
“So it was never meant to be a child of two bloodlines,” she whispered. “But two people.” Uriel understood.
Evangeline nodded. “That’s what Father never understood. Or feared too much to accept. He wanted to control fate. But prophecy is a river—it carves through mountains whether you dam it or not.”
Uriel looked once more to the erased name on the plaque. “And Aenys?”
“He died believing he failed,” Evangeline murmured. “But his shadow never left this throne. And some still serve it. The mad king—my father believed in a lie that cost him his bastard's and legal heirs their happiness.”
The golden sconces lining the hall flickered as Uriel and Evangeline walked side by side, their footsteps muffled by velvet runners embroidered with the crests of the Astyrax line. The Phoenix and Crown—red, gold, and white—glimmered with every torch they passed. Evangeline’s long royal cloak swept behind her like a living flame, the phoenix sigil sewn in thread that shimmered like starlight.
Uriel glanced up at her aunt, whose expression had grown distant, carved with memory.
"The Hour of the Wolf,” Evangeline began, her voice quiet but heavy, “did not start as a war, but as a howl—Arwyn Aurelius' howl, echoing from the White Wall to the Rivers of Myrrh. He marched not with conquest in mind, but with mourning.”
Uriel said nothing, only listening.
“By the time I returned from Velheim, it was too late. Arwyn had already broken through the Western gates. The Northerners reached the gates of Myrrh in mere minutes."
Uriel’s jaw tensed. “And Aenys?”
Evangeline closed her eyes for a heartbeat. “They met at the Great Rivers of Myrrh. The bastard brother and the grieving wolf. The water there ran black with ash and red with blood by the end. They say Arwyn buried his spear through Aenys' heart and let the river carry his body down to the Hollow Sea.”
Uriel stopped in her tracks. “So you never saw his body either.”
Evangeline slowly turned to her. Her violet eyes gleamed not with fire, but with something gentler—wounded and human. “No.”
Uriel tilted her head. “And yet… you don’t sound relieved.”
There was a silence.
A flicker of candlelight caught something unexpected—a tear, forming at the corner of Evangeline’s eye. She blinked it away, but Uriel had already seen it.
“I loved him,” Evangeline said softly, her voice hoarse with memory. “Not as a prince. Not as the threat to my future crown. But as my older brother. Before all this—before prophecy and thrones—he used to braid my hair in the old garden. He was the first to teach me swordwork, which I immaculately was bad at, taught me how to wield a bow instead.”
Uriel stared at her, unsure what to say.
“I was just a girl,” Evangeline whispered. “And he was the only one who told me and your father that we could be so much more.”
Their footsteps slowed as they reached the far end of the hallway—a high-arched alcove veiled in translucent drapery. The torchlight filtered through it like sunrise through mist. Behind the curtain hung a portrait, nearly life-sized, its colors faded but lovingly preserved.
Evangeline drew the fabric back without a word, revealing the painting beneath.
Uriel’s breath caught.
It was unlike any royal portrait she had seen. There was no throne, no crown, no scepter. Only a man standing amidst a twilight field of snow-kissed reeds, his eyes closed as though lost in thought, lips gently parted as if about to speak—or breathe his last.
In his right arm, he held a boy—toddler-aged, with striking white hair and violet eyes wide with wonder. Metatron.
At his side, holding his left hand, was a girl still young and childlike. Her silver hair was braided in a loose coil, and her violet eyes beamed with childish joy, which was Evangeline.
And the man—the man who stood between them, shielding them from a winter wind, his cloak of grey wolf fur blending into the cold-blue dusk behind him—was Aenys Astyrax.
His hair was not white, but pale ash-grey. His eyes, closed now in the painting, were said to be blue like frozen rivers. No phoenix crest marked his chest—only a simple star of old bronze, the ancient emblem of the forgotten bloodlines from beyond Eden’s original walls.
Uriel stepped closer. “He doesn’t look like a king.”
“No,” Evangeline whispered. “He didn’t want to be one.”
“Then why—?”
“Because our father made him believe he had to be.”
She reached up and traced the outline of her child self in the painting. Her fingers trembled slightly.
“He was kind,” she said. “Gentle. He used to sneak us sweets from the kitchens. Told me I should become a knight if I wanted to. Said Metatron would be a scholar. He never mentioned thrones until Father fell ill.”
Uriel's eyes stayed on the man whose expression seemed caught between peace and torment. “So he never wanted it.”
Uriel ran her fingers along a carved pillar shaped like coiling wolves and rising flames. “You said Cornelia Aurelius was wed to Aenys. Were they... happy?”
Evangeline paused in front of a sealed cabinet, ancient and locked with a phoenix sigil rusted by time. She didn’t speak at first. Her gaze grew distant, like it had drifted into memory.
“Yes,” she said at last. “For a time... they were.”
Uriel turned toward her, wide-eyed. “So the marriage wasn’t forced?”
“Not in the way history now paints it,” Evangeline murmured, kneeling to unseal the cabinet. “Back then, relations between House Aurelius and House Astyrax were peaceful—strong, even. The war of the East had just ended. And in those days... Aenys and Arwyn were like blood brothers. They hunted together in the Vale of Storms. Sparred in the old barracks of Myrrh. Swore oaths to protect Eden.”
A dusty scroll unrolled in Evangeline’s hands, bearing the golden emblem of both houses bound by marriage.
“And Cornelia and I were childhood companions,” she added, a faint smile crossing her lips. “She had such a quiet fire to her. She didn’t laugh easily—but when she did, it was real. When the marriage was arranged, I thought it would be another cold political match. But... they surprised me.”
Uriel tilted her head. “They loved each other?”
Evangeline nodded slowly. “Deeply. Cornelia softened Aenys. She brought out the part of him that wanted to rule with mercy, not fear. And Aenys... he gave her safety, loyalty, warmth. There was no colder place than the court of our father, but with her, Aenys seemed to thaw.”
Uriel looked down at the scroll Evangeline held. It bore their wedding vows, written in silver ink. Her breath caught at how delicate it was.
“But then?” she asked quietly. “What happened?”
Evangeline’s voice hardened.
“Then our father—the mad king Orubos—intervened.”
She placed the scroll gently back into the cabinet as though it were made of glass.
“He told them there was a condition to her keeping the crown. That Cornelia would only remain queen consort if she bore Aenys a child. A child of fire and ice, they said. A union of North and South. One that would fulfill the prophecy of the savior king. He became obsessed.”
Uriel’s brows furrowed. “But they had no child, right?”
“No,” Evangeline whispered. “And for that... the king saw her as a failure. He told Aenys that her womb was cursed, unfit for royal blood. That she threatened the prophecy.”
Uriel looked sick. “What did he do?”
Evangeline turned, face etched in shadow. “He commanded his people to behead her... While Aenys was away”
Uriel froze in place. “What?”
Evangeline nodded grimly. “He used his authority as king. Claimed it was divine will. But Aenys returned, and fell to his knees in the throne room, weeping. He swore to find another path. That’s when everything unraveled. Cornelia's heart was broken once she believed the accusations of Aenys' indefinitely.”
Uriel’s voice was barely a whisper. “So that’s when Arwyn marched?”
“No,” Evangeline said. “Not yet. Not until Cornelia pleaded to let herself die by secret to the king because she thought Aenys was committing adultery and thought Aenys would never come back to her—which was of course my father, the mad king Orubos set up. That's when a kingsguard ran his sword through her neck. Aenys was of course enraged and killed the guard himself. Cornelia's body was never found, or so they said and Aenys' body was said to drift away."
————Gateway to castle Caelestis, Aenys.————
The banners of House Astyrax fluttered across the high walls of Caelestis, their phoenix sigils catching the wind like open wings. The kingdom was alive with song. Children tossed flowers onto the cobbled streets as the soldiers returned and battered but victorious—from their conquest of the Iron Islands in the West.
At the head of the procession rode King Regent Aenys Astyrax, his dark cloak lined in deep crimson, fluttering behind him. His hair, grey from birth and weathered by sea winds, curled at his nape beneath the crown he wore too proudly. His blue eyes gleamed with rare peace—a man not born for the throne, but shaped by war and crowned by fire.
He smiled to the people. Not as a tyrant, not as a conqueror, but as a husband returning to his queen.
Cornelia. His wife. His northern flame.
He clutched the leather-bound scroll of victory in his gloved hand—it bore the seal meant for his father. The mad king, Orubos Astyrax. The very man who'd forced this war, then stayed behind, locked within the walls of Caelestis like a spider pulling strings from his web.
As Aenys crossed through the gates, the bells tolled in celebration. He rode high, proud, unaware that the flower petals falling around him were not thrown in joy—but laid out in mourning.
He stepped down from his horse at the castle gates. The guards bowed low. Too low. Their eyes didn’t meet his.
Aenys paused, frowning. “Where is she?” he asked. “Where is my wife?"
No one answered.
He climbed the marble steps, storm boots leaving prints, trailing into the grand hall. And then—He saw the blood.
A trail. Thin, dry, almost black now against the white marbled floor. Leading from the throne room.
Aenys dropped the scroll.
He ran. Past the golden doors. Through the empty corridors that once rang with laughter. Into the small cloister garden she loved, where she prayed to the old gods of the North.
And there—on the altar of the godswood tree, where a sword had no place—was Cornelia Aurelius.
Lying still.
Her throat opened from end to end.
Her white hair was covered in blood, spilled like wine across the stone. Her eyes were closed and unseeing, but Aenys thought her eyes were still a glimmering silver. Her hands were folded across her stomach as though she’d been put to sleep.
Aenys frowned, fighting the tears threatening to drop.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no, no—”
He walked to her side hesitantly, cupping her face, trembling. “My love, Darling—wake up, please—wake up—”
But she would not.
Behind him, the voice of the Grand Septon rang hollow and detached: “She failed to bear you a child, Your Grace. The king gave the order.”
Aenys turned.
“What…?”
“He said the line could not continue. The gods will it.”
Aenys’ face contorted. Something broke in his soul that day. The peace in his eyes, the light from the victory in the West — gone, like the sun behind a stormcloud.
And from behind him came the low rustle of fabric.
Orubos Astyrax, gaunt and sickly, stood from his high throne, the very same throne made out of swords, now he was near the stone table where Cornelia's dead body was laying. His pale face twisted in something like joy — or madness.
“I heard you won and came back.. alive.” he rasped.
Aenys rose, silent, shaking, until the sword he had once used in war was drawn and pressed against his own father’s chest.
“I did,” Aenys said, restraining his anger. “But the price was too great.”
“Then I did right,” Orubos wheezed. “She was a danger to the prophecy, despite it saying a son shall be the heir of fire and ice. A fruitless tree, if you will.”
“She was my wife, father!”
“And might I remind you that I put you in the spot to marry her. She'd never marry a bastard.”
"This was all just a scheme, wasn't it, father? You sent away Evangeline so you can get rid of her right to the throne. Like you said, I am merely your bastard. And now you put a merely grown kid—my own brother to the throne because I failed to bring an heir?" Aenys snapped, but Aenys was smart enough to step back. He didn’t kill the mad king Orubos that day. But he should have.
Instead, he took Cornelia’s body in his arms and fled the castle that night, vanishing into the storm.
There was no priest.
No bell.
No mourning procession.
No Northern banners raised.
No final rites sung by the Seven or whispered by angels.
Only Aenys Astyrax.
The crypt beneath Caelestis was colder than usual that night, and not from the stones alone—it was the silence, the weight of guilt and memory and death coiled like frost upon the walls. Only torchlight guided him now, flickering against the carved faces of Astyrax kings who had long turned to dust.
She lay still in his arms, wrapped not in royal linen but in his own cloak—heavy black and gold, stained with the blood from her throat that had long dried. Her hair spilled like moonlight across his arm, the same white-silver hue that so many whispered was the mark of angels and old magic.
He knelt before a tomb never meant for her. One he had carved himself, hands blistered and bloody.
There was no name etched onto the stone.
No sigil.
No epitaph.
Just smooth rock and grief.
“She was an Astyrax,” he whispered hoarsely to no one—perhaps to the dead kings watching, or perhaps to the gods he no longer prayed to. “She gave me her vows. She wore our crest. She died in my halls. And she belongs with me.”
He refused to send her North.
He couldn’t bear the thought of her being taken from him even in death.
He had stolen her from the North in life.
Now, he’d steal her from it in death too.
He lowered her gently into the crypt, the hollow space in the wall that would be her tomb. The stone chilled her flesh further, but her face still looked peaceful—eerily so. As if she were only sleeping. As if she'd stir soon and whisper something scolding and fond in her Northerner’s accent.
Her face…
It was still full of life in ways that tormented him.
She looked like Gabriel would someday—fierce eyes, high cheeks, that proud tilt of the chin.
She looked like Arwyn—that strong jaw, the mouth that held its peace only until necessary.
And yet she was neither. She was his.
His Northern Lily.
He reached for her cheek one last time, brushing strands of white hair from her closed eyes. Her skin was like marble now, cold and firm, and when he leaned down to kiss her—his lips meeting hers for the final time—it felt like pressing his mouth to winter itself.
He lingered.
Eyes closed.
Forehead to hers, as they always did.
He pulled away and rested her hands across her chest, then lifted the stone slab that would seal the crypt. His arms shook as he slid it into place.
With a great scrape of stone on stone…
She was gone.
And her tomb remained nameless.
Sometimes, the heaviest weight was to carry your loved one's body to rest.
—————Astyrax common room, Metatron.————
Little Metatron, only twelve then, had followed Aenys all the way to the castle gates, holding back tears.
“You’re leaving again?” his voice cracked. “You just came back…”
Aenys knelt, cupping his brother’s face. “Just one more, Matty. There’s still another war. This one’s bigger.”
“You always say it’s the last,” Metatron said, voice trembling.
“And I always come back,” Aenys smiled. “Right?”
A lie. A sweet one.
He ruffled the boy’s white hair and pressed a folded parchment into his hand. “Give this to Evangeline. Tell her not to cry. I’ll be back in time for her birthday.”
He hugged Metatron tightly—his little brother, his shadow, his promise to stay human.
He never looked back after that, not even when Metatron was wailing for his older brother.
—————Hour of the Wolf, Aenys Astyrax—————
A few moments after, the sun was waning into a sullen red, the skies over the Myrrh River bruised violet and gray, as if Eden itself mourned the blood yet to be spilled in the sacred rivers.
Aenys Astyrax stood overlooking the water, his sword sheathed, his cloak dancing behind him in the wind, colored in the obsidian and silver of House Astyrax. His armor gleamed faintly, marked by the phoenix sigil across the chest. He was only eighteen.
Behind him, two hundred stood.
Two hundred angels—veterans of the western campaigns, warriors of sky and flame, some wounded, others already aged by the burdens of war. They had followed him through the Iron Isles, through the lands of forever winter, and now to the river that would likely be their grave.
They had sworn to the king.
But they fought for Aenys.
He turned to face them, voice steady though his heart weighed heavily.
“My beloved Brothers,” he began, “you stand with me not for glory, or conquest, or the favor of kings… but for the truth of loyalty.”
A pause.
“The North marches against us. Not because we sinned, but because of fear… and grief.”
He looked down at the river, remembering her. Cornelia.
“They come not just to kill a king. They come to bury love.”
The men stayed silent. Their eyes were locked on him.
“If I fall,” Aenys said, voice calm but firm, “let it be said that I did not fall alone. That I was followed into fire and frost by angels who did not flinch. You will be remembered in the honorary crypts of Caelestis. I will see it with my own hands.”
Some bowed their heads.
Others whispered prayers.
He smiled softly.
“And if the gods are kind…” he chuckled faintly, “perhaps we’ll carve a door in the afterlife, and drink one last time beneath the burning skies.”
BATTLE OF THE TRIDENTS—HOUR OF THE WOLF. GREAT RIVER OF MYRRH
Snow fell in thick spirals over the burning fields and bloodied banks of the River Myrrh. The once-silver waters now ran red with the mingled blood of angels and Northerners alike. Screams of war echoed into the sky like dying prayers.
Aenys Astyrax soared above the chaos on stained wings, cutting through enemies with fire-blessed steel, his armor gleaming with smoke and blood. His breaths were heavy. Each strike carved a memory into flesh, each face a ghost he did not wish to see.
Then—he saw him.
Amidst the frozen mist stood Arwyn Aurelius, eldest son of the North, iron-forged and wrath-bound, clad in glacial armor carved with ancestral runes, his helmet shaped like a snarling wolf. Behind him stood the final line of Aurelius loyalists—silent, unflinching, and cold as the blade they followed.
Aenys landed with wings faltering behind him. The river ran between them.
He stepped forward into the water, snow melting in his wake from the heat of his blood-stained plate. Arwyn met him there.
The clamor of war faded.
They stood in the river where it was deepest, midstream, where the ice cracked and whispered. The water lapped at their knees—chilling, sacred, red.
Aenys did not raise his sword.
Instead, he let it fall from his hand with a splash.
He pulled off his helmet, revealing his face—bruised, bleeding, young, but still somehow that same boy Arwyn once sparred with in the courtyards of Caelestis. His silver eyes—dull from war—met the frostbitten stare of his brother-in-law.
Aenys knelt.
His voice broke.
“Arwyn… please.”
The river breathed between them.
“I didn’t order it. I would never…” his lip quivered. “You knew her. You loved her too. You knew what she meant to me. I—I came back with roses. I didn’t know he would—he would…”
His voice cracked entirely, drowned by grief and the sound of falling snow.
“I wasn’t the king, Arwyn. I was her husband.”
Silence.
Only the river stirred.
Then Arwyn reached to his back, drawing the same ancient spear of Northern steel—the one etched with glacial scripture, the heirloom of his bloodline.
He stepped forward, the water freezing beneath each step.
He kicked Aenys’ fallen sword back toward him.
“Like old times,” Arwyn said flatly, his voice barely a growl behind the wolf helm. “Pick up your sword, Astyrax.”
The name hit like a slap.
Aenys flinched—his eyes wide.
He remembered the training grounds. The sunlight. The laughter.
“Come on, Aenys, you’re too slow!”
“Shut up, Arwyn, I let you win that one.”
“Then prove it next time, flower boy.”
But this wasn’t the courtyard.
This was war.
Aenys stared at the sword, his breath clouding in the cold.
“I’m not your enemy,” he whispered.
Arwyn raised his spear.
“That’s what your father said before he cut her throat.”
The river stilled.
And Aenys understood.
Not all wars are won with armies. Some are lost between two men.
He stood slowly, shaking, picking up his sword—but he didn’t raise it to strike.
Instead, he merely held it at his side, lowering his head, still unwilling to fight.
The spear lunged.
The river howled.
Blood sprayed over the ice.
The River Myrrh raged with chaos around them. Steel clanged. Magic hissed. Bodies fell into the crimson current.
But all of that was distant.
At the center of it all stood Aenys Astyrax and Arwyn Aurelius—once boys who trained under the same sun, now men cursed to kill one another under the shadow of a broken crown.
Aenys held a sword forged in fire, glowing faintly in the freezing mist—its edge licking embers into the snow. Arwyn gripped a long lance of frozen obsidian, its tip glistening with ancient runes of the North, its shaft layered in wolfbone and frostbitten leather.
Their eyes locked.
And they charged.
Steel met ice in a blinding flash—CRACK—the impact forcing them apart, only to crash again, like thunder rolling across the river.
Their weapons sparked and screamed with every blow.
Their feet splashed and staggered across the icy water.
Each strike stung with memory.
Each parry whispered of what once was.
“You always lead with your left, Arwyn!”
“You always forget I switch midway!”
Clang!
“You said we’d fight for each other—”
“Not against each other!”
Flashbacks surged with every strike.
Two boys, laughing in the old halls of Caelestis.
Arwyn pulling Aenys from a frozen pond, saying, “You idiot, I said the ice was too thin!”
Aenys tying a red ribbon around Arwyn’s arm before a sparring match: “It’s for luck.”
Then:
Arwyn's face, broken by betrayal.
Aenys’ face, hollowed by grief.
Clang—clash—thrust—parry—
Fire met ice again and again, both weapons hissing steam as they collided.
Blood was already staining Aenys' temple, and Arwyn’s side bled beneath cracked armor.
The duel raged—desperate, wordless, a symphony of pain and memory.
But Aenys’ blade began to waver.
His steps slowed.
And then—
His breath caught. His chest heaved.
Tears welled in his eyes—he fought them, shook them off—but the guilt, the agony, the love overwhelmed him.
He blinked, vision blurred.
And in that split second—
The first spear pierced his ribs.
Aenys gasped—sharp, painful.
The second came fast—into his side, where the fire of his blade had lost its warmth.
He stumbled.
His knees buckled, sword loosening in his hand.
He looked at Arwyn—not in hatred, but in mourning.
“...You promised we’d fight together,” he whispered, eyes trembling.
Arwyn’s eyes burned behind the wolf helm.
He whispered, just loud enough for the falling snow to carry it:
“I am keeping that promise.”
And he drove the third spear into Aenys’ stomach.
Aenys choked. Blood spilled from his lips, dripping onto the icy water beneath them, turning red the place where once they had built boats from sticks and dreams. But he felt nothing anymore.
He collapsed to one knee, his sword falling.
The fourth and final thrust came swift—through his chest, the fire in him dying as the cold took him whole.
His body jerked once.
Then stilled.
His final breath misted into the frozen air.
And at last, the tear fell—from his blue eyes, warm against a cheek now drained of life.
————————Castle Black, Gabriel.————————
Gabriel waited until the bells struck past midnight — when even the torches lining the long hallway of Castle Black flickered like tired sentries. Wrapped in her thick grey cloak, she moved soundlessly across the corridor that led to the Lord Commander’s chamber. Her footsteps were careful, the kind that left no trace even on dusty stone.
She reached the door, fingers already finding the iron handle. A sharp glance over her shoulder confirmed what she already knew — the hallway was empty. Silent. Not even a steward’s cough echoed in the cold.
She slipped inside.
The chamber smelled like old leather and pine resin, faintly spiced with Theon's favored ink. A large table stood against the wall, cluttered with maps, dispatches, and thickly bound logs of the Watch. Gabriel moved quickly but with precision, flipping through the topmost files. Her gloved fingers danced across the parchment—until she found it.
The election schedule.
She froze.
Her name wasn’t there.
Not among the contenders for First Ranger.
She hadn’t filed her candidacy.
Of course. She’d spent too long calculating, planning, watching. Too careful. Too slow.
But the parchment was unsealed. The election wasn’t until dawn.
And now she knew where the schedules were kept.
She slid a few more files into her cloak: candidate rosters, ranger patrol charts, recent vote tallies—all of it. Every thread she'd need to pull this web tighter around her.
A small sound outside made her flinch, but it passed—just a gust of wind rattling the shutters. She exhaled and stepped back from the desk, making sure everything looked undisturbed, her footprints already fading in the chill.
The night wind whistled low through the narrow windows of Castle Black’s upper halls, flurries catching in the torchlight. Gabriel moved like a shadow, a whisper between worlds, cloak trailing behind her like the last breath of dusk.
She turned the corridor, clutching the stolen files within the folds of her cloak—
“Bit late to be playing steward, isn’t it?”
The voice was sharp, too casual to be unguarded. She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
Orion Barron. Bastard of house Barron.
He stood in the dim torchlight, leaning against the stone archway with his arms crossed, one boot kicked lazily against the wall. Black hair tousled, brown eyes gleaming with too much calculation for someone who claimed not to care. His frost-worn armor bore the sigil of House Barron—a silver bear upon pine—and the edges were scuffed from years of not-so-voluntary service beyond the Wall.
Gabriel didn’t slow.
“Does the bastard pup of House Barron often bark when no one’s speaking to him?” she said airily, brushing past him.
Orion’s eyes narrowed, following her. “Odd to see you roaming Lord Commander’s quarters while he’s away on Raven business. Then again, the Aurelius have always been... territorial.”
She stopped then, pivoting smoothly. Her smile curled slow, too sweet to be anything but venom.
“As if you care about territory, Orion,” she said, stepping close, close enough to see the faint scar along his jawline. “You were shipped to the Wall like an unwanted letter. You don’t even belong to the house whose sigil you wear. Must be exhausting... pretending to be a good little soldier.”
Orion’s jaw tensed, but his voice stayed level. “Must be lonely, always walking ahead of the rest. You look over your shoulder so much, you forget how angel you used to be.”
Gabriel chuckled darkly. “That’s rich coming from a mutt who follows Theon around like a lost pup. You’d think you were born with his scent on your leash.”
He flinched,.subtly, but she caught it. Her aim had landed.
She leaned in, whispering like frost on steel. “I’m not the one sniffing after command with no real name to claim it.”
Orion didn’t bite back. Not yet. But something shifted in his expression. Not anger—interest.
He was watching her now.
Studying her.
And Gabriel knew what he was thinking.
That something was off.
That the Lord Commander’s absence, the darkness of the halls, her timing—none of it added up.
She offered him one last smile, almost playful. “Wipe that suspicion from your face, Barron. People might start thinking you’re clever.”
Her cousins never seemed to mind. Theon even sparred with him often, Lucan laughed with him like a brother, and Selene? Selene had once told her in passing, “If Orion wasn’t a Barron by name, I’d swear he was one of us.”
And that’s what unsettled Gabriel the most.
A flicker played at the edge of her thoughts—a memory, sharp and unwanted.
She was younger, still growing into her leather armor, passing through the training yard where the frostwatch recruits trained. A guard with greying hair and a thick Snezhnayan accent had waved to Orion across the snow-blasted stones.
“Aurelius boy!” he called.
Gabriel froze.
“I—I'm not—" Orion started to correct.
“Eh, close enough,” the guard shrugged. “You walk like one, talk like one. That’s more than I can say for half the real ones.”
Gabriel hadn’t forgotten. Not the way the recruits nodded like it was true. Not the way Orion had smiled afterward, just faintly, like he belonged in their halls more than she ever did.
And why wouldn’t he?
His mother had Aurelius blood. A cousin of Caelus, a war widow, gone now but remembered well. Gabriel was too young to remember her face—but she knew the story. How Caelus had fought for her honor once. How Arwyn himself had blessed her son to stay at Castle Black when Lord Barron wanted him gone.
Maybe that was why the watch called him one of them.
Maybe that was why they let him wear the bear crest, but treated him like a wolf.
But Gabriel didn’t trust bloodlines.
Not anymore.
Not when bastards were slipping into legacies they never earned.
The skies over Castle Black were silent under the moonless night. Snow drifted lazily down in silvery flakes, blanketing the Wall in near silence. From atop one of the rookeries, a single raven took flight—except it wasn’t a raven at all. It was an angel cloaked in shadow, guided by instinct, ambition, and something colder.
Gabriel Aurelius rode through the darkened skies with boosted stealth and silent flight. Her wolf, Blizzard, stayed behind on the wall. This was not a journey for company.
She veered southward under the stars, following the glimmer of distant fires and oil-lit streets until the gliders took her to the merchant roads of Thoborn—the frostbitten hills bustling with midnight trade. She landed far from the main square, tucking the glider into a thicket of pine and pulling her coat tight around her. Her face was masked beneath a woolen wrap, only her sharp grey eyes visible.
She slipped into the chaos of the midnight merchant rows, where peddlers whispered shady promises and vagrants kept to fires for warmth. She passed stalls stacked with spice and cloth, relics of the Old Forest and iron-etched charms.
But then—she passed a dimly lit corner of the market, where a burned-out brazier flickered weakly beside a blackened stone wall.
From the shadows, a voice whispered.
“Gabriel.”
She stopped. Her breath hitched, boots frozen in the slush. No one should’ve known her name. Not here.
She turned, hand slowly drifting toward the dagger strapped beneath her coat.
A figure leaned against the wall, cloaked in deep navy, hood drawn low. Their face—obscured. Not by shadow, but by something… unnatural. A distortion in the air, like mist rising from boiling water. Unclear. Unfocused. Their presence felt too grounded, too solid—yet completely dissonant with the world around them.
“What did you say?” Gabriel asked, voice like ice.
The figure tilted their head slowly, as if they didn’t hear her. Or didn’t need to.
“You’re not the only one searching,” they murmured, “but you may not like what you find.”
The brazier beside them suddenly flared with blue flame, as if reacting to something unseen. Gabriel stepped back, fingers ready to draw.
“Who are you?”
No answer.
“Say my name again and I’ll carve yours from your throat.”
But the figure was already gone.
Vanished.
The oil lamps flickered in strange rhythm, and the snow beneath Gabriel’s boots no longer crunched the same way. Every street she turned led her back to the same burnt-out brazier. The same crooked wall. The same hunched figure with the distorted face, like an oil painting half-melted, smeared by fire and fog.
She picked another path. Different angle. A side alley this time. But again—there. The figure. Always there.
Gabriel clenched her jaw, refusing to let fear seed itself. Her breath steamed out in angry puffs.
“I’m not one to play riddles,” she said, stepping forward, footsteps sharp in the snow. “So what’s the meaning of this? Some glamour spell? Illusion? Dream pollen in the air?”
The figure said nothing. Just stared—or rather, seemed to stare—though no eyes could be made out through the misty distortion that veiled their face like cracked glass.
Then the figure moved.
Suddenly. Silently. Precisely.
A pale hand lashed out and gripped Gabriel by the wrist—the same wrist with the frost-scorched mark given by the Frost King himself.
The mark hissed. A high, searing noise like steam escaping frozen metal.
Gabriel snarled and tried to pull back, but she couldn’t move. Her body froze from the elbow down, and the woman’s grip was like ironwood roots — ancient and unyielding.
The woman lifted her other hand slowly, revealing a black witch’s necklace etched with blood-gold runes. As she pressed her fingers to the pendant, a shudder ran through the air—like the very world exhaled.
And then the merchant streets melted.
The fire vanished. The wall fell away. The snow turned to vapor.
Gabriel's world twisted into stars.
Her ears filled with phantom echoes. Her breath caught as she felt her feet leave the ground—no longer in Thoborn.
The snow returned. But not the same.
The stars above were wrong—too bright, too many. The trees swayed in reverse. The air was too clear, like it had never been breathed before.
Gabriel stood in a place untouched by time. A dream realm, raw and ancient.
—————Realm of hallucination, Gabriel.—————
Before her stood the woman now fully revealed.
Her face was no longer blurred—yet not beautiful, not plain. It was unreal. Like someone sculpted her from memory instead of flesh. Her eyes were made of shifting frostglass, and her voice came not from her lips, but from behind Gabriel's ear.
What remained was not a stranger. Not a witch. Not some prophet from old dreams.
It was a face carved into Gabriel’s childhood like the murals of Castle Snezhnaya. A face that adorned the forgotten corners of old war paintings, draped in furs and laced in ivory white veils. A face of pride, of sorrow, of quiet nobility before tragedy struck.
White hair like snowfall. Grey eyes like her own.
Gabriel staggered one step back.
“That’s not possible...” she whispered.
The woman smiled—no longer cloaked in illusions. Her expression was melancholic, tired, as though centuries had passed in silence. But her voice—her voice was now crystal clear.
“You remember me, then.”
Gabriel's heart pounded. “Aunt... Cornelia?"
Cornelia Aurelius. The Lily of the North. The Queen Consort that never truly ruled. The woman whose death sparked the Hour of the Wolf. The reason Arwyn bore his spear into a king’s chest and started a war. The ghost who never had a grave in the North, whose name was erased from stone and song.
“Impossible” Gabriel muttered, as if by saying it, reality might snap back. “You died. They slit your throat.”
Cornelia didn’t deny it. She merely nodded, her long white hair drifting with the windless current of the dreamworld.
Her presence radiated warmth and melancholy, something almost motherly, something familiar.
“Gabriel,” she said softly.
Gabriel froze, clutching her wrist as the mark hissed faintly. “This is a trick. You’re dead.”
Cornelia nodded. “I am. And I loved being dead, because at least that meant I wasn’t chained anymore. But they brought me back... they used me.”
Gabriel’s breath hitched. “What did they do to you?”
Cornelia stepped closer. Her form shimmered gently, like snow caught in the morning sun. “They couldn’t accept that I loved Aenys. Not Metatron. Not the mad king. Especially not the priests.”
“They wanted you to have a child,” Gabriel muttered, remembering the history.
“They wanted a weapon,” Cornelia corrected. “I wanted a husband. I wanted a quiet life. I loved Aenys... more than the North, more than my bloodline. I would’ve followed him to the ends of Eden.”
“But they saw that as betrayal?” Gabriel whispered.
Cornelia smiled, painfully. “I was an Aurelius who fell in love with a bastard Astyrax. Our union was peace, and they feared peace more than they feared war. The priests said my womb would birth the child of prophecy, so when I couldn’t—when I didn’t... they slit my throat.”
Gabriel turned pale. “And Aenys?”
“He rode home with flowers falling at his feet,” Cornelia said, her voice breaking. “To bring news of a victory. To kiss me and dance again beneath the Myrrh trees. But instead, he found my body.”
Gabriel swallowed hard. “And Metatron?”
Cornelia looked away, bitter. “He was a child then. Innocent. But later... he returned. With power. With priests. He didn’t kill me, not truly—he harvested me. My body. My curse. My legacy. He took my frozen heart and handed it to Michael.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“He didn’t even know what he was doing.”
Gabriel’s voice cracked. “So you were never a Frost King... you were made into one?”
Cornelia turned to her, face drawn with grief. “I was never a king. I was a woman in love. That was my mistake.”
The world began to tremble. The chains of the old vision rose again, this time dragged across Cornelia’s back like old scars. A sound echoed—the doors of the Astyrax vault creaking open.
Cornelia looked at her niece one last time.
“Don’t become what they want you to be,” she said. “If they give you a crown, ask what it cost. And if they give you a sword, ask who they want you to point it at. Power is not a gift, Gabriel. It’s always a cage.”
Gabriel was starting to get confused.
The world shifted again.
The sky above Cornelia’s vanishing silhouette melted into a shroud of ash-gray clouds, and the wind grew deathly still. A soundless snowfall fell in reverse—flakes rising like forgotten memories. All color drained from the dream realm until Gabriel stood on bare stone beneath a silver sky.
Then she recognized it.
The empty crypt.
Carved from obsidian and permafrost, the silent chamber beneath Castle Caelestis where no name was engraved. Where no songs were sung. Where her aunt’s bones rested in silence, far from her home in the North.
She stood before it now.
Gabriel’s breath trembled as she looked upon the slab once more, the one she remembered from her earlier descent into the lower crypts. The mark on her wrist burned again—not in pain, but in recognition.
Her pulse slowed.
Her vision honed on the stone.
And her mind began to put the pieces together.
She knew.
Cornelia never bore a child. But something far more insidious passed down. A curse? A prophecy? A cycle?
No—a legacy.
Her aunt had been the fourth.
Seraphis Aurelius before her.
And now, Gabriel understood.
Gabriel was supposed to be fifth.
Her gaze snapped toward Cornelia’s dream-figure, still lingering near the grave like a ghost given form. The white-haired woman no longer smiled. She only stared, gaze deep and knowing.
“I was never meant to birth the heir,” Cornelia said, voice quieter than wind. “I was meant to become the vessel. So were you.”
The frost mark on Gabriel's wrist flared—shimmering like a sigil only she could see.
“No,” Gabriel whispered, staggering back. “No, I’m not—”
Cornelia stepped closer, shaking her head with a sad, serene calm.
Gabriel backed away, heart pounding in her ears as Cornelia’s translucent figure reached out once more. Her fingers looked almost real this time—pale and smooth as alabaster, but outlined with flickers of spectral frost.
“Don’t touch me!” Gabriel snapped, stumbling backward. “Get away from me—!”
But the moment the dream-woman’s fingertips grazed the edge of her coat—
The dream cracked.
A loud chime—a sound like shattering ice—rippled through the air, and Gabriel was yanked through time and memory like a falling star caught in a current.
The world darkened into cold iron walls.
Now she stood in another memory. But not hers.
A deep underground chamber of blackened frost stone. Spires of corrupted crystal protruded from the floor. Chains laced with glyphs of High Edenian and Northern runes bound a monstrous figure to the heart of the room.
Cornelia.
But not Cornelia anymore.
Her form had mutated—her once-regal silhouette now a figure of blue fire and pale ice, eyes glowing with fury barely restrained. Frost crawled in endless tendrils across the floor from her chained wrists and ankles. A frozen crown hovered just slightly above her head, suspended by the enchantments keeping her from rising.
And just as Gabriel watched, the symbol on the door shimmered into existence—
A blazing crest of a phoenix wrapped in steel flame.
The sigil of House Astyrax.
The doors creaked open with dreadful weight.
Metatron Astyrax entered. Regal in shadow, face unreadable. And walking beside him, barely into manhood, was Prince Michael.
Cornelia’s undead head lifted.
Her mouth opened, fangs forming behind cracked lips, but no words came—only a sound that echoed like grief trapped in ice.
“You promised,” she mouthed silently.
“You said you’d protect me.”
Michael froze in the doorway.
His eyes—still soft then, not yet filled with bitterness—widened as he looked upon the chained, cursed queen.
“Is this… her?” Michael asked quietly.
Metatron said nothing for a while. Then, in a voice that sounded more like steel than man, he nodded.
“That was Cornelia Aurelius.”
Michael turned toward him, confused.
“Was?”
Metatron finally walked closer to the center of the chamber. He did not look at Cornelia, only at the chains glowing beneath her.
“She chose the frost. She chose her kind. Now she pays for it. Though she had been dead for years, due to the frost, she's undead.”
Cornelia growled then—not like a monster, but like a betrayed woman, trying to form words through pain.
Metatron stood before her, as still as stone.
He looked at her with no anger. No sorrow. Just necessity.
“Forgive me, sister of frost,” he whispered, though his eyes held no regret. “You are too powerful to be left as you are.”
And then—
Steel flashed.
A silent, clean strike, so sharp even the chains didn’t rattle.
Gabriel flinched in horror as Metatron drove a blade through Cornelia’s chest, between her ribs—no hesitation, no remorse. The steel sang through sinew and bone, black ichor bursting forth like ink in water.
Cornelia’s mouth opened, a voiceless scream, and for a moment her eyes locked with Gabriel’s across the realm of memory.
She knew. She saw her.
The chains went slack as her body disintegrated, fading into fine silver ash, caught in the dead cold of the chamber. But Metatron did not let her pass completely.
From within her dissolving chest, he reached in.
Fingers wrapped around something still pulsing—a heart, crusted with frost, still beating with unnatural life. The veins around it shimmered with Northern runes, and in its center, a flicker of phoenix flame frozen in time.
Cornelia’s power. Her legacy. Her curse.
Metatron turned to Michael, who stood behind him, frozen with dread.
“Take it,” the king said. “The North must obey. You will become what she refused to be.”
Michael took a step back, disgusted.
“She was—she was family,” he muttered.
“She was weakness,” Metatron growled. “And weakness has no throne.”
He shoved the frost-laced heart into Michael’s hands, where it glowed faintly—like a dying star wrapped in winter.
The young prince stared at it, trembling.
He opened his mouth.
Gabriel frowned, forced to watch as Michael bit into the heart, blue light bursting from his lips and his eyes rolling back, his veins turning a spider web of frost and fire.
The chamber lit up like a winter storm. The walls cracked. The runes flared.
And Cornelia’s breath rang across the void—not from her throat, but from within her stolen heart.
Gabriel groaned sharply as her vision tore away from the dream. The winds of Thoborn returned with a vengeance—grit and snow brushing against her cheeks like sharp whispers.
She stumbled backwards.
The alleyway where she stood was silent.
The masked woman—gone.
Nothing but a cloak, neatly folded on the cobblestone.
No footprints. No scent of fire or frost.
As if the realm of dreams had spat her back and erased the visitor.
Gabriel knelt, fingers trembling as she brushed aside the folds of fabric. A pendant fell into her palm.
Silver. Carved in the shape of a growling direwolf, its fangs gilded faintly with white gold. Around its neck, etched in thin ice-script, were the old runes of House Aurelius—worn and nearly unreadable.
She stared at it for a long time.
Her breath visible.
Her pulse rising.
Cornelia’s. It had to be.
Gabriel curled her fingers around the relic. No words. No prayers. She just unhooked the leather cord from the frozen cloak and slipped it around her neck, tucking the pendant beneath her coat.
"Michael is the fifth frost King, huh?" She sighed to herself, still somehow confused after everything that was shown.
Chapter 17: A dreadful court, Northern Throne (8)
Summary:
Where Gabriel explores how bad her identity crisis is after she caught a glimpse of her aunt's fate and the tasks she was given of murdering a traitor. Caelus was summoned to Caelestis shortly, Metatron assigning him a deal that Caelus can't do which is promise Gabriel's hand in marriage to his eldest son. Nonetheless, Caelus has to obey if the future of Aurelia is in need of saving, not from the harsh climate nor the frostwalkers but the traitorous king infront of him that's willing to plunge Eden into ruin. Not that he admits it, but it was painfully obvious he saw the North as a threat to both his throne and lineage. Short before, Gabriel encounters Uriel with her trio. Rhyan, the son of lord Rhogar Dravon tries talking Gabriel from making such a scene. A lot of lore and needed information in order to progress in the next chapters and arcs.
Notes:
Warning: This chapter implies minor intimate scenes between characters but not major levelled, I just needed to deepen Caelus' and Seraphine's dynamic as lord and lady of the Northern dominion. Anyways, I finally figured out how to write in AO3 and I will be changing my style of writing finally.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
DREADFORT — east of the Kingdom of Aurelia, Gabriel Aurelius.
Nestled in the crook where the Weeping Rivers meet the Scalding Marsh, stood like a wound carved into the world. Gabriel Aurelius stood before it now. The estate loomed—taller than she remembered, darker than any memory could recall. Its walls, built from bloodstone and obsidian mortar, were slick with rain and old iron rust. Moss clung like rot, and even the moonlight seemed reluctant to touch its surface. The archways bore the sharp reliefs of howling wolves, winged and disfigured, their mouths agape as if in eternal torment. This was not a home. It was a monument to fear.
The gates groaned open at her command—an ancient seal burned into the back of her palm by her father granting her temporary dominion. Inside, the air was thick with rot and memory. The halls were carved into a labyrinth of stone, meant to confuse and crush the mind. No windows. No warmth. Just corridors spiraling downward, deeper and deeper into the bones of the earth. Once, Dreadfort had been a fortress. Then a prison. Then a slaughterhouse. House Aurelius built it as a warning. No traitor leaves the labyrinth.
Her boots echoed against the stone, the pendant Cornelia gave her burning faintly against her chest like a second heartbeat. She carried no torch. The corridors lit themselves—blue witchflame that clung to frozen sconces, reacting to Aurelius blood. Along the walls: sigils of the condemned, etched by hand, then flayed from flesh. The scent of old copper still lingered. Every so often, she passed iron hooks and bone racks, long since abandoned. But not forgotten. She reached the Gallery of Tongues—a place where traitors once had their lies preserved in glass jars, floating in black ichor. Most of them had shattered. A few still twitched.
Gabriel kept walking, deeper, until the Flaying Chamber revealed itself at last. Black floor. Steel drain. Hooks and pulleys still intact. A single chair in the center, facing an ancient mural of Courous Aurelius, first of his name, carving out the oathbreakers with a blade of bone.
The traitor waited, chained. Eyes covered. Mouth gagged. “Gabriel Aurelius,” the voice rasped before she even said a word. “So they sent the girl from the walls of Snezhnaya" He said, but she said nothing.
Her orders had been clear—This one knew the location of the Severed Vaults. He bore the seal of House Barron. He once called himself kin despite being one of the many bastards of that house. Gabriel stared at him—old blood trailing from his mouth, the skin of his back already flayed in stripes by the guards who brought him here. He was broken.
Yet when he looked up, the smile was defiant. “Do it. Show me what kind of monster the blood of pure angels makes.” He threatened, alas, her hand trembled. The pendant at her throat was ice. Her legacy hotter than flame. And behind her eyes, she could still see Cornelia's heart being eaten. This is what it means to be an Aurelius. The blade entered beneath the ribs. Gabriel twisted. The traitor shrieked. The flaying knife carved slow, deliberate arcs through skin and sinew, peeling back what little dignity the man had left. Blood steamed against the cold stone. Each breath he took came with a choking gargle, his limbs jerking against the iron restraints.
Gabriel’s hands moved without thought. Muscle memory. Ancestral violence buried in her bones. “You… don’t have to be them…” the traitor gasped, voice wet. “You… can be more…” But she couldn’t hear him anymore. She saw Cornelia again. Saw the frost-laced heart. The light leaving Michael’s eyes. The day her world fractured. 'You are an Aurelius' she told herself. 'You were made to obey'. Her blade came down again, until the screams were only echoes.
Until the man was a ruin of gore and cloth and mangled bone, slumped like discarded parchment. Until the flaying chamber fell silent once more. Her hands—coated in dark red. Her boots slick. Her reflection in a puddle of blood was warped, wide-eyed, wrong. She stumbled backward. Her breath came sharp and panicked, like knives in her throat.
'What did I just—what did I—' Her stomach turned. She retched violently against the stone, sobbing as the scent of iron clung to her lips. “He was begging,” she whispered. “He was begging me to end his suffering,, A-and I-” The blade slipped from her fingers. All she could hear was her heartbeat—louder, louder, thunderous. Or was that the blood roaring in her ears? She ripped the pendant from her neck.
Cornelia’s. Cornelia, the daughter of the North who had burned for love. Who had screamed. Who had tried to stay human. “I’m not like them,” Gabriel gasped. “I’m not—I’m not like her—I swear it.” She whispered to the corpse.
But she was.
She was.
The girl with frost and fire in her prophecy. The daughter of Caelus. The ghost in the North. The 56th Aurelius hound that hunts and flays and forgets how to mourn. Gabriel didn’t know how long she sat in that chamber. Minutes? Hours? Days? The blood had dried across her hands, cracked and dark like old paint. The stone beneath her knees had long grown numb. The silence became a presence, heavy and watching. Dreadfort breathed like a beast in slumber. The knife still lay beside her. The flaying blade—blackened at the hilt with use, dulled now by blood.
She stared at it. Unblinking. Her fingers twitched. She reached for it, one small movement with one shallow breath. A cut—an elegant one. The one she imagined Cornelia had done, the kind that would silence everything. Stop the legacy. Kill the name. Kill the curse. Gabriel raised the blade slowly, fingers trembling, point tilted toward her throat. Just beneath the chin. Where the vein would bloom like a red flower if she dared. "I could make it all quiet." The steel kissed her skin. Gabriel’s eyes snapped opened, making her realize the situation she was in.
A feral, heart-shattering sound, threatened to be ripped from the core of her as the blade fell from her grip and clattered against the ground. She seized it with both hands and hurled it into the nearby brazier with all her strength. The fire exploded—not out, but in. It swallowed the blade whole, hungrily, curling white-hot tongues around steel until it bent, melted, collapsed in on itself. She fell back against the wall and the chamber was alive again.
No longer silent. Just breathing-and so was she, with her hands shaking, Gabriel curled into herself, hands over her ears, rocking gently. “I am not just their daughter,” she whispered again and again.
“I am not just a knife. I am not—”
She didn’t finish.
She didn’t need to.
For the first time in hours, her heart began to beat to her rhythm. Not her father's. Not her family's. Not Aurelius. She didn’t feel like Gabriel Aurelius. Not the daughter of Caelus the Cruel. Not the niece of Arwyn the Unbroken. Not the kin of Cornelia, the Daughter of the North. She felt small. Filthy. Something monstrous cradling the illusion of a girl.
Aurelius.
The syllables tasted like ash.
She pressed her forehead to her knees. But the silence didn’t return.
Instead—whispers came, but not the gentle ones that her mother used to sing her. Yes, it was soft at first but nothing can ever prepare her for the sting of her own plethora of words.
Unworthy... Pretender... Bloodstained slave... She lifted her head slowly. Nothing in the chamber had changed. And yet she felt the air shift—something had entered. Not a person. A presence. A chorus. Half-breaths and forgotten names hissing like snakes through the cracks in the Dreadfort’s walls.
'They all wore masks too, once… and they all fell, just like you will.' She clutched at her chest. You don’t belong among angels. “You’re wrong,” Gabriel muttered, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it. 'You’re nothing but a shadow draped in your aunt’s skin.' The voice murmured “I said shut up—” replied Gabriel, louder and higher than the voice. The wind howled through the broken window of the Dreadfort chamber, a ghostly scream stretched thin across the stone.
Gabriel stood before the old, dust-filmed mirror near the wall—cracked in three places, but still intact enough to catch her reflection. She didn’t recognize the girl staring back. Blood clung to her hands, her sleeves and her cheeks. Her white silver hair was tangled, matted. Her eyes—grey like her father’s—looked wrong somehow. Wild. Empty. She stared at the mirror, and the mirror stared back. But then she snapped. Her fist shattered the glass with a crack, shards exploding across the floor like falling stars. Her knuckles split open, bright red blooming beneath her skin like paint across snow. But it wasn’t enough.
She slammed her fist again—another hit, another scream, voice raw. “What do you want from me?!" Her voice echoed off the chamber walls. “What do you want from me?!” Her breath hitched. She staggered back. The broken glass whispered in response. Every jagged fragment still reflecting her face—but wrong. In one, her eyes were blackened voids. In another, her mouth twisted in a cruel grin not her own. “What do you want from me…?” she whimpered, quieter now.
How can one be brave if afraid?
Her footsteps echoed through the stone labyrinth, the only answer to her breathless sobs. Blood dripped from her knuckles, from the tip of her blade, trailing behind her like a broken thread through the maze of the dead. She walked blindly, one arm wrapped around her ribs, the other clutching the hilt of her dagger as if it could anchor her sanity. The walls closed in tighter the deeper she went. No light except the flickering torch above the iron rack, where the body still hung—stripped of skin, raw and wet and sagging like butchered meat.
The traitor.
He had confessed in the end. Cried. Pleaded. Swore he still loved the Aurelius name, now he dangled like a ghost of treachery, twitching gently in the windless dark. Gabriel stared at him. Then, slowly, with trembling steps, she approached-The silence grew heavier. Her boots splashed in the sticky pool beneath him. And then something in her snapped. She plunged the blade deep into what was left of his stomach. Again. And again. “Why—” stab “—why would you—” stab “—betray us?” stab “Why would you—!” stab
Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with blood and sweat. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, the kind that scraped her throat raw. She drove her fists into his ribcage, broke bones. Her blade cracked against spine. And still, he said nothing. Because he was dead. And she was still here.
Alive.
Shaking, Gabriel stepped back. Her hands were covered in viscera. Her sleeves soaked in red. Her boots sunk slightly into the gore at her feet. This wasn’t honor. This wasn’t justice. This was madness. Gabriel thought. She turned away—but the walls of the Dreadfort seemed to move with her. The shadows deepened. The silence became a hum in her skull.
“I’m not her,” she whispered. Not Cornelia. Not Aurelia. Not even Gabriel.
Castle Snezhnaya, Caelus.
The winter wind whispered faintly outside the high windows of Castle Snezhnaya, but within the bedchambers of the Lord and Lady, warmth lingered. Caelus Aurelius lay sprawled beneath thick furs, shirtless, hunched over parchment and quill like a schoolboy. His silver hair, usually so precise and regal, fell a bit messier across his forehead. Beside him, seated cross-legged in her nightgown, Seraphine watched him with amusement sparkling in her eyes. He scribbled a word—slow, deliberate strokes forming the ancient curves of the Vireonic script.
Then leaned toward her, lips brushing gently against the curve of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. “Mmm—flattery won’t fix your grammar,” she said through a laugh, tilting her head to the side but still inspecting the parchment. “You just declared that ‘the sky weeps wolves.’” She laughed, barely understanding her lord's writing. “Poetic,” Caelus murmured against her, his mouth brushing her collarbone now. “Maybe it should.” He replied, earning a gentle and playful tug. “It was supposed to say ‘the dawn of angels rises.’ Instead, you wrote ‘the dog of angels cooks.’”
He groaned, flopping dramatically onto the bed, parchment raised over his face. “I have ruled legions, marched through blizzards, and survived five assassination attempts. But the Vireonic tongue will be the death of me.” Seraphine plucked the page from his hands, glancing over his spidery writing. “It’s the flick of the lower arc, not the cross slash. You keep making it look like the old Imperial glyph for ‘oven.’”
Caelus sat back up, leaning his head against her shoulder now, eyes closed. “Why must our ancestors speak in riddles and angles?” He complained. “Because they were proud and insufferable,” Seraphine said fondly, running her fingers through his hair. “Like you.” She added. “Blasphemy, insulting your lord is considered first degree treason.” he muttered, pressing another kiss just under her jawline. “You’re incorrigible,” she whispered, letting the parchment fall to the floor. “I’m trying to teach you. You’re seducing your tutor.” she said, prismarine blue eyes, a mark of house Bulstrode looked at his husband's dull and cold grey ones. “I pay in devotion, not coin,” he said. “It’s a rare currency.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling against his temple. “Then you’re bankrupt, my love.” Outside, the storm deepened into a quiet hush. Inside, the couple rested—just a man and woman, too rare in their moments, too old in their souls, trying to make light in the legacy of ice. Caelus groaned again as Seraphine pushed his face away with a single finger to his forehead, her touch both firm and soft.
“No kisses until you get through three full lines without turning my language into culinary disaster,” she said, retrieving the fallen parchment from the fur-covered floor and straightening it with a graceful flick. “And no—I’m not falling for that pout. You invented that look during the Second Icefall War to convince the diplomats to sign neutrality.” Seraphine added.
“It worked that time.” he muttered, dragging the ink-stained quill back into his hand. “You’re cruel, Seraphine. Even for a lord's wife.” He pleaded. “I am merciful, Caelus the cruel. I am sparing you the humiliation of publicly declaring someone’s grandmother as an airborne eel.” She leaned over again, pointing to his last line. “This—this is the character for ascend, not explode. Unless you’re trying to say ‘the angel detonates the moon.’”
He leaned close again, pretending to be interested in the page, but his eyes never left the curve of her lips. “You’re deliberately distracting me.” He pouted. “Might I remind you that I am the distraction on full purpose” she said proudly, brushing his hand with hers. “And if you want the reward... finish your lines correctly.” she said, earning narrowed grey stares from Caelus, lips curled into a crooked smirk. “So this is a test of will.”
“It’s always been a test of will, my Lord.” She said, gesturing Caelus to continue, and so the devil forbid he did, He began again—slow strokes, more careful now, shaping each Vireonic curve with a deliberation that felt almost reverent. Seraphine watched, hands tucked beneath her chin, smiling behind them. “You’re improving,” she said finally. “Although you just told me the ‘flames kiss my brother’s funeral.’”
He exhaled. “Better than the oven. Was that at least poetic?” She laughed at her husband's attempt at enlightening. “Morbid. But yes.” She said, but the Lord of the North had paused. “...Will that earn me a kiss, my lady?” He asked, holding her hand and trying his best to distract Seraphine from the spoiled ink on the floor. “No,” she said immediately , leaning back into the pillows. “I said correctly. That means no funeral pyres, no exploding moons, and no airborne grandmothers.”
“Perhaps you should just teach our daughter instead,” he muttered as he scratched out another glyph. “She’s bound to be more receptive.” Seraphine smirked. “Our daughter has more sense than to kiss a man who still can’t spell light in three alphabets.” Caelus cast her a playful glare. “This is torture, my love.” He joked, kissing his wife's forehead. “Then write your way out of it, commander.”
He dipped the quill again, but this time, her hand reached out to settle over his—steady, warm. “...You don’t need to be perfect at everything, Caelus,” she said gently. “Just try. That’s enough for me. Be a good husband, hmm?” Seraphine said, eyebrow raised teasingly which made the Lord crumble and melt. He didn’t answer right away—just looked at her, his gruff composure faltering slightly. Then he nodded, more to her than to the parchment And so, under the hush of winter winds, the Lord of House Aurelius resumed his battle with ink and syllable—beside the woman who’d never once asked him to be a god. Just her husband. Just a man learning love in a language older than angels
Seraphine squinted at the parchment again. The once promising glyphs had now devolved into a scrawled disaster, a crooked snake where a flame should be, a tower missing its upper half, and a flourish so wildly misplaced it could’ve summoned a spirit from the abyss. Her lips parted, halfway between laughter and disbelief. “You were doing so well,” she said, holding up the sheet like a mother discovering crayon scribbles on a war map. “What happened to ‘the light we carry into the frost?’ Now it reads like a prayer for cracked ankles and misfortune.”
Caelus leaned back on his elbows, the corners of his mouth twitching as he feigned deep, aristocratic remorse. “It appears I’ve regressed. Perhaps my fingers are frozen. Or my mind, dulled by time and bureaucracy.” he smiled innocently. “You did this on purpose,” she accused with narrowed eyes. He said nothing. But the smug glint in his silver gaze said everything.
Seraphine let out a breath and tossed the parchment aside, letting it drift like a fallen leaf onto the rug beside their bed. “Gods, you’re insufferable,” she muttered, crawling toward him with a slow, feline grace. “You always were.” She said, scoffing at her husband's attempt to bear puppy eyes. “I missed you,” he said quietly, and for a moment the jesting stopped. She paused, her face softening. “I’m right here, Caelus.”
He smiled at his wife's words. “I know.” His voice was low. “But I missed you like this. Just us. No Council. No wings to command. No dead to bury.” Seraphine leaned in and brushed a strand of silver hair from his face. “Then perhaps you’ve earned a reward for your... purposeful incompetence.” He tilted his head, intrigued. “Oh?” Before he could say more, her lips met his. Slow, warm, and full of mischief. And then, with a soft bite at the side of his neck, she pulled away and whispered in his ear, “Now you’ve earned another hour of my company, you clever, sappy fool.” Seraphine praised.
Caelus blinked, stunned for a moment by the rare and playful bite she left on his neck—as though the cold lord of House Aurelius could be anything but composed. But now? Now, he was nothing but clay in her hands. “You bit me,” he said softly, eyes wide in mock betrayal. Seraphine only smirked and shrugged, straddling his lap, the firelight catching the curve of her dark hair and the silver sigils woven into her night-robe. “You deserved it. Ruining my script lessons for your own agenda.”
“I regret nothing,” Caelus whispered, breath barely grazing her skin. “Not if it led to this.” His hands settled gently at her waist, still reverent even after all these years, like he feared she would vanish if he held too tightly. Seraphine leaned down, lips grazing his, and just as he deepened the kiss—
Scratch.
They both paused again. That same damned raven. Unrelenting. “Ignore it,” Seraphine commanded against his lips, voice commanding and cold with newfound urgency. “Just this once, let someone else handle the world.” Caelus chuckled into her kiss, sinking into the moment like it was his first breath after drowning. “You’ll never hear me object, love.” he replied playfully. And he didn’t. Not when she took control with the ease of someone who had always known she held power over him. Not when she pushed him gently back into the plush sheets. The raven scratched again, but the world beyond the frosted glass could wait.
For just one night — it was theirs.
The North, the blood feuds, the frostbitten politics — all could rot at the gates of Snezhnaya. Seraphine moved like wildfire, like vengeance, like the last warmth before a long war—and Caelus, the ever-stoic, ever-disciplined Lord Aurelius? He melted beneath her. Caelus’ breath was still shallow, his silver-white hair disheveled as he sat up against the headboard, chest rising and falling beneath the undone folds of his nightclothes. The parchment in his hand crinkled slightly as he finally opened it, the wax seal already broken by the raven’s forceful delivery. Seraphine hadn’t moved from above him—arms wrapped around his chest, her warmth still flush against his back. Her breath tickled his ear as she hummed, lazily trailing her fingers up his collar.
“Seraphine,” Caelus muttered, his tone both desperate and pleading, “just—give me a moment. This letter… it might be urgent.” She groaned softly in mock annoyance and buried her face into the crook of his neck, lips brushing his skin. “You say that every time, beloved,” she teased, emphasizing the word like a taunt. Her fingers found the buttons of his heavy black cloak, still clinging to one shoulder. One by one, she unfastened them with slow, deliberate cruelty. “And yet here we are — not one syllable of Vireonic properly written, and barely one kiss deep before you remember your duties.”
“I’m a lord, not a monk,” Caelus whispered back, still unfolding the paper. “Even you can’t seduce me out of a raven’s cry.” He teased warmly. “Oh? is that a challenge?” Her voice turned molten behind him, and he felt the distinct pressure of her teeth against the skin of his throat again—a teasing bite, sharper this time. “S-Seraphine.” He called.
Caelus’ silver eyes skimmed the letter quickly, the dim candlelight flickering against the edge of the parchment. His expression, once braced for grim news, melted into something softer—almost sheepish. “Well?” Seraphine asked, still draped over his back like a lazy cat, her chin resting on his shoulder. “What tragedy threatens us now?” She asked, almost yawning from the time Caelus spends in reading the damned letter. Caelus exhaled through his nose, annoyed with himself. “Gabriel is... fine. Perfectly fine. The letter just says she completed her mission and is going to stay at Dreadfort for rest.” Then Seraphine sighed, long and slow, like a disappointed tutor. She reached around him with her delicate hand and snatched the letter from his grasp, flinging it carelessly onto the bedside table as if it had personally offended her.
Caelus glanced at her sideways. “What?” he asked. Seraphine’s voice turned syrupy with mock reproach. “You spent that long reading a letter that simply says our daughter is breathing?” She sighed softly, tracing her finger along his jaw. “That’s an unforgivable waste of my affection, Caelus. You’re due for punishment.” she said, prismarine eyes gazing like a hunter toward her husband's Aurelius grey ones. Caelus raised a brow. “Seraphine—?”
But she was already crawling off him, dragging the heavy velvet-bound book of Vireonic script from the table near their bed, placing it squarely in his lap.
“Oh no,” he groaned, head falling back onto the headboard. “Not this again—” he frowned, sad and confused. “Yes this again.” she purred, flipping it open to a fresh page. “Lesson three: Conditional phrases and war declarations. Translate every single line—perfectly.” Caelus looked at the page and recoiled. “Seraphine, this is military doctrine from the Old Empire. It’s written in cursive Vireonic.” he pleaded, Cursive Vireonic just has almost the same loops that Caelus never understood. “You should have thought about that before choosing a letter over me. Seraphine leaned close, nipping at his ear. “And if you fail, no kisses for the rest of the week. Not even a hug.”
Caelus shot her a betrayed look. “You wound me, wife.” he clutched his chest to mock hurt. “I could reward you... if you could at least get the verbs right.” Caelus squinted at the book and sighed tiredly in reply. “Is that a promise?” he asked, wishing for a vow. Seraphine only smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple. “That’s a threat. Now get to work.” She said, playfully slapping her husband’s face.
Ten minutes passed.
Caelus had his fingers tangled in his hair, elbow-deep in a half-finished sentence that might’ve been about royal succession… or ancient plumbing. “…Is this even a letter?” he muttered, squinting at the curling lines. “That’s not a ‘z’—that’s an inverted s.” From beside his seat, Seraphine sipped her tea, watching him with the same indulgent exasperation as one might watch a stubborn kitten trying to wrestle parchment.
“How far have you gotten?” she asked sweetly. Caelus slammed the book shut with a dramatic thump. “One word. Possibly two. It might say ‘glory,’ or it might say ‘mud.’ I genuinely don’t know anymore.” Seraphine raised an unimpressed brow. Caelus turned to her with wide, storm-grey eyes and said with a hushed solemnity, “Please. Have mercy.”
“Oh?” she set the teacup down gently. “Now you want mercy?” She laughed, wide eyed. “I am a war general,” he said with regal dignity, “not a linguist. This script looks like a drunk crow scratched curses on birch bark.” he pleaded, offering her a subservient look. Tell me then, war general. Should you be deserving of my affection if you can't even translate a single sentence from Vireon in ten minutes?” she asked teasingly, knowing Caelus would beg for it like the puppy he was in bed.
Seraphine bit her lip to suppress a laugh, her eyes studying Caelus' paper. Caelus saw the softening in her gaze and pressed the advantage—he knelt on the floor once he left the chair from the study table in mock desperation, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her palm. “Seraphine,” he murmured dramatically, “my moonlight, my beloved, my salvation, my tormentor. I beg you. End this suffering.” Caelus looked up at her, steel eyes softening like a puppy would look at its master for raw mutton.
She gave a mock sigh, withdrawing her hand with faux reluctance. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m feeling generous.” Caelus smiled at that answer.
"Bed. now, Caelus." Seraphine commanded.
"As my queen wishes" Caelus replied.
Morning broke over Snezhnaya like silver poured across stone—cold, bright, and merciless. Caelus stirred with a groan. Every inch of his body ached and no, he wasn’t wounded. Not in the traditional sense. No blade had touched him, no battle left bruises—but the night before had been a different kind of war. A glorious, sinful, bone-wearying siege at the hands of Seraphine, his beloved queen, who had made it abundantly clear that she was not to be bested.
His neck bore faint impressions of her teeth. His hips felt like they’d been pinned beneath the weight of a goddess. Muscles he hadn’t used in weeks screamed protest as he rolled over—only to be stopped by the weight of her arm draped over his chest.
She slept like a lioness post-hunt: completely at peace, smug in victory.
Draped in thick wolf’s pelt and soft bear hide, Seraphine’s golden hair fanned across the pillows like silken fire. Her lips were still parted slightly, and her breath was warm, brushing against his neck. She looked divinely innocent now—nothing like the merciless tyrant who'd pinned him to the furs hours earlier, whispering smugly in Vireonic, “If you want mercy, write faster, my lord.”
He almost smiled. Almost.
But duty called.
Carefully—very carefully—he began to slide out from her grasp, biting back a hiss as his sore spine protested. Her fingers flexed, but she didn’t wake.
Victory.
He pressed a kiss to her temple, whispering, “You win.”
No response. Just the rise and fall of her breath.
Dragging on each layer of his black regalia was like donning weighted armor. His short white hair, still tangled from Seraphine’s rough hands last night, was barely tamed by the comb. The Aurelius crest over his chest felt heavier than usual—though that may have been the cracked rib she definitely caused at some point last night when he tried to rebel.
He stepped onto the cold marble floor, steadying himself, and moved to the frost-laced balcony.
Snow glittered across the Northern realm. Winds howled in the distant mountain passes. The banners of House Aurelius danced in the sky. And Caelus, despite the ache in every bone and the faint bruises formed on his neck, stood tall.
He was Lord of Snezhnaya. Protector of the Northern Wall. Descendant of Courous, the First Angel of the North.
Even if his body ached and probably couldn't walk for the entire day because of how exhausting it was with Seraphine, he had duties.
After all, he is the master of war. A night with his beloved wife wouldn't trample him down. Probably.
He sighed, eyes narrowing as he thought of Gabriel. His daughter. His legacy. The mix of him and his beloved wife they cherished so deeply.
Snezhnaya, Caelus Aurelius. Early morning.
The morning sun barely peeked over the snow-draped ridges, painting the world in shades of cold blue and silver. Caelus Aurelius stood in the yard behind the old kennels, still in his thick sleeping cloak, boots damp with frost. Hel was already pacing, massive paws crunching through the powdered ice like breaking bones.
“Easy, no need to rush.” Caelus muttered with a smirk, dodging just in time as the direwolf lunged affectionately at his side.
Hel didn’t care for royal posture. She tackled him, nearly knocking the Lord of House Aurelius into the snowbank behind them.
“Gods,” he groaned, laughing as he shoved against her weight. “You were supposed to grow wise with age, not more unhinged.”
The great wolf barked — a deep, almost draconic sound — and licked at his face. Caelus rolled to his side, rubbing her behind the ears, letting himself breathe, just for a little while.
No council meetings. No whispers of war or demons. Just fur, frost, and the faint sound of the pine forest rustling like a distant lullaby and the coffee like breath of his companion.
Hel gave a low growl — amused, maybe, or hungry.
Caelus threw a bone across the yard. The wolf sprinted after it, kicking up white plumes behind her. His lips curled into a half-smile. Moments like this were rare.
But then — the caw of a raven cracked the air.
He looked up.
A pale-feathered bird landed neatly on the nearby kennel beam. Its leg bore a red string and a parchment.
Caelus sighed, shoulders sinking a little. He walked toward it, gently unfastened the scroll, and let his eyes scan the ink.
His smile vanished.
“Caelestis...” he whispered.
Hel padded back beside him, sensing the shift, her black fur bristling faintly.
He closed the letter and stood still for a long moment, cold wind tugging at his cloak. Then, almost reluctantly, he looked down at Hel.
“Looks like we’re riding South after we pick up Gabriel.”
The afternoon snow whispered against the glass like a lullaby, and the wind howled far beyond the stone walls — a song only the north would understand. The hearth crackled low, bathing the chamber in amber light, flickering against the draped hides and silken curtains swaying from the draft.
Caelus was already dressed in travel furs, fastening the wolf-clasp of his cloak with half-frozen fingers. His movements were quiet, precise—practiced from years of leaving while she still slept.
But Seraphine wasn’t asleep.
She lay sprawled beneath a heap of wolf pelts, one arm tucked under her cheek, the other lazily outstretched across the fur-covered bed as if still reaching for him. Her eyes—pale as frost glass but with that hint of prismarine lifting out in the middle— were open, watching him with amusement.
“You always try to sneak away before the moon bites you,” she murmured, voice gravelly from sleep. “One day, I’ll tie your ankle to the bedpost.”
Caelus turned, lips tugging into a smirk. “And risk sleeping beside a man with frostbite and a bruised ego? Cruel, even for a queen.”
“Cruel is abandoning your wife while she’s still warm and glorious from the night before.” She sat up, letting the furs fall slightly, revealing her bare shoulder dusted in old bite marks and new bruises. “I don’t recall giving permission for you to leave.”
He walked back toward her, leaning against the carved bedpost, arms folded. “My queen, if you say the word, I’ll throw my sword into the river and never lift it again.”
“Tempting,” she purred. “But then who will butcher our enemies while I sip wine and insult their bloodlines?”
Caelus chuckled and leaned in. She pulled him closer by his collar, inspecting the slight nick on his chin from the razor he barely remembered using. Her thumb brushed against it.
“You shave like a drunk barbarian.”
“You wound me.”
“Not as much as you wounded our Vireonic lesson last night. You spelled ‘hope’ as ‘pig’. Twice.”
“Maybe I was hoping for more affection from my teacher,” he murmured, nuzzling her throat.
"You already got it. Too much, if your sore hips are anything to measure by.”
Caelus grinned into her skin, biting back a groan.
“Seraphine,” he whispered, suddenly still. “What if something happens while I’m away?”
Her fingers stilled on his chest. “Then you will live. And I will live. And we will drag each other through whatever remains.” She looked at him now, serious. “But come back. Come back, Caelus.”
He kissed her — slow, reverent, as if sealing the moment in amber. “I will return,” he promised. “To your arms. Always.”
They held each other for a moment longer, unmoving, hearts pressed close. The wind outside howled again — louder this time — as if echoing something neither of them dared name.
When Caelus finally pulled away, Seraphine slipped a dagger into the side of his belt.
“Just in case your brain freezes over on the road and you forget how to gut someone properly.”
He laughed under his breath, brushing her hair back from her face one last time.
“I love you,” he said, and it came out like prayer.
“I know,” she replied, eyes soft. “Now go. Before I beg you to stay.”
The Dreadfort, Eastern Edge of Aurelia. Late Afternoon.
The Dreadfort loomed in the mist like a corpse laid to rest. Its walls, high and frost-stained, bled age and blood in equal measure. Ivy hung dead from its flanks, and rust clung to the iron gates like old guilt. This was no home — it was a sentence etched in stone.
Caelus dismounted in the courtyard, boots crunching over a bed of frozen leaves and dried bloodstains that would never quite wash away. Behind him, the massive black direwolf Hel padded soundlessly, golden eyes gleaming, tail swaying low and slow like a drawn sword. The guards gave Hel a wide berth.
Caelus barely knocked. The door creaked open before he could.
Gabriel stood behind it — pale, sunken-eyed, wrapped in a fur cloak she hadn’t bothered tying. Her lips were cracked. Her hair hung loose, uncombed, like threads unraveling from her crown. And her eyes — gods, her eyes. Red-rimmed and hollow, not from anger or pride, but the quiet breaking of someone who had kept too much inside for far too long.
“Gabriel,” he breathed, his hand rising instinctively to brush her cheek. “What—?”
She flinched away. But not out of fear — out of shame.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
Caelus didn’t speak. He just stepped inside, and Hel followed, curling like a shadow in the corner near the hearth.
“You’re not fine,” he said after a moment. “You’ve been crying.”
“I said I’m fine.” She turned away, back rigid, voice trembling. “Don’t look at me like that. Like I’m a child.”
“I’m looking at you like I’m your father.” His tone softened. “And I can’t bear seeing you like this.”
That broke something in her.
She spun, fists clenched, and let it out — like thunder splitting stone.
“You sent me here to flay a man, Father! Not interrogate, not judge — flay. Skin off. Bones out.” Her voice cracked. “I did it. I did what you asked. I peeled him like fruit, like the traitors our ancestors burned in legend — and I watched myself enjoy it.” Gabriel wiped her face furiously with the back of her sleeve. “You don’t know what that place does to you. You don’t know what I saw in myself. I’m not— I’m not Gabriel Aurelius anymore. I don’t deserve that name.”
Caelus walked to her. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded beast. Then he wrapped his arms around her. She resisted at first, stiff as steel, but then her defenses collapsed. Her face pressed to his shoulder, sobs wracking through her ribs like tremors after a quake. Caelus held her tightly, whispering words in no tongue, just warmth, just breath, just being.
“You are my daughter,” he murmured. “And I will love you in your light and in your shadow.”
Hel padded forward, gently nosing Gabriel’s leg, whining softly like he understood the grief.
Gabriel looked at the old beast, arms around the direwolf’s thick neck, burying her face in his fur like old times, Hel licked the tear-salt from her cheek.
“See? Even this old ferocious thing knows you’re still you,” Caelus smiled faintly, crouching beside them. “And she doesn’t give her affection lightly." Gabriel let out a wet laugh, the smallest thing, but real.
“She stinks, father.” She said, putting her hand on the wolf's head. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, casting flickering shadows across the moss-bitten walls of the old hall. Caelus had managed to scrounge together some half-decent stew from the stores. Gabriel sat curled on the couch wrapped in his thick cloak, hair still damp from the snowmelt he helped her wash the blood out with. Her fingers twitched every now and then, as if they missed holding a blade — or missed having something to strike.
Caelus spooned the broth into her hands with a light grunt.
“Eat. It’s not delicious, but it won’t kill you. Unlike everything else in this cursed place.”
Gabriel gave a small smile, barely there, but a spark nonetheless. She took a sip. “Tastes like rabbit and regret.” Caelus chuckled. “That’s because it is rabbit and regret.”
For a while, they ate in silence. Hel lay curled at their feet, eyes closed but ears still twitching at every creak of the Dreadfort walls.
When the last of the stew was gone, Gabriel leaned back and sighed. Her eyes were a little less wild now, her voice quieter.
“Thank you for coming, Lord Aurelius,” she said. “I mean it.”
Caelus looked at her, then at the broken glass still scattered by the wall, the blood on the floor now dried into a dark smear. He exhaled through his nose.
“You need to get out of here.”
Gabriel blinked. “What?”
“I’m not saying this as a command,” he added quickly. “I’m saying it as your father. You’ve had your fill of ghosts and self-punishment. You’re not healing in here — you’re drowning.” Gabriel looked down at her fingers. “Where would I even go?” She asked.
He tilted his head, a slow grin spreading beneath his beard.
“What if you came with me to Caelestis?”
Her eyes flicked up in surprise. “The capital?”
“The very one. I have business there — official court summons. But no one said I had to arrive alone. You’ve never been, have you?”
Gabriel hesitated. “No. I always thought it was too polished. Too many masks.”
“Exactly. You’ll fit right in. Except you’ll be the only one brave enough to not wear one.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “They’ll think I’m a peasant.”
“Then I’ll make sure they know you’re a dangerous one,” Caelus said with a grin. “Besides, there’s a dressmaker there who still owes me a favor. You’ll look like a daughter of House Aurelius in no time.”
Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “Why now?”
Caelus’ expression softened. He reached out and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear like he used to when she was little.
“Because I don’t know how many chances I’ll have to protect you like this,” he admitted quietly. “Not with the way things are turning. You’re growing so fast, we don’t have time for bond anymore.”
She stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then she leaned forward and rested her head on his shoulder.
“Alright,” she whispered. “Take me with you.”
He rested his cheek atop her head, smiling faintly. “Then it’s settled.”
Hel lifted his head at the word and gave a low huff, as if approving the idea.
Caelus glanced at the window — the night outside thick with snow. Beyond it, far to the south, the towers of Caelestis gleamed in his memory — gold, marble, and secrets hidden behind silk.
He had no idea what they were walking into.
But at least… they’d walk in together.
The gates of Dreadfort groaned open at dawn. A storm had passed in the night, leaving behind a brittle crust of frost over everything — the trees like silver skeletons, the stones shimmering with hoarfrost. Caelus walked ahead, his dark cloak dragging lightly in the snow. Behind him, Gabriel followed on horseback, wrapped in an old traveling coat stitched with house Bulstrode, her mother’s sigil: the waning moon cradled by twin wings.
Hel padded silently between them, his paws barely leaving prints.
They hadn’t spoken much since leaving the Dreadfort. Caelus knew better than to push. Gabriel rode like a ghost: silent, motionless, eyes fixed ahead, yet never really seeing. Grief had hollowed her out, but it hadn’t taken her pride. She held her back straight. Refused to cry in front of him again.
Still, Caelus caught her glancing at him sometimes. When she thought he wasn’t looking.
The road narrowed as they passed into the high ravines, where cliff walls boxed them in. Wind howled through the gorges like voices too old to understand.
“Did you know,” Caelus finally said, voice calm, “your mother hated this road?”
Gabriel blinked. “Seraphine?”
He nodded. “Called it ‘the path of dead kings.’ Said it reeked of bad luck and unburied sins.” Gabriel nodded. “She’s not wrong.”
A pause. Then, softer:
“...Why did she stop coming with you?”
Caelus smiled faintly, reins loose in his hands. “Because once she had you, she never needed to leave her palace to raise hell anymore.”
That made Gabriel smile — just barely. But it was the first real flicker since they left. They camped that night beneath a frozen overhang. The stars were sharp and white above them, the kind that seemed to watch. Caelus built the fire. Hel curled beside Gabriel’s bedroll like a great furry shield. The heat was dim, but it was enough.
Gabriel stared at the flames for a long while before speaking.
“Do you think I’ll be welcome there?”
Caelus glanced up from where he was sharpening his dagger. “In Caelestis?” She nodded. “They’ll know what I’ve done. To that blonde bastard. The one they said 'The Unburnt' or whatever the other titles were... 'The Zahavi Of The Red Skagos Sea.' 'The Prophesized Slayer of Lies.' and 'The Skagosian Princess' honestly mouthfulls for a spoiled brat who wasn't given talents fit for royalty."
He cut her off gently.
“You’re not going to answer to them, Gabriel. You’re coming with me. That’s all that matters. What of princess Uriel? A little birdie told me the king's two bastards are only there to secure safety after the fall of Thoborn's largest cathedral. Thalos and Ophire isn't in such good terms.” She didn’t look convinced. But she nodded.
“And what about Michael?” she asked, suddenly. “Will he be there?” she asked, getting reminded of her betrothal, whether her cousins were joking or not, it would be the perfect timing to say it to her father.
Caelus’s sharpening stopped. His face darkened a fraction.
“If he is… then we’ll know where the poison’s coming from.” Not the answer Gabriel was hoping for.
The silence that followed was thick. Only the crackle of fire and Hel’s quiet breathing filled it.
By the fourth day of travel, the walls of Caelestis came into view—a sprawl of tall golden towers and white spires rising like a mirage from the snow. Sunlight pierced through the high, icy clouds, casting the city in a pale glow. Its glass-domed sanctums reflected light like knives.
Gabriel stood frozen at the hillcrest, staring.
“It’s bigger than I remembered.”
Caelus looked to her. “Last time you were here, you were just a girl.”
She didn’t answer. Just kept looking as though the city were a beast she’d once outrun, only to see it again on the horizon.
Caelestis castle, hall of royalty.
Caelus strode forward, silver cloak rustling with the wind, while beside him Gabriel Aurelius moved sharp, unreadable, and already fuming. Her eyes flicked upward toward the wide courtyard and locked immediately onto the figures waiting on the marble terrace ahead.
There were four of them. And each one made her blood simmer hotter.
Uriel Astyrax. Two white wings folded behind her back, shorter than the others but standing at the center like some self-righteous flame, chin slightly lifted. Her emerald eyes narrowed the moment she saw Gabriel.
Beside her, taller and broader—Raguel Astyrax, her brother and fellow bastard of Metatron. Long brown hair fell over his neck, and his violet-lilac eyes were already wary. He wore the black and bronze of his mother’s house but no crown — only a sword at his hip and the weight of old restraint in his jaw.
To the right of them, Jophiel Talisa — six wings flared slightly, fiery red hair in a half-twist, eyes squinted like she knew something about Gabriel that she herself didn’t.
And beside Uriel, almost awkward in posture but loyal to the bone, was Rhyan Dravon — tall, skinny, red-haired, with the crest of the lion on his chestplate and piercing yellow eyes that darted nervously between the girls.
Gabriel muttered under her breath. “Of course she brought the whole choir.”
“Gabriel,” Caelus said quietly, already bracing for the clash. “Don’t start.”
“Start?” she hissed. “They’re the ones who’ll start something.”
Caelus paused before the fountain, turning to her. “I need to speak with Metatron alone. Go inside, rest. I’ll come find you.”
She didn’t answer immediately.
He gave her a look.
“Fine,” she bit out.
He nodded and stepped away. A guard moved to escort her, but before they reached the inner archway—
“Still freezing, I see,” Uriel called across the courtyard, voice dry and sharp.
Gabriel stopped.
She turned slowly, eyes cold and dangerous. “Say that again with your bastard little chatterbox of a mouth, I dare you.”
Uriel stepped forward, wings flaring slightly. “If it weren’t for our blood pact, I’d slap the fucking ice off your face.”
“Don’t let it stop you, bastard.”
Rhyan’s eyes widened. “Gabriel—”
Gabriel ignored him. “You still clinging to daddy’s favor like a wet dog? Must be exhausting, begging for a throne that doesn’t belong to you.”
Uriel scoffed. “Better a bastard with backbone than a spoiled frostbitten brat.”
“Backbone?” Gabriel laughed bitterly. “You couldn’t even kill me when you had the chance. Tell me, Uriel — how’s it feel knowing you’ll never be more than Metatron’s biggest disappointment?”
Uriel’s eyes flashed, golden sparks building at her fingertips. Rhyan immediately stepped forward, placing himself between them.
“That’s enough,” he said firmly, hand out. “Gabriel, please.”
“Oh? Did the lion come to purr at the phoenix’s feet?” Gabriel sneered. “Careful, Rhyan. She’ll chew you up and throw you in the fire like the rest.”
Rhyan’s jaw tensed, but his voice remained calm. “I came to keep the peace. You’re a guest here, Gabriel.”
“Might I remind you that your home is in flame’s end specifically in crimson keep, the burning cage Lord Rhogar calls a castle. If you are a visitor, you should keep your girlfriend leashed, then.”
“She is not my—” Rhyan said, blushing.
Uriel lunged. “You godsdamned entitled little brat!”
Raguel was faster.
He shoved between them, grabbing Uriel by the arm, voice low and furious. “That’s enough! Both of you.”
“She started it—”
“And you’re going to end it by getting us all executed if you draw blood in the citadel!” he snapped. “The blood pact binds you. Or have you already forgotten the cost of breaking it?”
Uriel hissed but stopped struggling.
Gabriel, for her part, looked almost pleased.
Jophiel tilted her head, watching with idle amusement. “This is worse than the execution we watched earlier.”
Gabriel narrowed her eyes and laughed at her. “Stay out of this, six-winged puppy.”
Jophiel just grinned wider. “You know, I think she has more chemistry with Uriel than Rhyan” she whispered to Raguel.
Rhyan tried again, stepping toward Gabriel, softer this time. “You’re tired from the journey. Let me take you to the guest quarters—”
Gabriel’s laugh was sharp and bitter. “Don’t pretend to be kind, Dravon. You barely have enough feathers to fly up to the living quarters.”
“Gabriel,” Rhyan said sharply, tone warning.
But Gabriel had already turned, storming away with her head high and her cloak whipping behind her.
Rhyan exhaled, watching her disappear.
“She’s never changed, she’s always like this whenever I try to befriend her even in meetings.” He muttered.
Jophiel sighed “You’re probably not just her type Rhyan. Imagine growing up in the cold and you’re exactly the personification of summer, it’s already implying something.”
Gabriel pushed open the doors to the guest quarters of Caelestis with a sharp flick of her wrist, boots clicking on the marble like war drums. The fur-lined cloak over her shoulders shifted as she moved made her look every bit the noble-born wolf she was. Her hair loose.
As she turned a corner, she almost collided into someone—someone who tried following her.
Rhyan Dravon.
The red-haired heir of House Dravon of Thalos, son of Lord Rhogar, stood awkwardly with a book clutched to his chest. Yellow eyes widened when he realized she looked back. “Oh, I—Gabriel, I didn’t see you there.” He pretended.
Gabriel tilted her head. “Apparently lions don’t look where they’re going.”
Rhyan flushed. “I wasn’t—”
She stepped closer, a wicked grin playing at her lips. “Tell me, is it true you’ve been sniffing after the bastard?”
His mouth opened, then closed. “She’s not—”
“Not what, exactly? Haven’t even mentioned a name and you’re already jumping to conclusions.” Gabriel cut in, raising a brow. “Not a bastard? Not your girlfriend? Not a fool who makes pacts with northerners and then cries about it later?”
“I didn’t come here to argue—”
“Of course you didn’t.” Gabriel rolled her eyes. “You look like you came here to knit. You’ve never changed, you’re forever pathetic.”
Rhyan blinked, genuinely confused. “What?”
Gabriel smirked. “Exactly.”
He shifted his weight, jaw tightening. “You don’t know Uriel. Or me, for that matter.”
“No, but I know exactly who you are.” She leaned forward, voice dropping to a biting whisper. “Overgrown princeling with a pretty face, terrified of raising your voice unless daddy says it’s okay.”
Rhyan’s brows furrowed. His lips parted as if to respond, but nothing came. His throat bobbed, and he looked away, blinking too fast.
Gabriel noticed.
And laughed.
Gabriel’s eyes swept over him, unimpressed. “when will you stop walking around with your head up your ass, Rhyan?”
Rhyan stiffened, startled. “Lady Gabriel…”
“Oh, now I’m a lady?” she sneered, stepping closer, the scent of pine and snow trailing behind her. “You didn’t call me that when you were gawking at me from across the courtyard like some half-witted stableboy.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Of course you weren’t. Lions don’t gawk. They roar. Or so they say.”
He tried to look her in the eye, but she had that glint — that Aurelius gleam of pure steel and wrath — and it was hard to meet.
Gabriel smiled without warmth. “You know, I always thought the heir of House Dravon would have more balls. Especially one who murdered his own mother.”
Rhyan’s face went white. “That’s not—”
She pressed in. “What? Not true? Or not something you like hearing? Maybe you forgot what they say in Thalos — that your mother’s screams were heard across flame’s end the night she bled out, and your father claimed it was childbirth, but the maids say it wasn’t.”
His breath caught. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Gabriel tilted her head mockingly. “Don’t I? Funny. Because to me, you sound exactly like another bastard scrambling to wear a crown that doesn’t fit. Maybe you and Uriel can swap sob stories.”
Rhyan’s fists curled at his sides, but his lips trembled. “Stop. I-I’m not a bastard”
“Or what?” she snapped, stepping even closer. “You’ll cry harder?”
He said nothing. Just stood there, broken open by words sharper than blades, tears welling up.
Gabriel’s laugh was cold and cruel. “Gods. You’re even worse than I thought. For a lion, you’re just a fucking kitten.”
Rhyan took a breath, sharp and shaky. “You’re... As cruel as your father..”
“At least one of the Lord’s heirs are, you all are mindless little birds without backbones.” Gabriel stepped farther, her smile vanishing. “And you’re soft. In Eden, soft things don’t last long. Do yourself a favor and cry back at the shit ton of bricks you call home—what was your castle’s name again? Oh, right. Pardon me. I meant Flame’s end.”
She didn’t look back as she marched toward the throne room — heart colder than steel, eyes set on the golden doors ahead. But behind her, Rhyan remained in the hallway, knuckles white around the book he still hadn’t opened.
THRONE ROOM OF CAELESTIS
The high arches groaned above, old stone and starlight dancing on the floor. Metatron Astyrax, robed in gold and black, sat sprawled on his throne as if it had molded around his spine. Twin torches flickered on either side, throwing dancing shadows across his face — sharp, handsome, and utterly unreadable.
Caelus stood at the foot of the steps, unmoved, the white direwolf crest of the North emblazoned on his dark fur-lined cloak. His hands were behind his back, posture soldier-straight, chin up. Cold. Measured.
Metatron smiled faintly.
“So,” the king said, “the famed Caelus the Cruel rides south at last.”
Caelus didn’t blink. “I’d rather be called cruel than a liar.”
“Mm.” Metatron’s smile thinned. “Let’s pretend we’re still allies for the length of this conversation.”
“Then let’s get to the point.”
The king’s fingers drummed against the carved iron of his armrest. “The rashon shipments.”
Caelus nodded. “We’ve kept the tunnels under Silverdeep running day and night. Your ports will get a quarter more than last year. But I want better terms.”
Metatron raised a brow. “Better?”
“The mountain folk need grain. You hoard more than enough in your southern storehouses to keep your marble walls gilded. You’ll send double the rations. Monthly.”
Metatron’s gaze hardened. “And if I refuse?”
“Then the Northern mines will be locked away from anyone’s grasp. No rashon. Your smiths will weep, your healers will whimper, and your markets will dry like Thalos in drought. Not to mention the demon invasions, without my steel, drought rock and other mines around Eden wouldn’t produce even half of the weapons for preparation.”
Metatron leaned forward slightly. “You’re bold.”
“I’m desperate,” Caelus answered. “And not just for my people’s survival. You’ve summoned me here under the guise of trade, but we both know this is about something else. I’m no fool.”
The king was silent.
Then: “You’ve kept her hidden too long.”
Caelus’ expression flickered. “Gabriel is not your concern.”
“Wrong,” Metatron said quietly. “She IS the concern. A little birdie told me that the bloodline needs saving for the good of Eden—and that the only way for salvation is through selective breeding.”
“Let’s not pretend it’s a curse, Lord Caelus. It’s legacy. Michael has power, name, and enough divine blood to boil rivers.” Metatron continued.
But then it got lowered. “You know it’s the only match left that keeps the royal bloodlines intact. No more bastards. No more broken lines. You and I both know your girl is the last untouched thread.”
“She’s fifteen.”
“She’s an Aurelius.”
Caelus exhaled sharply. “And what if I refuse?”
Metatron looked at him — the politeness draining, his voice flattening.
“Then every male under sixteen in Aurelia will hang.”
Caelus froze.
“I will burn your line from branch to root. I will march into the North not as a king, but as your executioner.” His eyes burned like starlight through a dying storm. “One by one. Until no fledgeling breathes in the snow.”
Caelus said nothing for a long time.
Then: “You have no honor. All for your fear of the prophecy?”
Metatron’s smile returned. “Seven kingdoms, Caelus. One king. Seven kingdoms.”
“Six, old king. Skorching skagos was lost in your vain.” Caelus answered.
Silence settled. The iron groaned behind the king like it knew something grave had been spoken.
“Silence.” Metatron raised one finger. “I am merciful. After the Velheim Games approach. A perfect spectacle for a royal announcement. Gabriel will be presented. Wedded. Crowned.”
Caelus’ jaw clenched. “And if she isn’t? If she’s promised to another instead?”
“Then it’s off with your head, Caelus. As the boys in your dominion shall hang. You’ll be named oathbreaker before all seven kingdoms. The first in your bloodline.”
He tilted his head, mock sadness in his tone. “Should be ashamed, wolf of the North. Even the great Reaping never managed to stain your ancestors. Not even in conquering your ancestors bent the knee. Not even Arwyn the unbent broke his oath to my older brother. But you? All it took was a girl. Tragedy, she looks exactly like Cornelia too.”
Caelestis Castle gleamed with the golden light of late afternoon. From its highest balcony, the world below looked unreal—like a painted mural of a city that never slept, bathed in warm sun, dust, and the breath of fire-forged wealth.
Gabriel stood alone, her pale hands resting on the carved stone railing, her breath shallow in the heat of the South. She watched the horizon like a soldier scanning a battlefield—silent, calculating, distant.
Footsteps behind her. Quiet, but unmistakable.
Michael.
He didn’t announce himself. He never did.
“Lady Gabriel. You’ve been up here a while,” came his voice, silk over steel. “And here I thought Northerners didn’t melt so easily under the sun. Or so I’ve heard.”
She didn’t look at him. “The South isn’t what bothers me.”
“Ah,” he replied smoothly, stepping beside her. “Then it’s me.”
Still, she didn’t turn. Her voice remained calm. “Are you often like this, my prince? Always assume it’s about you.”
“No,” Michael said. “Only when I know it is.”
There was a pause. A long one.
“An astute observation I made indeed that your ego is higher than your father’s.” Gabriel said, steel daggers in her eyes pointing at him.
“And you’re short for the daughter of Caelus the Cruel.” Michael said, “I was told your father was summoned here,” he added, resting his gloved hands on the edge of the balustrade, but leaving just enough distance between them to torment. “That he brought his daughter as a gesture of good faith. How charming.”
Gabriel’s jaw tightened. “He didn’t bring me. He was commanded. And trust me, neither me or my father intended on going here if not for the royal command.”
Michael hummed. “A gesture then… forced or not. You’re here, and the betrothal stands.”
Now, she looked at him. Her eyes were the color of snow beneath storm clouds—grey and glinting with warning.
“You’re thirty-three.”
“I am,” he said, without shame.
“I’m fifteen.”
His violet eyes flicked to hers, and he smiled faintly. Not kind. Not warm.
Just… amused.
“Then we’ve both been made pawns in this little game, haven’t we?” he said softly. “But pawns can reach the other side of the board, if they know how to move.”
Gabriel’s voice dropped. “I’m not playing.”
Michael inched closer—not touching, but the cold aura of his presence wrapped around her like a noose made of silk. “You will. They all do. Eventually.”
She turned toward him fully, frost in her blood. “You speak like you’re used to getting what you want.”
“I am.”
“And what if I say no?”
His smile deepened—something predatory flickering beneath the mask of regal poise. “You’ll learn how little that word means here.”
Gabriel didn’t flinch.
Michael leaned in—not enough to touch her, but enough for her to feel the tension he carried like a blade beneath his breath.
“I don’t want you to bow,” he whispered. “I want you to stay. And staying means surviving the game.”
“You don’t know how many have stood right where you are,” he said, his voice now quiet but heavy with implication. “Highborn girls in dresses spun from honor and frost, draped in duty like it was silk. They all stood tall at first.”
Gabriel didn’t speak.
“They were all like you. Sharp-tongued. Proud. Cold. Unwanting. Whether you’d like it or not, a crown will be shoved on your head, be bred—my, how indecent of me, my lady. My apologies.”
“You think because you wear velvet and black and quote your father’s decrees that you rule me? Take me against my will, that’ll make you reasonable? Is that it, my prince?”
“I don’t need to,” he said with a low smile. “I only need to conquer it. Do keep calling me that though, obedience suits a dog.”
He brushed a strand of her silver-white hair from her shoulder. His fingers didn’t graze her skin—but the intention was clear.
Gabriel stepped back immediately, fire in her veins despite her ice-born blood. “Touch me again and I’ll bury your hand in snow so deep it won’t rot until spring.”
Michael laughed softly—chilling in its control. “Good. I like that. You’re not like the others and I praise you for it. You’ll need that fire.. Especially on your wedding night.” He mocked.
She flinched at that. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.
And that was all he needed.
“You should smile more,” he mused, hands clasping behind his back now. “You’ll be Queen, after all. And Queens aren’t allowed to look miserable when they kneel. After all, you shouldn’t let your privilege of a heritage and future legacy go to waste.”
From the dark stone arches behind them, just beyond the corridor that wrapped around the balcony’s edge, Raguel stood hidden in shadow—leaning against the cold pillar, every muscle tense.
He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d simply followed the sound of his half-brother’s voice, curious.
But what he heard turned his stomach.
Michael’s tone wasn’t teasing—it was possessive, marked by the same quiet menace their father carried. And Gabriel, that frostbitten child from the North, didn’t even flinch. She stood her ground, even when the predator closed in.
Legacy, Michael had said. Not girl. Not guest. Just a title to claim.
Raguel swallowed hard, frozen in place. He couldn’t bring himself to move. Couldn’t step in. Couldn’t stop it.
Because in the end, Michael was heir to the kingdom.
Gabriel had turned her back on him again, watching the Caelestis gardens burn gold under the southern sun. Yet she could still feel him behind her — the quiet breath, the subtle shift of leather and silk, the looming intent dressed in civility.
Michael stepped closer, letting a beat of silence stretch thin between them before he spoke again.
“Best of luck in the Velheim Games,” he said softly.
Gabriel didn’t respond.
He leaned just a touch nearer — enough for her to feel the weight of his words before they fell.
“Pray I don’t get picked to be a fellow tribute,” he murmured, almost like a joke. “Or else I’ll take you there myself.”
That made her turn. Slowly. Deliberately. Her grey eyes were like a winter storm — still, but heavy with warning.
“You’re not my keeper.”
“No,” Michael said. “But I will be your king.”
She laughed once — not out of humor, but disbelief.
“You think a title means I’ll kneel? Eat shit.”
“I don’t want you to kneel,” he said, and the way he smiled made the air feel colder. “I want you to stand beside me, Exactly as you are. You are an unimaginable asset to royalty—hell, every prince might even want you—That’s what makes it exciting.”
Gabriel didn’t speak. She didn’t blink.
Michael’s smile faded to something more serious — more intimate.
“I’ll see you at the games, Lady Gabriel. Hope I won’t be picked at the reaping—or else I’ll hail my queen in the snow.”
And with that, he left her on the balcony — the air colder than it had been before. As Michael left, Gabriel felt like crying, she was undoubtedly scared.
Raguel didn’t move for a while.
His back was pressed against the cold stone wall, heartbeat loud in his ears, breath shallow as if even exhaling too loudly might summon Michael’s gaze.
He’d heard most of it. Enough.
“Or else I’ll hail my queen in the snow.”
The words coiled in his gut like rot. Michael always spoke with that glint in his eye — the kind that pretended to be warmth, but froze you to the bone if you looked too long. But this? This wasn’t royal posturing. This wasn’t political maneuvering.
It was predatory.
And she was just a girl.
“Sixteen—no… fifteen,” Raguel muttered under his breath, fists clenched at his sides. “She’s fifteen, you creep.”
He didn’t know what made his stomach churn more — the threat of the Velheim Games, or the smug way Michael had said “I’ll take you there.” Not fight beside you. Not protect you. To take.
Take.
Raguel scrubbed a hand through his chestnut-brown hair, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. Part of him wanted to walk out there and say something. Confront Michael. Drag Gabriel away.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Not yet.
He wasn’t a knight. Not even a true noble. Just a second son from a half-disgraced house, and Michael—Michael was heir to the kingdom, a man cloaked in gold and silence and power.
What would they say? That Raguel Astyrax who was eavesdropping like the nosy bastard he was?
But he couldn’t help it, he felt bad for the daughter of Caelus. He’s not the type of person to lack empathy and virtue like his half brother. Bastard or not, he knows Michael is wrong.
Notes:
All I can say in this chapter is a few things: Mpreg is real and Caelus was the one pregnant with Gabriel. Michael get the fuck away from my precious little fledgling. Uriel and Raguel complexities as character and in brother-sister relationship will be coming next chapter considering this is the last chapter of the Northern Throne arc. I very much like making Uriel sort of bi in these early chapters where I can write her denial in the next few arcs. But we really have a long way left to go.
Uriel: "I swear on God above you're Elsa reborn."
Gabriel: "Uhmm, excuse me? No I'm not."
Uriel: "Let me hold your hand when I tell you this. Ow, that's cold."
Gabriel: "Get the fuck away from me, zest fest."
Chapter 18: Preening (bonus chapter)
Summary:
Uriel and Raguel go back to the mountain areas of Thoborn where they continue to live there with their mothers, Asenath and Evangeline. The attempt of demonic invasion and internal problems have been subdued and they have been proclaimed safe. Asenath finally builds up the courage to tell Uriel about the story of how her mother protected her the night in the middle of the summer. To only reveal her true birth date is July 31st the middle of summer, in contrast of Gabriel's birth date in December 31st which is the middle of winter.
Notes:
Tooth rotting fluff and found family with the side of angst but not heavily written and rahhhh Asenath/Evangeline screentime my old woman yuri
I wrote this because I lowkey wanted to write smut but since this is an angel fic I won't be so detailed (yet) well, consider this as practice for Gaburi.Preening is the process of mates typically in winged creatures in a form of wing maintenance, it's the secret language of wings where when you touch the glands of a fellow angel, the glands will produce soothing oils if the body and mind of the recipient is willng. These oils make the plucking of old and worn feathers of flight so much less painful for them, where you often need a partner you trust to do it for you.
Uriel- Zahavi of the great Skagos Sea, the unburnt, the child of the prophecy, the stormborn.
As usual, have a great read and sorry for the late upload!
Oh and also, the meaning of bastard in this fic is the offensive term for a child born to parents who are not legally married to each other, could be in a form of rape and this is why angels often hate fellow angels for having this bastard status because it serves as a reminder of the parents being reckless.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
URIEL
The Astyrax common room was stifling. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, but the warmth only seemed to feed Uriel’s unrest rather than soothe it. Her boots struck against the floor in a rhythm that grew sharper with every turn—back and forth, back and forth—as if she were trying to walk herself into the ground. Her pale wings shifted, feathers trembling with her agitation, catching the glow of the firelight like shards of glass.
Rhyan rose from his chair with a sigh, his brow furrowed. “Uriel,” he said softly, reaching a hand toward her as she swept past him yet again. “You’re pacing yourself into madness. Sit. Just—breathe.”
“I am breathing,” she snapped, whipping around with a glare that could have cut through stone. Her chest heaved, her fists balled tight at her sides. “Do you think breathing fixes this? Do you think calm words and patience fix her being in this damned castle?”
Jophiel, perched in the corner with a book she hadn’t turned a page of in the last ten minutes, only arched a brow. She said nothing, but her silence pressed heavier than words—observant, critical, waiting for Uriel to reveal too much.
Rhyan took a slow step closer, lowering his voice. “She hasn’t done anything—”
Uriel’s laugh came sharp, brittle. “Hasn’t done anything? Her being there is enough! Every step she takes in Caelestis spits on everything we—” Her words faltered, as if something knotted in her throat. She dragged a hand through her hair, clawing for control. The memory of the pact burned against her veins, the sting of a vow carved into both their lives. Blood to blood. Promise to promise. Unbreakable, until broken.
Rhyan lifted his hands, palms open. “Uriel. Please. You’re not making sense. This isn't like you. What's so wrong about Gabriel?"
“Not like me?” she hissed, her wings snapping out just enough to rustle the papers on a nearby desk. “It is me. You don’t know what it feels like to have your blood chained to hers. Every reminder, every glance, it coils around me like a noose.”
The air hung tense, her words echoing louder than the fire.
It was then Raguel finally spoke. He had been leaning in the shadows, arms crossed, watching his half-sister’s storm build with a mixture of caution and curiosity. His voice came low, even, slicing through the thick silence.
“Uriel,” he said, tilting his head, his expression unreadable. “What really is the reason?”
Her eyes flicked toward him, sharp and defensive. But he didn’t flinch.
“You haven’t even broken the blood pact yet,” Raguel continued, his tone steady, almost clinical. “The oath doesn’t bind you to hate—it only binds you to hurt if you let it. So why—” his gaze narrowed, his words pointed—“why do you want to hurt her so badly, at this rate?”
Uriel’s pacing slowed until finally, with a sharp exhale, she sank into the armchair nearest the fire. The leather creaked beneath her weight, her wings folding in close as though even they were weary of her fury. For a long moment she only stared into the flames, the light dancing over her face, shadows deepening the strain around her eyes.
Then she did something that made Rhyan stiffen—she reached forward, plunging her hand directly into the fire. The flames licked at her skin, harmless, parting at her touch as though bowing to her. From the blaze, a shape stirred: a coil of embers gathering and twisting until Solas emerged, the spirit-creature unfurling with a lazy grace. Its form was molten and alive, fire compressed into something almost wolf-like, its body glowing faintly as though it carried the hearth itself in its veins.
Uriel’s hard expression softened, just barely, as Solas nuzzled against her wrist. She ran her fingers along its fiery mane, sparks clinging to her hand before fading into the air. The simple motion seemed to drain the venom from her, if only for a moment.
Rhyan, watching from across the hearth, allowed himself a faint smile. He knew that look in her eyes—the same look she’d had since she first conjured Solas at the Academy. For all her storms and sharpness, she cared for this creature with a tenderness she tried to hide.
But her silence didn’t last. Uriel’s thoughts drifted again, circling back to the one name she could not shake. Gabriel. The fire’s warmth did nothing to ease the cold knot twisting in her chest.
Her voice broke the hush, low and restless. “I really need to know what exactly she is up to.”
She didn’t look at anyone in the room, her gaze fixed on Solas’s glowing outline as though the creature might answer her. The flames bent around her hand, her fingers tightening slightly in the spirit’s mane.
At last her eyes slid toward Raguel, sharp despite their weariness. “Do you think,” she asked, almost daring him, “that I could walk quietly in the walls… without the ghosts’ groans giving me away?”
Uriel’s words lingered in the crackling of the hearth. Solas’s molten body shifted beside her chair, curling in lazy coils as though lulled by the fire itself. But Raguel wasn’t lulled. He had been leaning back against the stone wall, arms folded, watching her spiral with a weariness that had been building for months.
“Uriel,” he said at last, his tone flat with fatigue. “Not this again.” He pushed himself off the wall, pacing a slow circle around the chairs, his boots soft against the rug. “You want to slip into Caelestis’ walls like some phantom, while the damned corridors groan with the voices of the dead? You’d be announcing yourself before you ever laid eyes on her. It’s madness.”
Uriel’s eyes snapped to him, a flicker of defiance in her glare, but Raguel pressed on, his own patience thinning. “You talk of Gabriel as though exposing her would finally quiet you, but it won’t. You’re chasing shadows, Uriel—and every time, you drag us with you. I’m tired of watching you burn yourself on a fire you can’t even name.”
Jophiel shifted in his chair, his six wings folding neatly behind him. His voice, unlike Raguel’s, carried no bite—only the calm weight of logic. “And even if you did manage it,” he said, flicking his eyes from the flames to Uriel, “Gabriel isn’t your true threat. Not directly. She cannot kill you without damning herself. The blood oath you share still binds her hand. Should she break it, should she dare spill your blood, Metatron himself would demand a reckoning—and her entire House would be crushed under his judgment.”
The room went quiet for a moment, save for the low hum of Solas’s burning form. Rhyan shot Jophiel a sidelong glance, uneasy at how casually he spoke of annihilation.
Uriel’s lips parted, her chest heaving as though the logic in Jophiel’s words only fanned her fury. “That doesn’t mean she won’t try,” she muttered, her voice sharp, almost breaking. Her hand clenched tighter into Solas’s fiery mane. “She’s here for a reason—and I’ll find it, even if the rest of you are too blind to see.”
But Raguel only shook his head, running a tired hand over his face. “And I’ll stop you if you try. For once, Uriel… listen. Don’t make an enemy out of your own blood just because your pride itches for a fight" he said, Solas squirming in Uriel's arms as if trying to find warmth to sleep.
Uriel’s fire-streaked hand lingered inside the flame, Solas humming low at her touch, his molten body shifting as though sharing her unrest. Raguel’s voice still rang in her ears, every word a dull hammer against the storm in her chest. Jophiel’s calm logic only tightened the knot inside her.
But it was Rhyan who moved. Without saying a word, he rose from his chair and crossed the common room, his steps soft against the stone floor. He sat down beside her on the hearth, close enough that the warmth of the fire mingled with the steady calm of his presence. He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. He only looked at her, and in that silent glance was concern, patience, and a question he would never voice unless she allowed it.
Uriel met his gaze, her own eyes sharp, restless, rimmed with the weight of nights she hadn’t slept. She searched him as though hoping he had an answer no one else could give.
At last, her voice broke through the crackle of the fire, low but edged with a rawness she hadn’t let the others see. “Rhyan…” she began, her throat tight, “…what do you know about her? About Gabriel?”
Her hand slipped out of the fire, blackened soot clinging faintly to her skin as Solas nuzzled against her knuckles. “You’ve watched her longer than I have. You’ve seen her—closer, clearer. Tell me what she hides. What she is.”
The words weren’t sharp this time, not spat like venom. They were almost pleading, as if asking him for truth was the only way to stop the storm from consuming her.
Raguel, standing nearby, pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something under his breath, but even he paused, eyes narrowing on Rhyan. Jophiel didn’t stir, wings rustling faintly as he sat in perfect composure.
"Well... I'm afraid that'll be a story for another time" Rhyan said shyly.
Uriel, Thalosian mountains
Uriel sat cross-legged on the grass, Solas resting in her lap. The phoenix was patient as always, his plumage glowing faintly in the fading sun while her fingers combed through his feathers. The rhythm was steady, careful, almost ritualistic. But every so often, her hand slowed, as though thought weighed it down.
When she finally stopped, it was not because Solas stirred, but because her eyes had caught her reflection in the trough beside them. Water, rippling faintly in the mountain breeze, mirrored back the face she had grown used to seeing, and yet never fully accepted.
Her breath caught in her throat.
She was small, her frame fragile, her hair a shade of gold too bright for the Astyrax line. Her eyes—soft and brave shade of emerald green—were wholly unremarkable. There was no trace of the brilliance of house Astyrax was famed for: no silver locks that glowed like the constellations, no irises of divine lilac that lit the halls of Caelestis like stained glass under fire. Nothing that marked her as belonging.
“I don’t look like them,” she whispered, as though the words themselves carried poison.
Solas turned his head toward her, ember-eyes unblinking, and let out a low, resonant hum. But Uriel’s voice cracked, falling lower, sharper.
“I’ve never looked like them. Not once. I tried to believe I did. Gods, I tried.” Her shoulders trembled. “I used to stand in front of the mirror until my eyes stung—hoping the white would creep into my hair, hoping the purple would bleed into my irises. Hoping I’d wake up one morning and finally look like them.”
A thin laugh slipped from her lips, but it held no mirth—only the brittleness of glass under strain.
“All I ever saw was her. A shadow. A ghost.”
Her throat closed, but she forced herself to continue, voice raw with longing.
“My mother... Or atleast what I think.”
The word felt foreign on her tongue, almost forbidden.
“I can’t even remember her face,” Uriel admitted, each syllable like a blade dragging across skin. “It’s like trying to catch smoke with my hands. I remember warmth—someone holding me—but the rest is gone. And it hurts. It hurts so much to know I had her for less than a day. One day. She never saw me grow. She never heard me speak. She never…” Uriel’s voice cracked into silence.
Tears welled, blurring the reflection in the water until her features melted away into nothingness. She pressed her palm to her mouth, stifling the sob, but the sound still broke through in ragged edges.
“I want to see her,” she choked. “Even once. Even if it’s only in a dream. I want to know if she smiled, if she thought I was beautiful. I want to know if she loved me. Was I even in her arms long enough for her to love me?”
Her body curled inward, as though to protect herself from the hollow ache clawing through her chest. Solas pressed closer, his wings folding around her shoulders like a cloak, soft fire licking at the tears staining her cheeks. But the warmth did nothing. The emptiness remained, cavernous and unrelenting.
Behind her, Raguel stood still. He hadn’t moved since her words began spilling out, a river he didn’t know how to dam. His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. This was his sister—his fierce, stubborn, radiant little sister—brought to her knees by a ghost neither of them could touch.
He thought of their mother too, and found nothing but shadows. Even he, the elder, had no memories to offer. He wanted to say something, anything, to soften the grief in Uriel’s voice—but what comfort could he give, when his own heart was just as hollow?
For a moment, Raguel hated their father for never speaking of her. He hated the Astyrax name for demanding perfection, for erasing softness, for making his sister feel like an intruder in her own blood. He hated himself most of all—for standing here, useless, unable to bridge the chasm between Uriel and the mother she mourned.
Uriel’s sobs grew quieter, but her voice was no less sharp when she spoke again.
“I’ve never been an Astyrax. Not really. I see it every time I look in the mirror. I don’t belong to them. I never did.”
The mountains had quieted, save for the bleating of sheep in the far meadow and the restless whisper of wind across the grass. Uriel sat at the edge of the pasture, her knees pulled tight to her chest, Solas perched loyally beside her.
The phoenix shimmered faintly in the dusk, feathers glowing like embers pressed against the night. He tilted his head toward her, as if waiting—always waiting—for her to speak.
Uriel did.
At first, it was only a breath. A whisper carried into the dark.
"Why?"
Her lips trembled, her gaze fixed not on the horizon, but on the dirt between her knees. “Why is it me? Why am I the one who’s wrong?”
Her voice rose, cracking sharp against the air.
“They all look at me and I see it in their eyes. I’m not like them. I never was. No silver hair. No purple eyes. No power that sings of starlight. Just me. Just this broken thing wearing a name that doesn’t fit!”
She slammed her hand into the grass, fists tearing at the soil until dirt wedged beneath her nails. Tears spilled, streaking her face, but she didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.
“Tell me, Solas. Tell me why.” She turned on him now, her voice raw, desperate, every word edged in fire. “Why was I born this way? Why am I a bastard? Why couldn’t I be enough for him to stay? For them to love me?! Why is it that the world sees me as a wrathful bastard who burns like the prophecy they wrote? I never wanted this. I'm not the one they wrote about.”
Her chest heaved, and she pressed her palms into her eyes as if to crush the tears back in. But the sobs kept spilling out, shaking her shoulders, breaking her down further.
“I should’ve never been born,” she whispered, voice hoarse with self-loathing. “She died for nothing. I killed her the moment I drew breath. And now—now I don’t even get to belong to the name she left me with.”
Solas let out a soft, keening cry, wings folding closer around her trembling frame. His warmth bled into her skin, his feathers glowing brighter as if trying to burn the grief out of her. But he had no words, no answers.
Uriel seized handfuls of her hair, pulling until her scalp ached, as though pain might distract her from the emptiness gnawing her inside out. “Why won’t anyone say it? Why won’t anyone tell me what I am? I’m not an Astyrax—I never was! So what am I?”
The question broke in her throat, dissolving into sobs that left her gasping, clawing at the silence. Solas cried again, louder this time, his wings rising as if to shield her from a storm only she could see. His feathers flared bright, a crown of fire in the dark, but still he gave her no truth.
Uriel curled against him, pressing her face into his breast, her tears smearing against the glow of his plumage. Her hands fisted into his feathers as though she could anchor herself in him, in the only companion who never turned away.
“Please,” she begged, voice cracking like splintered glass. “Please… just tell me why.”
Her words lingered in the cool mountain air, heavy as stones. Though that is a question even the bird of resurrection and life could not answer.
It had been four weeks since Uriel last saw the marble pillars of Caelestis, four weeks since the blood pact gnawed its way into her bones. The days here in Thoborn stretched on differently— wide as the mountains, simple as the sheep grazing on the hills. But to Uriel, time felt like a blur, as though every sunrise carried with it the same numbness she could not shake. She still laughed when Raguel made a fool of himself, still smiled when Solas landed on her shoulder, but none of it seemed to sink beneath her skin.
This morning was no different. The mist clung to the ground like a second veil, softening the sharpness of the rocks. Uriel walked down the stone pathway from their cottage, arms tucked around herself, green eyes catching little glimmers of autumn’s slow arrival. She had been restless from training, and her legs carried her further than she meant to go. That was when she spotted her — Evangeline, standing by the orchard, her veil pinned back so it wouldn’t catch in the branches, a wicker basket balanced on her hip.
Uriel slowed, watching her aunt reach for the pears dangling from the higher boughs. The woman’s figure looked delicate framed against the morning light, but her movements were steady, practiced, born of years in the mountains. Without thinking, Uriel stepped closer.
“Do you need help with that?” Uriel asked, her voice breaking the hush.
Evangeline glanced over her shoulder, a faint smile touching her lips. “If your hands are free, child, I won’t refuse them.”
Uriel pressed Solas off her shoulder—the phoenix crooned in complaint before settling on a fence post and set herself to work. She pulled at the low branches, letting Evangeline pluck the fruits without strain. It felt strangely grounding, this work. The air smelled of earth and ripeness, of simple life untouched by the grandeur of the capital.
For a time, they worked in silence. The pears thudded softly into the basket, and Uriel found herself sneaking glances at her aunt, noting how serene she looked even in the plainest of chores. It was Evangeline who finally broke the quiet.
“You’ve been quieter these past weeks,” she said gently, without turning her head. “Quieter than usual, even for you.”
Uriel pressed her lips together, focusing instead on tugging another branch low. “Training,” she muttered. “That’s all. Raguel thinks I’m improving.”
“That may be true.” Evangeline’s voice held no doubt, but there was something beneath it — a careful weaving of words, like she was searching for the right thread to pull. She set another pear into the basket. “But training doesn’t take the light from your eyes, Uriel. Not like this.”
Uriel stilled, the branch slipping from her hand. The words dug too close to where she kept everything buried. She tried to laugh it off, but it came out hollow. “Maybe the light wasn’t mine to begin with.”
Evangeline turned then, really looking at her niece. Her gaze was steady, sharp as any blade, yet soft with a mother’s sorrow. “You’ve been carrying something heavy since Caelestis. I don’t need you to tell me what. But I can see it.”
Uriel looked away, out toward the orchard’s edge where the mist was lifting, revealing the mountain ridges beyond. She wanted to change the subject, anything to keep her thoughts from spilling out. “Tell me about him,” she said abruptly. “About Metatron. What was he like… when he was young?”
Evangeline’s brow furrowed at the sudden turn, but she did not refuse. Her hand lingered over a pear before she answered, voice low, almost cautious. “Your father was… different once. Brilliant, commanding. But he was never soft, even as a boy. The others admired him, followed him — some feared him. He had a way of making people believe he was destined for the throne long before the crown touched his head.”
Uriel’s lips twisted, bitterness biting through her tone. “So he’s always been like that. Cold. Certain.”
“Certain, yes.” Evangeline set the last pear in the basket and straightened, brushing her hands against her apron. Her eyes softened, though they lingered on Uriel’s tense shoulders. “But cold? No. Not always. You only know him as the man the throne has hardened. There was warmth in him once, I promise you that.”
Uriel scoffed under her breath. “Hard to believe, when the only warmth I’ve ever felt from him is absence.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than the mist, heavier than the basket Evangeline now carried at her side. She didn’t reply immediately, and that silence spoke louder than any comfort could. Uriel swallowed hard, suddenly restless, tugging at the sleeves of her tunic.
For the first time, Evangeline’s composure wavered—not in anger, but in quiet grief. She reached out, brushing her hand gently against Uriel’s arm. “You are carrying questions you shouldn’t bear alone, beloved."
Uriel wanted to pull away, to guard herself, but something in her cracked at those words. Her throat burned, but no tears came — only that same numbness, dull and merciless. She forced a smile, brittle as glass. “Then maybe you see more than I want you to.”
Evangeline gave no rebuke, no lecture. She only nodded, a quiet acknowledgment, before lifting the basket and turning toward the cottage. Uriel stood where she was for a long moment, staring at the orchard, at the world that went on as though her heart hadn’t changed at all.
The mountainside forest greeted them with its usual hush—pine needles thick underfoot, the smell of damp soil and moss lingering in the cool October air. Uriel trailed just behind Raguel, Solas fluttering above in the branches, his feathers glowing faintly like embers against the twilight. The sun hadn’t fully dipped, but the shadows were long, and the forest seemed to breathe with every sway of the trees.
Uriel kicked at a stray pinecone, her green eyes distant. She hadn’t wanted to come at first, but Raguel’s bribery of desserts for a week had pried her from the cottage. Still, as she walked, she felt that familiar calm of the woods pressing against her chest, reminding her of the countless times they’d done this as children.
“Remember when you got lost up here for half a day?” Raguel called over his shoulder, a grin tugging at his lips.
Uriel scowled. “I wasn’t lost. I was… exploring.”
“You were crying when I found you.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I was six!”
Raguel laughed, pushing a branch aside. “Still the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. You hugging that tree like it was your only friend.”
Uriel rolled her eyes, though a reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She quickened her pace until she was walking beside him. “You should thank me. I gave you your first taste of being the hero.”
“Is that what you call it?” he teased. “Because I remember dragging you back down the slope while you screamed about trolls in the woods.”
Uriel nudged him with her elbow. “Trolls exist.”
“Not in these woods.” He shook his head, still laughing.
Their banter carried them deeper into the forest until the path opened into a small glade. A stream trickled nearby, catching the last of the dying sunlight. Raguel stopped, resting his bundle of gathered branches against a log. For a moment, he just looked around, breathing deeply, as though taking in the peace of the place.
Uriel sat down on the fallen log, Solas hopping onto her shoulder, his feathers warm against her neck. She rubbed absentmindedly at his chest, her gaze following the water’s glint.
“You’re quieter these days,” Raguel said softly, leaning against the log beside her. “Even when we train, you don’t fight like you used to. Not with that spark.”
Uriel didn’t answer right away. She picked up a twig and snapped it in two. “Maybe I grew up. Maybe I realized swinging a sword doesn’t make a difference when your blood’s already marked against you.”
Raguel’s jaw tightened. He didn’t argue — not yet. Instead, he bent down, picked up a stone, and skipped it across the stream. The ripples echoed his silence.
Uriel turned her head to look at him, green eyes sharp. “Tell me, Raguel. What makes us so different from Michael? He’s Metatron’s heir. We are too, aren’t we? Same blood. Same claim.”
Raguel’s hand froze mid-throw. He lowered the stone, staring at the water instead of her.
Uriel’s voice wavered, but she pressed on. “Then why does he sit on a throne while we scrape by with firewood and bruises? Why does the world kneel to him and laugh at us?”
For a long moment, Raguel said nothing. The forest held its breath with her, only the stream whispering. Finally, he exhaled, heavy and tired.
“Because the world doesn’t care about fairness,” he said. “And because Metatron never wanted us to shine beside him. He made sure of it.”
Uriel looked down at her mud-stained boots, lips pressed thin. Her fists clenched in her lap.
Raguel glanced at her then, eyes softened by something more than sorrow — by fierce protectiveness. He reached over and tugged her into his arms, resting his chin against her hair.
“You’re not his shadow, Uriel,” he murmured. “You’re your own flame. One day, they’ll see it. And they’ll burn for ever doubting you.”
Uriel’s throat tightened, though she refused to cry. She leaned into him anyway, staring at the stream, wishing she could believe it.
It was only when they began walking back toward the cottage, laughter bubbling up again as Raguel teased her about her sulking, that the mud-tripping would come — the clumsy fall, the loud laughter, and the two of them rolling in the dirt like children again.
The sun had already set and the two perched off from the tree like children, feeling the breeze on their wings and wind in their hair as they flew back to the cottage where Asenath and Evangeline were probably cooking dinner already.
Uriel was the one who perched down on the grass with a light stumble and there followed Raguel, landing with pure grace and the sheep rejoiced in his return.
The cottage smelled of herbs and smoke that evening, the fire snapping softly in the hearth. A basket of fruit sat on the table, half-eaten from dinner, and Evangeline’s shawl still hung draped on the back of a chair. She stood now, smoothing her skirts as she announced, “I should retire early. The council expects me in Caelestis tomorrow morning.”
Uriel nodded quietly, watching her aunt’s careful composure. Evangeline bent to press a soft kiss against Uriel’s brow before slipping toward her room, the faint creak of the wooden door closing behind her.
Silence fell for a beat, broken only by the crackle of the flames. Then Asenath’s voice cut through, sharp as a whip:
“Raguel. Firewood. Now.”
Raguel groaned where he sat by the table, leaning back with his arms crossed. “There’s still some left by the door—”
“Enough for one more hour,” Asenath snapped, her tone brooking no argument. “Do you plan to let your sister freeze come midnight?”
"Well, she rather does tend to be cold." Raguel teased. Uriel smirked at her brother’s expense, and Raguel shot her a glare before muttering under his breath and dragging himself to his feet. The door shut behind him with a gust of cold air, leaving the room quieter than before.
The night pressed in close against the little house, the forest wind rattling at the shutters. The fire inside had sunk low, glowing in embers, shadows spilling into the corners. Raguel had been scolded off for more firewood, and Evangeline had already gone to bed, leaving only Uriel and Asenath behind.
Uriel sat near the hearth, legs tucked up, absentmindedly stroking Solas’ wing. The bird’s ember-like feathers pulsed faintly, his presence oddly comforting. She could feel Asenath’s gaze on her, the older woman sitting in silence for too long, as though turning words over and over before daring to release them.
Finally, Asenath exhaled, the sound heavy. “Uriel…”
Uriel looked up, brows raised. “What is it?”
For a moment Asenath said nothing. Her hands, usually so steady, twisted in her lap. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, uncertain in a way Uriel had never heard before.
“I’ve been keeping something from you. Not out of cruelty, but… because I didn’t know if I could bear to say it.”
Uriel’s heart lurched, her breath caught. “Keeping what?”
“About your mother.”
Uriel stiffened. The word alone was a knife. “Right.. you… never talk about her.”
“Because she wasn’t just your mother, Uriel. She was—” Asenath faltered, swallowing hard, her gaze dropping to the fire as if it could give her strength. “She was my dearest friend. My sister in everything but blood. Speaking her name aloud… it still feels like tearing open an old wound.”
Uriel’s voice softened in spite of herself. “Just.. who was she?”
“Helena.” The name trembled in Asenath’s throat, tender and reverent. “Helena of Skagos. The last Zahavi of the great Skagos Sea.”
Uriel frowned. “Zahavi?”
“A title used to the rulers of Skagos—your maternal line. It means ‘Golden Mother’ in the tongue of her people. It wasn’t a crown or throne she held, but something greater. She carried her tribe like children, guiding, giving, protecting. She was more mother than queen. To me… she was both.”
Asenath paused, lips trembling, as if saying too much might shatter her. “I loved her, Uriel. Not as you love family, but as one clings to light in the dark. We were both taken as concubines, yet she never let bitterness hollow her. She gave hope where I had none.”
Uriel’s chest tightened. “And then she died.”
Asenath shut her eyes. “Yes. But not as simply as that.”
Uriel leaned forward, her pulse sharp. “Then how?”
When Asenath spoke again, her voice cracked, low and raw. “On the night you were born, Agares came with fire and steel. Your mother knew Skagos would fall before the blood moon will set. She carried you to the altar of her ancestors under the blood moon… and she made a choice.”
Uriel whispered, almost afraid of the answer: “What choice?”
“She bargained. With the first demon king himself. She gave her life in place of yours.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Uriel stared, her mind stalling, a dozen emotions pressing against her ribs.
“She—she traded herself?”
“Yes.” Asenath’s hand trembled as it pressed against her own knee. “But she did more. In her final breath, she blessed the altar fire. Secretly. Quietly. She marked you with it, passed the flame into you while Agares believed he had only won her soul. That was her defiance. Her gift. You were not just spared — you were armed.”
Uriel’s voice wavered, but her face stayed stubborn. “So I live because of a demon’s mercy?”
Asenath’s eyes snapped open, fierce. “No. You live because of your mother's love. Because she loved you more than herself, more than her tribe. And because even before you could walk, she chose to make you the last flame of Skagos. You're the last heir to Zahavi.”
Uriel looked away, jaw tight, blinking too fast. She wanted to scoff, to spit out that she didn’t need gifts from ghosts. But her throat ached with something deeper, something raw.
The fire snapped in the silence, throwing fleeting light across Uriel’s face. She had gone still, her thoughts gnawing at her like wolves, but Asenath was not finished.
“Uriel,” she said softly, as though afraid the name itself might break her. “Do you know the day you were born?”
Uriel frowned faintly. “I was never told. Only that it was in the summer like the prophecy you told me. But we've been celebrating it after the New Years.”
“July the thirty-first,” Asenath interrupted, her eyes distant, lost in memory. “The hottest day of that year. The air itself seemed to burn. It was the day you first cried into this world… and the same day Skorching Skagos burned its last. The day the Zahavi line fell silent. You were born in the middle of the demon's storm. You, Uriel—Zahavi of the Great Skagos Sea, Stormborn and the unburnt.”
Uriel’s heart twisted, torn between pride and guilt. Her birthday was not hers alone — it was bound to a grave. “So the night I was born… the world she loved ended.”
“Yes.” Asenath’s voice broke but carried on. “While the blood moon hung above, Agares tore the tribe apart. And in the middle of fire and ruin, Helena laid you on the altar stone, her hands steady though the world crumbled. She did not falter, not even once. Not when she heard her people screaming. Not when she knew she would not live to see you take your first steps. She chose you. Always you.”
Uriel bit the inside of her cheek, hard, until she tasted iron. Her hands clenched in her lap. She hated how her chest ached, how her throat burned with a cry she refused to release.
Asenath leaned forward, her voice trembling, tender. “You want to know what she looked like?”
Uriel’s breath caught, and she nodded, barely.
“She had golden locks so light anyone could've assumed she was the personification of the sun, but when the light touched it, it gleamed like the light after snow. Her eyes… her eyes were green, brighter than the summer fields, but when she laughed, they softened into something gentler than spring rain. She moved like a flame, proud, but always warm to those she gathered close. Helena was no Astyrax, no cold marble statue of royalty. She was alive in every breath. And, child…” Asenath’s eyes welled, but she did not look away, “…when I see you now, grown, I see her. Your stance, your smile when you forget to guard yourself, the curve of your face — it is Helena returned. Not a single piece of Metatron shows in you.”
Uriel’s fingers trembled against Solas’ feathers. Her reflection from countless mornings in the mirror flashed in her mind — blonde hair, no trace of Astyrax white, no violet eyes. Always different. Always wrong. Yet now… Asenath’s words carved a new wound, but also something that almost felt like a balm.
She whispered, not daring to look up, “And she loved me?”
Asenath’s voice broke, sharp as glass. “With everything. You were her world, Uriel. Her last act, her last breath, her last prayer.”
Uriel stared into the dying fire, her lips parting as though to speak, but nothing came. Only the weight of a truth she had longed for, feared, and finally been given — and the unbearable ache of knowing she had been loved more fiercely than she had ever been allowed to remember.
"Do you think she would have been proud of me..?" Uriel asks, doubting herself. "Do you think I was worth the sacrifice..?" She asks Asenath, her emerald green eyes glistening in the hearth's light.
"She would've been so proud." Asenath reassured.
Uriel’s breath came shallow, as if the air itself pressed heavy on her chest. She turned from the cauldron, its glossy surface still whispering of fire and blood, and folded her arms tight against her body.
“All this time… I thought I was just a burden. A stray you pitied. And now you tell me I was a prophecy? That Helena gave herself so I could live? Do you know how cruel that sounds?” she said, her voice bitter and trembling.
Asenath’s face softened, the severity she always wore melting into something far older, far more human. She stepped closer—slowly, carefully, as though approaching a wounded creature.
“Uriel, look at me.”
Uriel shook her head, refusing. Her jaw clenched hard, tears burning her eyes though she fought them with all her might.
“Please.”
It was not a command, not even a plea from a guardian—but the fragile call of someone who had carried grief too long. Hesitantly, Uriel lifted her gaze.
For a heartbeat, Asenath seemed to falter. Her lips trembled, her hands shook. Then, with a deep breath, she reached forward and gathered Uriel into her arms.
Uriel stiffened at first—surprised, unprepared. But the steady weight of Asenath’s wings curved around her like a shield, warm and firm, drowning out the memory of the flames.
“You are not a burden,” Asenath whispered, her voice low and breaking. “You never were. You are the only reason Helena’s sacrifice was not in vain. And though I could never replace her, I swore the moment I found you that I would love you as my own.”
Uriel’s defenses cracked. Her fists loosened, clutching the fabric of Asenath’s robe instead. She pressed her face into her chest, finally letting the tears fall.
“Then why does it hurt so much to hear it now?” she asked, her voice muffled against Asenath.
“Because truth often cuts deeper than lies.”
For a long while, neither moved. The fire in the hearth sputtered, shadows stretching long across the walls.
Uriel searched her eyes, trying to anchor herself in their depth. “Then promise me… promise me you won’t keep more truths from me. Not anymore.”
Asenath hesitated, then gave a solemn nod, her hand still lingering against Uriel’s cheek. “No more shadows between us. You have my word.”
Uriel swallowed hard, the ache in her chest still raw but no longer unbearable. She nodded, leaning briefly once more into the warmth of Asenath’s embrace before stepping back.
For the first time, she saw not only her guardian, but a woman who had lost as much as she had, and chosen to keep going.
And for the first time, Asenath allowed herself to hold Uriel not as a ward or duty—but as a daughter.
The room still carried the faint sweetness of the night before, the sheets warm with it, the scent of mingled skin and feathers clinging to the air. Their wings remained furled together, feathers tangled as though they too refused to part.
Evangeline
The warm smell of Asenath's room met her nose and she couldn't have woken up better. Asenath stirred first, as she always did. She shifted closer instead of sitting up, pressing herself fully against Evangeline’s side. One hand slid lazily over her lover’s waist, fingertips tracing idle patterns on her skin, while her lips pressed slow, worshipful kisses along her temple, her cheek, her jaw.
“Morning,” she whispered against her lips, brushing her mouth with a teasing kiss before lingering just long enough to savor the taste.
Evangeline groaned, turning onto her side and burying her face into Asenath’s neck, wings shifting to block out the weak dawn light. “If this is about the council,” she muttered sleepily, “I resign.”
Asenath chuckled low, the sound vibrating through her chest. She ran her fingers through Evangeline’s hair, smoothing it back, then trailed her touch down to cup her jaw. “Not yet, love. But the world will still expect you to rise eventually.”
“Let it wait,” Evangeline sighed, her hand sliding across Asenath’s stomach, tugging her closer. “It didn’t complain last night.”
Asenath smirked and kissed the corner of her mouth, then her throat, pausing only to murmur against her skin, “Last night, you were louder than the world itself.” Her palm skimmed down her side, lingering at her hip, then pulling her flush until no space remained between them.
Evangeline’s lips curled into a smile, half-drowsy, half-teasing. “And whose fault was that?”
“Mine,” Asenath answered without hesitation, her voice low and proud. She tilted Evangeline’s face upward and kissed her deeply, her hand sliding to cradle her cheek while her thumb stroked the corner of her mouth. When she finally pulled back, her gaze caught violet eyes shining against the dim light. “Stars, those eyes…”
Evangeline flushed faintly under her lover’s gaze, soft and unyielding. “You say that every morning.”
“And every morning I’ll prove it,” Asenath murmured, brushing her thumb across her lips, kissing her again, softer this time, slower. Her wings unfolded slightly, wrapping around Evangeline’s body in a protective cocoon of warmth and feathers. “If I could keep you like this forever, I would.”
Evangeline let out a quiet laugh, resting her forehead to Asenath’s. “You’re insatiable.”
“Only for you.” Asenath kissed her again, longer, her hands smoothing down her back, memorizing her skin as though last night hadn’t been enough. She whispered against her lips, “If every dawn greeted me with you in my arms, I’d never fear the morning again.”
The dawn light barely touched the room, but Evangeline already felt wrung out, her body humming with soreness in every limb. Her wings ached where Asenath had held them, feathers pulled and pressed until even the faintest brush of the sheets made her twitch.
She tried to shift, to find a comfortable spot, but even that small movement made her whimper. “Asenath,” she whispered, voice raw, “I can’t… I’m already—”
Her lover leaned in, blue eyes glowing with smug satisfaction. “Already spent? Little liar. You said that last night, and still you took everything I gave you.”
Evangeline flushed crimson, burying her face into the pillow. “Because you wouldn’t stop—”
“Because you didn’t want me to stop,” Asenath cut in, fingers trailing down her side, just brushing the curve of her hip. The lightest touch had Evangeline jolting, breath catching from the overstimulation.
“Please,” she whimpered, half plea, half protest.
“Please what?” Asenath’s voice was velvet and iron all at once. She slid closer, her body caging Evangeline against the mattress with ease. One hand slipped into crimson hair, tugging her head back gently but firmly until violet eyes met hers. “Tell me what you want, love.”
Evangeline’s breath shuddered, her body betraying her even as she shook her head. “I can’t take more. You’ll break me.”
Asenath smirked, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Sweetheart, you said that hours ago. And yet… you’re still here. Still mine.”
Her free hand slid along the arch of Evangeline’s wing, just grazing the sensitive line, and Evangeline nearly sobbed at the electric jolt that followed. Her body shivered under the touch, overstimulated to the point where even the faintest caress sent sparks down her spine.
“Asenath…” she whispered, half a warning, half a surrender.
“Yes,” her lover purred, lips brushing her ear. “Say my name like that again. Say it until you can’t anymore.”
Evangeline’s weak protest dissolved into a whimper, her trembling frame yielding under the dominance she couldn’t resist. Asenath kissed her hard, slow and consuming, savoring the way her lover’s overstimulated body writhed helplessly beneath her.
Asenath shifted, her gaze soft but deliberate. She unfurled one wing, brushing the very edge along the base of Evangeline’s feathers. The touch was precise, ancient, one that carried weight older than either of them — a gesture not of seduction alone, but of courtship, of bond.
Evangeline shuddered, her breath catching as her wings instinctively quivered under the contact. She knew what Asenath was doing. Every angel did. “You’re—” Her voice faltered, half protest, half plea.
“Asking,” Asenath murmured, voice low as her feathers traced again along the sensitive roots. “The old way.”
The pressure was tender but insistent, coaxing. It was how their kind had always known willingness—the base of the feathers releasing oil only if the heart and body answered yes. A secret language of wings, one that words could never quite capture.
Evangeline trembled beneath her, heat rising in her cheeks as the faintest sheen began to bloom along her feathers. The betrayal of her body made her gasp softly.
Asenath smiled, not cruel but warm, brushing a lock of hair from Evangeline’s flushed face. “You feel it, don’t you? Your wings can’t lie to me.”
Her wingtip pressed a little deeper, stroking, coaxing more of the sacred oil from Evangeline’s feathers. It slicked under the touch, a clear answer, shimmering faintly in the dim light.
Evangeline hid her face against the pillow, muffling a desperate sound. “You’re shameless.”
“And you’re willing,” Asenath whispered against her ear, her tone reverent yet playful. She tilted her head, letting her hair fall across Evangeline’s shoulder as her wings brushed again, slower this time, savoring. “This is how we choose. The old ways never lie.”
Evangeline’s body betrayed her again, trembling with each stroke, wings straining despite herself. She turned her head finally, eyes glassy and vulnerable, meeting Asenath’s steady gaze.
“You knew I’d answer,” she whispered.
Asenath shifted closer, letting her wing unfurl and slide along the base of Evangeline’s. The first touch was feather-light, exploratory, before she let her edge press more firmly against the roots.
Evangeline flinched softly, a sharp breath escaping her lips. “S–Sena… you know what that does.”
“I know,” Asenath murmured, her voice a low hum in Evangeline’s ear. “But your wings are heavy. They’re ready to shed. You’ve been holding on to old feathers too long.”
Her strokes were careful, deliberate, tracing the sensitive base again and again until a thin glisten of oil began to surface. It wasn’t merely arousal — it was instinct, a response older than memory, the body preparing itself.
Evangeline bit her lip, trying not to writhe under the coaxing touch. “You’re… teasing.”
“I’m tending,” Asenath corrected softly, smiling against her temple. She shifted her weight, draping her wing protectively over Evangeline’s while her other continued its ritual. “If your feathers are drenched, I can preen them for you. The oil softens them, loosens the old shafts, makes way for new flight.”
Evangeline let out a trembling exhale. Her body was betraying her, wings quivering as more sheen gathered, dampening her feathers with the sacred oil.
Asenath kissed her cheek, then the corner of her jaw, her free hand threading into the silk of Evangeline’s hair. “There. You’re yielding beautifully. Don’t fight it.”
Evangeline buried her face against Asenath’s neck, muffling a helpless sound as her feathers slickened further. “You make everything feel… indecent.”
“That’s because you’re mine to tend.” Asenath’s tone was velvet, but steady, firm — the voice of one who knew her place was above, guiding. Her wingtip pressed more intently, dragging slow along the drenched bases. “And because you like it when I do.”
Evangeline’s blush burned hot, but her body gave the answer words couldn’t — her wings glistening, ready to be cared for, every old feather trembling loose under Asenath’s skilled coaxing.
Asenath’s hand slid down, her touch possessive yet gentle. “When you’re drenched enough, I’ll preen away every tired feather. You’ll feel light again. New wings. New strength.”
“And until then…” Evangeline whispered, breathless, “…you’ll keep me like this?”
Asenath chuckled low, kissing the corner of her lips. “Until you beg me to finish.”
The sheen along Evangeline’s wings was undeniable now, the sacred oil glistening like dew in the dim light. Her feathers quivered, ready. Asenath drew back just enough to look her in the eyes, her thumb brushing across the flush on her cheek.
“You’re drenched,” she said softly, pride in her tone. “Now let me do what I promised.”
Before Evangeline could answer, Asenath leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to her lips — grounding her — then lowered her attention to the nearest wing. With deliberate patience, she slid her fingers down the slick feathers, feeling for the weak shafts softened by the oil. One by one, she plucked the loosened quills, each soft tug sending a shiver racing through Evangeline’s body.
Evangeline gasped, her back arching against the sheets. “Asenath—!”
“Easy, love.” Asenath’s voice was hushed, coaxing, even as her lips curved in quiet amusement. “I told you it would sting. The old must fall away before the new can grow.”
Her wing wrapped protectively around Evangeline as she continued, pulling another feather free with a deft motion. The sensation was sharp, almost biting, yet it melted immediately into a throbbing ache that made Evangeline’s toes curl.
“You’re trembling,” Asenath murmured, leaning down to press a kiss just below her ear. “Does it hurt too much?”
Evangeline shook her head, though her breath came ragged. “It’s— it’s too much, but… don’t stop.”
A low chuckle vibrated from Asenath’s chest. “That’s my brave girl.” She nipped gently at Evangeline’s neck before returning to her task, each pluck followed by a smoothing stroke of her fingers, spreading the oil to soothe the sting.
The bed was littered now with fallen feathers, crimson and white, a little graveyard of what had once weighed Evangeline down. With every one removed, she felt lighter, yet her body shook with overstimulation — the mixture of pain, relief, and the heated edge of pleasure blurring into something heady.
“Almost there,” Asenath promised, her tone low and commanding, her touch unyielding. “Just a few more, and you’ll be radiant again. Let me take it all from you.”
Evangeline clutched at her arm, nails biting into her skin, desperate and undone. “You’ll ruin me, Asenath.”
Asenath worked slowly, her hands steady, her eyes never leaving Evangeline’s face. The sacred oil shimmered faintly along the feathers, a sign that her lover was ready.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” she whispered, brushing her knuckles across Evangeline’s cheek.
Evangeline’s purple eyes fluttered, soft but trusting. “I trust you.”
With that, Asenath began. She coaxed each feather gently between her fingers, testing it, tugging just enough to see if it gave way. When it was ready, she drew it free in a single fluid motion — never tearing, never careless. Each plucked quill was laid carefully aside, a small offering of what Evangeline no longer needed.
Evangeline flinched now and again, her body shuddering from the sharpness of the sensation, but Asenath soothed her each time, smoothing the oil over the bare spot with her thumb, murmuring quiet reassurances.
“You’re doing so well,” she said after the fifth feather, her lips brushing Evangeline’s temple. “Each one makes room for new strength.”
She moved methodically, pausing often to let Evangeline breathe, to press a kiss along her shoulders, or to tuck her more securely under the shelter of her own wing. By the time the bed was scattered with the soft remnants, Evangeline was trembling but not broken — her body glowing faintly, lighter with every feather that fell away.
“There,” Asenath murmured at last, brushing the new growth with reverence. “You handled it so well, my love. Are you alright?”
Evangeline leaned into her chest, her eyes half-lidded but filled with warmth. “You always make me feel alright.”
Asenath kissed her brow, stroking her hair with a gentleness that belied the strength in her hands. “Because you are whenever you're with me. And I’ll remind you as many times as it takes.”
They stayed that way, folded into each other, the pleading complete. Not passion this time — but devotion, deep and steady as the first light of morning.
Uriel
The kitchen smelled of sizzling bread and roasting meat, but the usual calm of the morning had long since evaporated. Raguel was at the center of the storm, wielding a large roasting pan in one hand and tossing a giant bone to Fenris, his massive direwolf, with the other. Fenris caught it mid-air, teeth clashing loudly against the bone, tail wagging in pure delight, sending a clatter of utensils tumbling from the counter.
“Raguel! That’s not for him!” Asenath’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. She strode across the kitchen, apron flaring as she snatched up a pan just before it hit the floor. “We are not feeding the beast before breakfast is served to people, you reckless fool!”
Raguel laughed, waving a dismissive hand as Fenris thumped his tail against the floor, scattering flour everywhere. “Relax, Asenath! He’s been good all week! Besides, he earned it!”
Uriel, sitting at the wooden table with Solas perched on her shoulder, tilted her head as the bird-like creature nuzzled against her neck. She had been trying to focus on her quill, tracing letters on parchment with painstaking effort, but the commotion kept pulling her attention away.
Solas let out a soft, curious trill, leaning forward to inspect the quill in Uriel’s hand, head tilting from side to side as if questioning why her letters wobbled and the ink smudged. Uriel reached up to stroke the sleek feathers along his head absently, sighing. “I just… can’t get the angle right,” she muttered, watching Fenris gnaw happily on the oversized bone. “Why does everything else seem so easy except this?”
“Maybe because you’re trying too hard, Uriel,” Evangeline’s voice chimed in from the doorway, a soft laugh following her words. She leaned casually against the frame, watching the chaos with amused eyes. “Look at you, quivering over letters while your brother is turning the kitchen upside down.”
Fenris let out a deep, satisfied growl, thumping his head against Raguel’s leg as if to encourage more mischief. Uriel’s quill wobbled again, ink pooling into a blot. She frowned, muttering under her breath, “I just… want it to look right.”
Asenath’s scolding hadn’t ended. She swept past, yanking another bone from Fenris’s jaws. “Raguel, if you don’t get your act together, I swear—breakfast will be burned, the floor will be ruined, and you will be cleaning it all, mark my words, young man.”
Uriel paused mid-stroke, her quill hovering above the parchment as she lifted her head. Evangeline was leaning casually against the counter, one hand brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a faint smile curling her lips. The morning light caught the subtle shimmer of her feathers, which glowed with a soft, iridescent sheen that made Uriel’s own slightly crooked wings look dull in comparison. Her face carried a quiet strength, the sharp angles reminding Uriel faintly of Metatron himself, but softened by warmth and patience that emanated from every movement.
Uriel blinked, curiosity bubbling. “Your wings… they look perfect,” she said, tilting her head, the quill almost forgotten. “How… how do you make them so… well, glowing?”
Evangeline’s smile deepened, a faint blush rising along her cheeks as she glanced down at Uriel. “You wouldn’t understand,” she said softly, a playful lilt in her voice.
Uriel’s eyes narrowed, green gaze sharp and probing. “Try me,” she insisted, pushing the parchment aside. “I want to know. I mean… I’m trying to write, but you… your wings are flawless. What’s the secret?”
Evangeline let out a small laugh, the sound light and teasing. She reached out, brushing a few of Uriel’s feathers lightly with her fingertips, careful not to press too hard. “Flawless, huh? You really notice these things, don’t you?”
Uriel flushed, hiding behind her quill, but her curiosity only sharpened. “I… I notice everything,” she muttered. “Tell me. Please. Do you… do you have a special routine?”
Evangeline’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “Maybe I do,” she replied, tilting her head. “But it’s… complicated. It takes care, attention… coaxing them just right. You have to know when to preen, when to let them rest, when to… encourage the oils to flow.”
Uriel leaned closer, the quill forgotten entirely. “Encourage the oils?” she asked, brow furrowed in thought. “Do you… do you need someone else to do it?”
Evangeline laughed softly, the sound warm and intimate. “It’s not what you think,” she said, eyes twinkling as she glanced toward Asenath, who was momentarily distracted helping Raguel with a pan of sizzling bacon. “It’s careful work. Gentle coaxing, preening at the base of the feathers… helping the new ones grow strong. That’s all. Nothing more scandalous.”
Uriel tilted her head, green eyes studying the movement of Evangeline’s wings, the smooth shimmer of feathers that caught the light just so. “It… sounds complicated,” she murmured, almost to herself. “I… I wish mine were like that.”
Evangeline’s lips curved into a teasing smile. “Hmm… if your wings weren’t so crooked and your feathertips not too bent from your little encounter with that northern girl, you might have potential yourself,” she replied, voice light but sharp, clearly enjoying her tease.
Uriel’s quill paused mid-stroke as Evangeline teased, her words slicing straight to the memory Uriel had hoped was forgotten. The heat rose in her chest, and before she realized it, her hand slammed against the wooden table. “Wait—how do you know about that?! Where did you even hear that?!” she demanded, eyes wide and green flames of indignation flickering in them.
Evangeline’s smile only widened, eyes glinting with amusement as if she’d been waiting for this reaction. “Oh… I might have my ways,” she said, tilting her head, letting a strand of red hair fall over her shoulder. Her wings twitched slightly, catching the light in a casual but deliberate display.
Uriel’s heart thumped, part shock, part irritation, part something else she couldn’t quite name. “That… that was private! How—” she tried to articulate her outrage, but the words caught in her throat as Evangeline’s calm confidence pressed against her resolve. "How..?" Uriel asks on disbelief.
'You know,” Evangeline said, leaning closer so her wings brushed Uriel’s slightly, “it’s… really funny, in a way. Someone like a daughter of Caelus—the Aurelius line, with mana stronger than most of Eden—yet you agreed to a blood pact with her.”
Uriel froze mid-stroke, cheeks burning. “I… I didn’t think about it like that!” she stammered, but the quill wobbled in her hand.
Evangeline’s lips curved knowingly. “Of course you didn’t. But think about it. Her blood… it will always dominate. Always. And yours? Well…” She let the words linger, the teasing edge clear. "your mana will be the one reshaped, affected, and—dare I say overwhelmed. You knew that, right?”
Uriel’s chest tightened, and her green eyes darted to Evangeline. “I—I thought the pact was… balanced! That it was mutual!”
Evangeline chuckled softly, brushing a feathered edge of her wing against Uriel’s. “Mutual? Maybe in theory. But anyone familiar with the Aurelius line would laugh at the idea. Their blood surges stronger than most—so much so that even the cleverest angel will feel it press against them. Against you, little one, it’s… monumental.”
Uriel’s hands gripped the quill tighter, smudging the ink even more. “I—I didn’t realize…”
“Of course you didn’t,” Evangeline whispered, her voice low, teasing yet affectionate. “And yet, somehow, you still agreed. That makes you… reckless. Or brave. Perhaps both.”
Uriel’s cheeks flamed hotter, a mix of embarrassment and the strange swell of pride pressing against her chest. She tried to look back at the parchment, but her gaze flickered to Evangeline, her thoughts tangled with the implications of the pact.
Evangeline leaned closer, her wings folding protectively, a playful gleam in her eyes. “Honestly, it’s hilarious to me. You, with your lower mana, bound to someone whose blood will always overshadow yours… And you still said yes. I’d say you’re crazy, but I’m starting to think you just might be stubborn enough to make it work.”
Uriel swallowed hard, her green eyes wide, gripping the quill as if it anchored her to reality. The mix of fear, awe, and reluctant pride pressed heavy against her chest, and she found herself silent, listening, feeling the weight of a pact that could never truly be equal—but now, under Evangeline’s gaze, almost… bearable.
Evangeline leaned closer, her violet eyes steady and calm as she watched Uriel struggle with the weight of her quill. Her wing brushed lightly against Uriel’s shoulder, grounding her. “The thing you need to understand,” she began, “is how these pacts are supposed to work. In the North, a blood pact is traditionally made between two equal bloodlines. It’s taboo—and highly forbidden—to tie yourself to someone weaker, because it skews the balance.”
Uriel frowned, confusion knitting her brow. “Balance?”
“Yes,” Evangeline said softly, “the pact links two people, sharing strength, mana, and fate equally. But yours… yours wasn’t equal. Gabriel’s blood is far superior to yours. That means the bond favors her. The effects, the connection, the eventual bitterness when it breaks—it all falls more heavily on you, the weaker side.”
Uriel’s hand tightened on her quill. “So… I’ll feel it more than she does?”
“Exactly,” Evangeline replied, her voice calm but firm. “When the pact eventually breaks, her power and her lineage remain intact and continue acting on the one oathed. She will be unchanged and forever loath you. But your blood… your mana… it will bear the weight of the tie disappearing. You’ll feel bitter, numb, maybe even angered. All because the connection was never equal to begin with. That’s why binding yourself to her was so dangerous.”
Uriel’s green eyes widened. “So it’s… inevitable?”
Evangeline gave a small nod, a teasing tilt to her lips despite the seriousness. “Mostly. Her bloodline dominates, always. The pact was tied to her superiority from the start. That’s the way these things end. The weaker side suffers more than the stronger one.”
Uriel shook her head, green eyes flashing with stubborn defiance. “No, that’s not right. The blood pact… it wasn’t meant to dominate anyone. It was to protect each other, to make sure neither of us—neither I nor Gabriel—ever hurt the other. It was… it was to survive the Velheim Games without… without crossing that line.”
Evangeline studied her, the corner of her lips curling faintly. She didn’t scold; she didn’t correct—she just let Uriel speak, listening to the conviction in her voice. Finally, she sighed, soft but heavy with reality. “Uriel… I understand why you believe that. But the Velheims… they are never fair. They’re designed to hurt, to test, to break. The pact might aim to protect, but it cannot erase what is inevitable. Pain, betrayal, conflict… it will touch you both, no matter what rules you swore by.”
Uriel’s hands tightened on the table, the quill trembling between her fingers. “I—I thought I could… I thought it would be different. That if we swore it, we could avoid—”
“You walked into a trap,” Evangeline interrupted gently, her wing brushing against Uriel’s arm in quiet comfort. “Gabriel’s line… her blood is powerful, dominant. The moment the Games start and the vow is broken, the imbalance you already feel in the pact will be magnified. You will loath and be hurt… and she will loath. And sometimes, you’ll be the one feeling it worse."
Notes:
I'm planning to write a smut fanfic/a bonus smut chapter of Gaburi in celebration of Kinktober but idk what trope interests me in terms of nsfw. I've been reading many a/b/o fanfics and I think I could incorporate that in angelic terms but idk in a much more holy way (😭) or I could just incorporate a modern college au between the two and it can happen. Anyways, I just came up with a new ship name for these two, since Uriel was born before the storm that wiped Skagos and Gabriel's connection to the North and is as pure as snow, their new shipname is SnowStorm. Snowstorm save me fr 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻
Chapter 19: Acceptance, A Feast For Snakes (1)
Summary:
This chapter mainly focuses on different POV of the characters of recieving the letter to the velheim banquet, addition to the story is Raphael Maelion, bastard of Lord Elrik of Stormshold.
Notes:
This fanfic will be heavily edited at a certain point because I can add these little cute headers and seperators, anyways enjoy reading and this chapter is delayed for like a week because I didn't realize school would've kept me that busy since the intramurals are commencing. As usual, enjoy readingg! Oh and yeah really short chapter because this is an introduction to a new arc, I'll write longer next time I promise 🙏🏻
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
AMUN CAELORA
The storm never slept in Stormshold. Its high towers were built to cut the sky atop of the 'giant's lance', a mountain standing almost a thousand feet from sealine held the castle to drink the lightning and scatter the thunder into stone. Snow rattled against the shutters like ghostly knuckles, and the fire in the chamber hearth wavered under the draft, never quite warming the vaulted hall. The screams of slaves below the cellars apparant enough to even drown out the sounds of the strong winds outside.
Amun Caelora sat cloaked in his darkness, long robes of midnight silk draped across the granite seat. His short hair, black as spilled ink, caught the glow of the fire in cold strands, and his eyes—red, burning faintly in the half-light—studied the man across from him with the patience of a predator.
Elrik Maelion, Warden of the South.
White-robed, as if the storm itself had chosen him to wear its mantle. His hair was pale gold, cascading loose to his shoulders, and his eyes shone sky blue, sharp and cold as the western seas during a storm. Elrik leaned against the carved oak arm of his chair as though he were born upon a throne, and every gesture—every tilt of his chin, every idle tap of his finger against the armrest—reeked of inherited arrogance.
Banners of house Maelion on display—a blue falcon soaring above a white background following a crescent moon.
"You know the old ways, 12 participants and 3 subgroups. Don't dare change the mechanics, Caelora." The white robed angel said, his wings drooping low as he held the chains of slaves in his hands.
A long table stretched between the two men, its surface scarred by decades of use. Maps of the North lay spread across it, along with a roster penned in Caelora’s angular hand. Twelve names. Twelve sacrificial lambs.
“As it has always been, old friend” Amun reassured, his voice cool and deliberate, “twelve shall compete, as tradition demands." He tapped one pale finger against the parchment, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “…Though this time, the arrangement will not fall to chance. We will see to that. The goblet choosing the names shall be rigged in our favour" he continued, getting a seal ready on a piece of paper.
Elrik leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his broad chest. His blond hair caught the firelight as he tilted his head, watching Amun with something between amusement and disdain. “And I assume you already know which piece of the board you’d like shifted?”
“Uriel, bastard of the King” he said at last, in a suggestive tone, dragging the name with his finger as though already slotting the girl into her place. “Pair her with the Talisa whelp—Jophiel, is it? The red-headed one with too many wings. And…” he leaned back in his chair, deliberately casual, “one of my stablespawn. They’re eager enough to bleed for spectacle.”
Amun’s brows arched, a rare flicker of humor tugging at his lips. A quiet laugh escaped him, low and mirthless, echoing off the chamber’s stone walls.
“You mean your bastard? that Raphael boy you despise so much?” His tone cut sharp as frost. “The cripple who’ll never grow with wing deformities?”
Elrik frowned, not from insult but from the disappointment he was reminded he had a son like that—though his eyes darkened. “Aye. That one. I’d have him trampled bloodied in the snow before he dared whisper his name beside mine again.”
With that, Amun wrote with his ink and quill, every stroke a scratch that secretly infuriated Elrik.
"Mockery has a way of turning to prophecy in these games. Even a cripple can play the wolf if the pack underestimates him, after all he is yours deny it or not.” Amun reminded.
Elrik snorted, flipping his hair back from his brow. “Spare me your riddles, Caelora. My bastard is no wolf. He is dead weight. And I would see him broken in the snow rather than dragging my house into shame. Anyways, about Caelus' daughter, what plans did you brew up?”
Amun Caelora traced the rim of his goblet, crimson eyes fixed on the parchment between them. “Gabriel Aurelius will not be placed with Uriel Astyrax.”
Elrik Maelion tilted his head, golden hair spilling like molten sunlight over white silk. “Strange. I’d have thought keeping them together makes them predictable, easier to corner. You’d separate them? Why?”
Amun’s lips curved faintly. “Because together, they could be untouchable. Apart, they are fragile.”
Elrik’s laugh rang sharp in the stone chamber. “Fragile? You’ve seen how they move, Caelora. That blood pact of theirs is a shield. No blade can make one turn against the other. Even forced, their oath binds them.”
Amun leaned forward, his voice a low ember. “You misunderstand the nature of a Northern pact.”
Elrik’s brows rose, his blue eyes narrowing. “Do I?”
Amun’s lips curved, dark and patient. “You still think of their pact as a shield. It is not. It is a noose. What one suffers, the other tastes. Pain is doubled. Wounds echo. Apart, they are not strengthened—they are crippled.”
Elrik tilted his head, brows knitting. “So you’d wound one to bring down both.”
“Precisely.” Amun leaned closer, his voice dropping into the hiss of coals. “Which is why Gabriel must be burdened with a team that cannot win. Every failure will crush her, and every bruise she bears will carve itself into Uriel’s flesh.”
Elrik smirked, taking a slow drink of wine. “And what of this… coffin you’ve assembled for her?”
Amun’s gaze flicked to the parchment, fingers sliding across the names. “Odessa Lyrass—half-human, half-angel, scorned in both lands. No bloodline to rally her, no loyalty to earn. Her presence alone will sour Gabriel’s standing in the eyes of the court.”
Elrik barked a sharp laugh. “A mongrel? You’d have an Aurelius walk beside a half-blood cur? Oh, Caelora—you mean to shame her as well as bleed her. The nobles will howl.”
Unmoved, Amun went on. “Kael Noctis. Eastern-born angel. Trickster, lawless, stained by demonic mana. A creature of shadows—untrustworthy, yet dangerous enough to draw scorn and suspicion.”
Elrik sneered, blue eyes narrowing. “A gutter rat with corruption in his veins. You’d place him beside a noble daughter of the North? That is not a team, Amun—it is a circus.”
“Exactly,” Amun murmured, voice like silk pulled taut.
“And the last?”
“Cerelia Evertis.” Amun’s tone softened, as if savoring the name. “Pure-blooded angel, yes… but blind, mute, her wings useless. Revered in theory, but in truth? A husk in the Games. The epitome of dead weight.”
Elrik’s laughter spilled loud across the chamber, echoing off the vaulted stone. “Three cripples and Caelus' wrathful daughter? You’d drag Gabriel Aurelius through the mud with a half-blood wretch, a demonic thief, and a blind girl who cannot speak? Hilarious, really."
“Indeed it is." Amun said coldly. His crimson eyes glowed in the firelight. “Everything she feels will have greater effect on Uriel. It will cut her deeper than steel. Their bond will not protect them—it will drag them down together."
"How do you really expect the 56th game play out?" Elrik asked, intrigued by what Amun had planned, he looked down at the map laid down on the table, pointer finger on a specific river up North.
"Wherever the wind blows, Elrik." Amun said before closing the ink bottle.
"And what of our representatives?" Elrik asked curiously, examining a vile of potion nearby,
Amun leaned forward, his shadow stretching long across the table’s surface, his red gaze glinting like coals. "The heirs will be kept close. Your Lysaera, Rhyan Dravon, and my Cassian—together, they form a triad strong enough to carry legacy on their backs. But one more must complete them. One more heir, to give their team its rightful weight.”
Elrik’s brow arched. “And who, pray tell, would you add to such a trio? You speak as though you already know.”
Amun’s lips curved into a smile that revealed nothing and promised everything. “I do. But the choice lies with us, old friend.” He tapped the map with a long, pale finger, two names unspoken yet heavy between them. “Will it be Selene… the trueborn daughter, Aurelius’ said shining jewel? Or Orion—the bastard son of Barron, half-blooded, yet carrying Aurelius blood in his veins?”
Elrik’s laughter faded, replaced by the hard gleam of calculation in his eyes. He set down his goblet, the sound of silver kissing stone echoing faintly in the chamber. “Though they do know snow better than many, Orion is unfit for the nobility our heirs represent. A bastard has no place standing beside our heirs. The sight alone would cheapen the very bloodlines the Games are meant to honor.”
His words dripped with disdain, sharp as a blade, but there was hesitation lingering beneath them. Elrik’s fingers lingered on the rim of the goblet, tracing slow circles as though weighing his next words.
“But Selene…” His voice dropped, thoughtfully, almost reluctant. “Selene Aurelius may be of true birth, but Aurelius blood is… complicated. She has her father’s shadow about her, and I do not trust that shadow to bow easily. Loyalty is not a certainty with that one. She is too quiet, too observant. Such children often betray when it serves them best.” Elrik continued, deep in thought. Outside, the strong winds of the high castle in the tip of the mountains raged against the reinforced walls and windows.
GABRIEL AURELIUS
The first snow of the season drifted lazily against the tall panes of Snezhnaya’s common hall, soft white dust carried by the breath of an early winter breeze. Gabriel Aurelius stood at the high arched window, the glass faintly fogged from her breath and the steam curling up from the cup of spiced tea she cradled in her gloved hands.
The warmth seeped into her fingers, but her bones felt cold, heavier than the frost settling on the stones outside. December had come—and with it, the promise of the longest winter in decades. She wore the full mantle of her bloodline: a thick cloak of black bear fur, layered with wolf pelt, the boiled leather beneath giving her figure sharpness. Her gown was black silk, embroidered with intricate lace that shimmered faintly in firelight. Aurelius elegance, yes, but Aurelius strength first.
Her gaze stretched over the walls below, where torches burned dim and small against the falling snow. For a moment, she let herself breathe in the quiet. She wanted to linger in it. She wanted this moment of stillness to last. But then came the faint scrape of talons on stone.
She turned. A pale shadow perched on the window’s ledge—a white crow, rare and spectral against the winter’s gray. Its eyes, obsidian-dark, fixed on her.
Gabriel’s lips pressed into a thin line. White crows were Caelestis birds. Royal birds. They never carried tidings one wished for.
Setting her cup aside, she unlatched the window, and the winter air cut into her skin like a blade. The crow croaked once, harsh and low, then lifted its leg. A roll of parchment dangled there, sealed with crimson wax, blotched in places with what looked like scattered drops of red.
"Wax" she told herself. Though even as she untied it, she wasn’t certain.
The crow vanished into the storm the instant it was freed, leaving her alone with the parchment in her hand. She turned it under the firelight, studying its rough texture, its age, the faint smears of red. It felt wrong. As if the letter itself carried something foul, like rot beneath perfume.
Still, she broke the seal, and in it, it read:
Her eyes traced the lines, but her mind recoiled. The words themselves were no surprise. It was the way they were written, the hand that had written them.
Amun Caelora.
She stopped breathing for a moment. His name at the bottom of the page seemed to rise up off the parchment like a stain, like a wound carved fresh. She felt her chest constrict, her gloved fingers tightening until the parchment crumpled faintly at the edges.
That he—of all men—should summon her. That he should wield authority over her house, binding them through oath and tradition. It was an insult, sharpened to a blade.
But deeper still, something else rose in her. Not anger—no, not only anger. Something far less welcome. A hollow, cutting ache that tightened her throat.
For a moment she saw him not as her enemy, but as a shadow that had always hung over Aurelius. Always moving, always whispering, always there. He had shaped her fate before she had even drawn breath. And now he had the gall to summon her as though she were just another pawn on his board.
Her lips trembled before she pressed them into stillness.
She folded the letter slowly, her breath uneven. She wanted to throw it into the fire. She wanted to tear it to shreds until Caelora’s ink was dust between her fingers. But she didn’t. Instead, she held it against her chest, as if by crushing it to her heart she could steady the trembling inside.
The snow outside thickened, whirling harder against the windows, burying the world beneath white silence.
“The Fifty-Sixth,” she whispered, and her voice caught. Already, she felt the weight of it pressing down. The Games were no mere tradition, no mere sport. They were a crucible. Bones would break in the frost. Blood would be spilled in the snow. And heirs would be devoured by the weight of expectation.
And she—she had no choice but to walk straight into it.
Her tea had gone cold. Her hand, when she set the letter down, was shaking in emotion she didn't know she could feel.
The paper slipped from her fingers at last, left abandoned on the frost-stained desk. Her pulse hadn’t slowed since the seal broke, each beat a reminder of the snare that was tightening around her. Amun’s games. Caelora’s script. All of it reeked of chains.
Gabriel pulled her cloak tighter and left the chamber in silence. The stone corridors of Winterfell were colder than usual, every torch sputtering as though in mockery. She descended the winding steps to the bowels of the hold, the air thick with hay and musk, until the muffled growls reached her.
The kennels.
Blizzard stirred before she even touched the gate. White fur bristled in the dark, a low rumble vibrating the air. The beast pressed against the bars, eyes reflecting a wild devotion that both comforted and shamed her. She crouched, fingers brushing the cold iron.
“I should have let you run sooner,” she whispered. The admission cracked in her throat. “They cage us both, don’t they?”
Her hand lingered on the latch, trembling despite her effort to steady it. For one brief moment, she let the vulnerability wash over her—fear of the feast, of Caelora’s poisonous penmanship, of Amun’s eyes upon her. Then she clicked the lock free.
Blizzard surged forward, the door clanging open, snow-white muscle and fury unleashed into the stale kennel air. He circled her once, pressing his massive head into her side, before bounding out into the courtyard where the moonlight awaited.
Gabriel exhaled a long breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The cage stood open behind her, and though she had not yet escaped hers, for a heartbeat she almost believed she could.
The snow crunched beneath her boots, each step swallowed by the vast silence of the forest. The deeper Gabriel pressed into the pines, the more the wind howled through their boughs like voices long dead. Blizzard trotted ahead, his white fur a phantom against the dark, but always circling back, watchful, as though he too sensed the weight of her errand.
She had read of the Lily of the Everfrost once, in a brittle book tucked in the Aurelius library — its pages browned, its ink fading with age. The northern scribes had described it with near-reverence: a blossom of pale silver-blue that refused the sun, opening only beneath eternal frost. They wrote that to find one was to be marked by fate, whether for triumph or ruin.
But books had not been her only teacher. In the hush of childhood nights, her caretaker used to whisper tales meant to frighten her into obedience — of travelers who sought the lily and never returned, of spirits lurking in the snow, jealous of any mortal who dared touch the flower. Gabriel would press her blankets to her chin, eyes wide, listening to the fire crackle, both afraid and fascinated.
And always, at the end of such stories, her caretaker’s voice would soften: “Even the gods envy the Lily of the Everfrost, child. It is beauty carved in winter’s cruelty. To find it is to know sorrow, but to wear it is to defy it.”
That final line had never left her. Perhaps because of Cornelia.
Her aunt had worn such a lily in her hair, always. Even in court, even in summer when flowers wilted under the sun, Cornelia’s blossom remained cold and untouchable, set against her frost-pale beauty. Some said it was woven from enchantment, others that it had been plucked from a cursed peak where no Aurelius should tread.
Gabriel remembered watching her once, across a feast hall lit by torches. Cornelia’s lily glistened faintly in the firelight, as though rimed with ice no flame could thaw. She remembered wanting to ask her about it, but Cornelia’s eyes had been distant, unreadable—and then, too soon, she was gone, leaving only whispers and ash.
Now, as Gabriel trudged beneath the pines, she thought of that flower, of the way her aunt had borne it like both a crown and a curse. And in the marrow of her bones, she knew: finding the lily would not only be defiance. It would be remembrance.
Gabriel pulled her hood lower as she pressed forward, the mouth of the ravine opening into a jagged cave, dark and glistening with frozen teeth of stalactite. Blizzard padded beside her, his fur brushing her cloak, the low rumble of his growl echoing faintly against the stone. The cold here was not like the cold outside — it was deeper, heavier, almost alive.
The floor of the cavern sloped downward until it spilled into a vast basin. At its center lay a pool of water, so still it mirrored the icy ceiling above. Wisps of frost curled from its surface, though the water itself shimmered with a strange clarity.
And there, nestled against the far edge where stone met water, she saw it.
The Lily of the Everfrost.
Its petals were luminous, white with the faintest blue glow at their edges, as though the flower itself was woven from snow and starlight. It bloomed defiantly against the frozen stone, roots biting into rock where no life should ever have taken hold. The water around it was crystalline, yet it rippled gently toward her as though welcoming her presence.
Gabriel froze, her breath escaping in a pale plume. For a heartbeat, the world around her felt suspended — no storm, no games, no lords plotting at distant tables. Only her and the flower, glowing in the dark like a memory come to life.
Cornelia’s crown flashed before her eyes. The faint smell of smoke, the warmth of her aunt’s hand, the stories whispered by firelight. She clenched her fists, nails biting into leather. Her throat tightened, but no tears came—only that hollow ache, that silent fury of loss.
Blizzard whined softly at her side, pawing at the ground as though urging her forward.
Gabriel stepped toward the basin. The ice beneath her boots cracked faintly, but held. She knelt at the water’s edge, the glow painting her pale face in ghostly hues. She extended her hand, hovering just above the petals, trembling as if she were about to touch Cornelia herself.
The Lily of the Everfrost was no ordinary flower. To the North, it was said to be born of the old gods’ sorrow — a bloom that sprouted where their tears froze upon the earth after betrayal and broken oaths. For generations, the flower had been gathered in secret for rituals of sealing: not merely to bless, but to bind. Its petals were ground into blood-pacts, its roots pressed into wounds, so that the vow would not lie in the hands of men but in the judgment of the gods. To seal an oath with the Lily was to call down their eyes, their cold, unyielding gaze. The North remembered, and it never forgave.
Gabriel knew this. She had read it in books, heard it from her caretaker’s old fireside tales, and seen its quiet symbol each time her aunt Cornelia wove the pale bloom into her hair. And now, with Blizzard watching at her side, she stood at the basin of the cavern, the Lily shimmering faintly against the icy glow of the stone.
Her hand trembled as she reached for a petal. Just one—
The sound came first: a low, resonant crack beneath her boots. Gabriel’s heart leapt. The ice was giving way.
Panic surged. Instinctively, she tried to summon the frost, to seize the water below and harden it with her will. But nothing came. The air resisted her, heavy and thick, as though the gods themselves denied her reach. For the first time in years, her power did not answer.
Then the ice shattered.
She fell through, cold swallowing her with merciless force. As the black waters rose around her, she glanced upward—and there it was.
A great serpent loomed above, its body coiled along the cavern’s jagged stone, its eyes burning like pale moons through the mist. It gazed down upon her descent, silent and eternal, a shadow of judgment watching as she plunged into the abyss.
The last thing Gabriel felt was not the cold, but the weight of that gaze—before the water closed over her head.
RAPHAEL MAELION
Raphael Maelion was no ordinary bastard like the others, he was malnourished, short, crippled and stripped off of his rights as an angel. Raphael trudged through the stables with his bucket, every step heavy and reluctant, like the ground itself owed him something. His pale hair stuck to his damp forehead, and his wings—pitiful, drooping things, dragged like half-broken banners behind him that serves as a reminder that he was a mistake.
“Move it, bastard.”
The words landed sharper than the shoulder that shoved him aside. Raphael gritted his teeth but didn’t bother glaring. He’d heard it all before. Bastard. Cripple. Wretch. Every damn day, it echoed like flies buzzing in his skull.
Bloody hell, he thought, jaw tight as he set the bucket down. All this noise, and still I’m the one doing the work. Worthless sacks of piss.
The older boys circled him, smug grins plastered on their faces. “Tell you what,” one drawled, jerking his chin toward the towers above Stormshold. “If you’re really a Maelion, prove it. Fly up there. Show us you’re not just the old lord’s mistake.”
For a moment, Raphael almost smirked. Cowards. Don’t even have the stones to climb it themselves. He rolled his shoulders, wings twitching weakly. “Fine,” he muttered, more to himself than to them. “I’ll bloody show you.”
He planted his feet, heart hammering, and spread what little his wings could give. They were too small, feathers bent, bones crooked — but he flapped anyway, summoning all the anger that had festered in his chest for years.
And then came the pain.
It tore through his back like knives driven into bone. His knees buckled, breath catching in his throat as the world tilted. He staggered, clutching the stable wall, his face twisted but silent.
The laughter around him blurred, distant, because suddenly he was somewhere else—years back.
A child’s scream. His own. His small body pinned, wings pulled too hard by rough hands. The crunch of bone, the tearing of muscle. Someone calling him “broken.” Someone spitting “bastard.” His mother’s face — pale, sickly, fading like smoke. His father’s absence, louder than any voice.
The flash of memory passed like a blade across his ribs. He blinked, breathing hard, the pain still lancing his back.
The boys sneered, already turning away. “Knew it. Can’t even lift himself a foot.”
Raphael straightened slowly, wiping dirt from his robes with lazy, bitter movements. He said nothing—not to them. Only in his head did the words burn like coals.
One day, I’ll rise higher than all of you.
I'll rise higher than my father.
Raphael was only six when the world betrayed him.
He had wandered the halls of Storm’s End with his blanket clutched to his chest, toes cold against the stone. The storm winds outside rattled the windows, but he wasn’t afraid. He was looking for his father — the one man he still thought untouchable, a giant of warmth and strength.
The door was ajar. He peeked inside.
There lay Elrik Maelion, perfect in his white robe, golden hair catching the firelight, stood tangled with one of the maids. Her flushed laughter, his father’s hands where they didn’t belong.
“Father?” Raphael whispered.
Elrik’s head snapped toward him. For a heartbeat Raphael thought he saw shame. No—only cold irritation.
“Mama will be sad,” Raphael murmured, eyes watering. “You’re not supposed to—”
“Why don’t we go back to bed, Raph?” Elrik said gently, too gently.
The boy blinked, confused. “But—”
Elrik smiled faintly, brushing the child’s pale hair from his face. “The things I do for love.”
And then his hands slid down to Raphael’s shoulders. Firm. Guiding. He turned the boy toward the open arch of the high tower. The wind outside howled, icy and merciless. Raphael’s wings fluttered instinctively, tiny, trembling things.
“You won’t learn how to fly if you don’t use those wings.”
The push was soft, almost tender. And yet it stole the ground from beneath him.
“Father!” Raphael screamed, voice shrill with terror as the night swallowed him. His blanket slipped away, spinning into the darkness. His heart hammered against his ribs as he flailed, wings opening too late, too weak.
“Father—please—help me!”
No answer. Only the rushing wind, only the cruel sky above.
Flap! Flap harder! He told himself as he beat them desperately, tears streaming into the wind. For a heartbeat he believed — believed he might soar, that his father’s words weren’t cruel.
Then came the sound.
Crack—
White-hot agony tore through his back as bone splintered. His wings twisted violently, one folding against itself, the other tearing at the joint. His body convulsed as air screamed past him, and his voice broke in ragged sobs.
The boy struck the stone at the tower’s base with a thud that rattled his small frame. The world dimmed around him, his lungs wheezing, blood bubbling in his mouth. His wings lay bent at impossible angles beneath him, feathers broken, bones jutting.
His last memory before darkness took him was the silhouette of his father, high above, standing at the tower’s edge. Watching.
And then turning away.
Raphael stayed pressed against the stable wall, heart hammering. The laughter of the older boys still rang in his ears, but now it was drowned beneath the phantom sound of air rushing past him, of wings that never caught the wind. The old memory clung to him, cloying, until his stomach turned. He pressed his palms into the rough wood, eyes squeezed shut.
Then—a hush.
Even the horses grew still, ears flicking, hooves shuffling in sudden unease. A shadow swept across the hay-strewn ground. When Raphael looked up, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The white raven of Caelestis was descending, wings spread wide, feathers gleaming silver-white in the muted light. It cut through the air like an omen, each beat of its wings solemn, deliberate. The older stable boys froze. Then, one by one, they backed away, their jeers turning to nervous mutters. To them, the raven was no mere bird — it was a herald, a watcher, and no one wished to be caught mocking in its presence.
It landed upon the overturned water bucket Raphael had dropped earlier, claws curling around the iron rim. Its head tilted, eyes like black glass pinning him. In its beak hung a roll of parchment, sealed in deep crimson wax.
Raphael blinked, chest tight. “For me?” he whispered, half-laugh, half-scoff. His voice cracked at the edges.
The raven leaned forward, dropping the letter neatly into his hands. It did not linger. With a sweep of white feathers, it was airborne again, vanishing through the stable rafters and into the sky beyond. The silence it left behind felt louder than the boys’ laughter had ever been.
Raphael looked down at the parchment. His name scrawled across the front in stark, unshakable ink: Raphael Maelion.
The stable boys muttered again, but this time with unease. One of them spat, “Some mistake.” Another, quieter, whispered, “Caelestis doesn’t make mistakes.”
Raphael ignored them. His breath came shallow, unsteady. His fingers trembled as he broke the wax seal, cracking it jagged under his thumb. The parchment unfurled in his hands, smooth and heavy, the ink sharp against the cream.
To Raphael Maelion of Stormshold,
By decree of Caelestis and under the authority vested in me as Overseer of the Games, you are hereby summoned to-attend the Fifty-Sixth Annual Velheim Banquet.
The banquet of opening shall be held in the Great Hall of Castle Caelestis on the eve of the first frost, where all lords and houses shall gather before the games commence. May your presence honor the legacy of your forebears and may the frost quide your steps.
Sincerely,
Amun Caelora,
Chairman of Velheim Games.
The words blurred as his eyes raced over them again and again, needing to be sure they were real.
A laugh broke from his throat, low and strangled. It startled even him. He pressed the letter to his chest, then pulled it back, afraid the sweat of his palms might smudge the ink. He had never been summoned for anything but labor, scolding, punishment. And now—this.
It felt absurd. Like some cruel jest. And yet, deep in his marrow, it burned like fire: a door opening, the faintest crack of recognition. For Gabriel Aurelius, such a letter might feel like insult, duty, a burden. For Raphael, it was something else entirely.
It was an acceptance letter.
Not to a university? he knew nothing of such halls. But to a place beyond this stable, beyond the jeers and the endless ache of wings that had failed him once. To something greater. To a stage where his name could not be ignored.
His mouth twisted into a crooked smile. “Well, shit.” His voice rasped like dry bark. “Looks like the bastard finally got an invitation to die."
He folded the parchment carefully, too carefully, as if the whole world might tear it from him at any moment. He tucked it beneath his tunic, close to his skin. The ache in his back didn’t vanish, but the weight of it shifted, turned sharp with purpose.
As he turned to leave the stables, the older boys watched him, uneasy now. He didn’t bother to sneer or snap back at them. He only thought, bitterly amused: Insignificant. That’s what you are. And soon, you’ll see it too.
For the first time in years, Raphael felt something dangerous take root beneath his bitterness — not quite hope, but close enough to hurt.
URIEL ASTYRAX
Snow fell thick outside the cottage, smothering the mountains in white silence. Uriel sat at the window, her chin propped on one hand, eyes following the drifting flakes as though each one carried a secret. The world felt so still, so distant—at least until the noise started again.
Solas, perched on the rafter above the hearth, flared his ember-brushed wings and let out a long, screeching caw that rattled the beams. Then another, drawn-out like a bard drunk on cheap ale, warbling until it cracked at the end.
Uriel groaned. “Are you trying to make me throw something at you?”
The phoenix puffed his chest, shook his feathers so embers flickered loose, then gave a cheeky, high-pitched trill in reply.
Uriel turned to glare at him, lips tugging into a crooked half-smile. “Gods above, you’re unbearable. Do you know that? You’ve been tormenting me since dawn. If this is your idea of song, I’m begging you—set me on fire instead. At least that’d be quieter.”
Solas hopped down from the beam with a single, sharp flap, landing on the edge of the table. He strutted across it with the arrogance only a phoenix could carry, claws tapping wood like drumbeats, and let out another exaggerated caw as though to say pay attention to me!
Uriel rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a small laugh. “Fine, fine—you win. You’re the loudest bird in all of Asenath’s forests. Congratulations. I’ll carve you a crown out of kindling later.”
Before Solas could issue another victory cry, a shadow swept across the window. Both of them stilled.
A white raven.
It perched upon the frozen sill, feathers pristine as alabaster, eyes like black glass. A parchment dangled from its beak, sealed with crimson wax smudged faintly down the edge.
Uriel blinked in surprise, then leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass. “Oh wow,” she muttered, half a grin tugging at her lips, “never thought I’d see the day a raven took interest in a phoenix.”
Solas snapped his beak with a sharp, indignant CAW! and fluffed his feathers high, clearly offended.
Uriel chuckled and tapped the glass. “What’s the matter? Not your type? You’ve been singing all morning, and look—already a female bird at the window. Never knew you were such a lady's man.”
The phoenix let out a rapid volley of caws, stamping the sill with his claws like a child throwing a tantrum. His embers hissed against the frost.
Uriel laughed harder, but her amusement waned the moment her eyes dropped to the scroll. Old parchment. The red wax smeared like dried blood. The script scrawled across the fold was one she recognized. Her throat tightened.
Caelestis’ seal. Amun Caelora’s hand.
The grin faded from her lips, her fingers hovering at the glass. Whatever warmth the cottage held seemed to thin all at once, replaced by a cold that seeped into her chest.
To Uriel Astyrax, bastard of Caelestis,
By decree of Caelestis and under the authority vested in me as Overseer of the Games, you are hereby summoned to-attend the Fifty-Sixth Annual Velheim Banquet.
The banquet of opening shall be held in the Great Hall of Castle Caelestis on the eve of the first frost, where all lords and houses shall gather before the games commence. May your presence honor the legacy of your forebears and may the frost quide your steps.
Sincerely,
Amun Caelora,
Chairman of Velheim Games.
The draft slipped through the gaps of the cottage window, biting against Uriel’s skin as she stood there, the letter open in her hands. A shiver ran down her arms, not from the chill alone but from the weight of the words inked in Caelora’s hand. Winter. The Games. Her name.
She pulled the fur tighter across her shoulders, but the cold still seeped in, creeping into her bones. The fire in the hearth crackled weakly behind her, yet it felt too far away to matter.
Chosen one. The phrase drifted in her mind like smoke, suffocating in its vagueness. Why me? She thought of the bloodline she bore, the name Astyrax carved into her shoulders like an expectation she had never asked for. Did they really believe she carried some fate worth weaving into their cruel spectacle?
Her lips pressed thin, the parchment trembling faintly in her grasp. She wanted to laugh it off, to dismiss the Games as another performance of the old lords, but a pit opened in her stomach. She wasn’t blind. She knew eyes had been on her all her life, whispering that word—chosen—like it meant salvation. Or sacrifice.
The raven croaked once from the window, shaking the snow from its wings, as if mocking her hesitation. Uriel lowered her gaze back to the letter, its red-stained seal looking almost like dried blood. The chill dug deeper.
“Chosen one,” she scoffed aloud, the words tasting bitter. She still didn’t know if it was a title to bear… or a curse to outlive.
Just how long will the lords play their game of crowns?
Uriel set the letter on the table as she went down to Asenath's living room, its broken seal curling back like a wound. The words inside already echoed through her mind, yet she watched Asenath instead. The old woman didn’t look at her at first, only at the fire, as though the flames murmured things too ancient for anyone else to hear.
“The Reaping,” Asenath began at last, her tone measured, almost ritualistic without even looking at the letter. “It begins not as a feast, nor as tradition, but as a culling. A trial cast to see who's worthy apart from the non-worthy. The goblet of fire was their vessel. When it burned blue, it burned with a god’s will. Each name their decree.”
Uriel’s gaze followed the flames, the story lodging itself into her chest like scripture she had never asked to inherit.
“But lords are no gods,” Asenath continued. “They learned long ago how to feed the goblet what it should burn—coin, blood, secrets whispered in frozen halls. The fire does not choose freely anymore. It bends. And this year, it bends to Amun Caelora.”
The name rang through the cottage like a draft under the door. Uriel felt it but didn’t flinch; she had expected it, known in her bones that Amun’s hand was woven into the heart of this summons. Above, Solas shifted on his perch, feathers rustling, as if stirred by the weight of that name.
“Twelve names,” Asenath went on, “always twelve. Broken into three packs of four. They call it honor. They call it tradition. I call it spectacle. A way for mongrels of the high houses to bloody their heirs while the old snakes coil tighter.”
Her words tasted bitter, but she spoke them as if she had spoken them a hundred times before, too tired to spit but too stubborn to soften.
Uriel’s eyes lowered to the parchment, then lifted back to the fire. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. The possibilities laid themselves bare—either she would stand among the chosen, or she would sit as a guest of high honor.
Asenath’s sharp gaze finally found hers. “And you know as well as I do,” she said, “that only one of those paths is ever truly offered.”
The fire cracked. Silence followed, heavy but not unbearable. The words did not crush her. They did not hollow her. They settled instead like the cold that lived in every stone of the north—unyielding, inevitable.
Outside, the wind pressed harder against the cottage walls, a whisper of the storm that awaited her. Uriel breathed steady, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the flames. One way or another, she would walk into it.
One way or another.
Notes:
The different reactions of the characters to the letter will never not be funny. Uriel sees this as a death sentence, Gabriel sees an opportunity to finally kill people and Raphael thinking it's an opportunity to shine in glory like it's an acceptance letter to his dream university lmao. Btw I'm thinking of incorporating a public work skin here in this fic, so tell me if you want me to or just leave it as it is, I just think it's for the aesthetics and to match the headers but then again maybe it'd turn you off from reading since registered users often already have dark themed skins. Anyways, to those who know me I'm actually an artist at heart, so I'll be doing some fanart to be released with this fanfic.
GRAEPE495123 on Chapter 1 Sun 20 Apr 2025 02:19PM UTC
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