The flickering candlelight cast warm shadows against the high stone walls of Arasha's study, the scent of parchment and wax mingling in the cool air. Her desk was a battlefield of its own—stacked documents, sealed reports, a half-eaten loaf of bread she had forgotten hours ago.
Arasha leaned back in her chair, eyes closed, fingers massaging her temples.
"I made a child cry…"
She said it aloud, as if hearing the words might help her believe they had actually happened. And just as she opened her eyes again—
A knock.
"Enter," she called, her voice steadier than she felt.
Sir Garran stepped in with his usual measured gait. The seasoned knight and her second-in-command had long learned how to read Arasha's silences.
"You've been in here too long," he said, eyeing the desk. "And you look as though you've just marched through three consecutive campaigns."
Arasha gave him a faint, dry look. "That may be preferable to what I've done instead."
Sir Garran raised a brow. "And what would that be, Commander?"
She hesitated, then sighed and folded her arms atop the desk.
"I made Kael cry."
That made the man blink. Of all things, he hadn't expected that.
Arasha continued, "I said something I thought would encourage him. But then he cried like I shattered his entire world. I—I tried hugging him. That didn't help. Leta scolded me."
Sir Garran's mouth twitched—just the faintest trace of a grin—but it vanished quickly behind his more familiar calm.
"Commander," he said after a thoughtful pause, "you've led us through war, politics, and surviving the damned divine bureaucracy. But you're no less human than the boy you tried to comfort."
She scowled lightly at that. "Don't coddle me."
"I wouldn't dare," he said dryly. Then softened his tone. "But if you truly wish to connect with Kael—or any of the squires—you'll need more than noble titles and battlefield speeches."
Arasha arched a brow. "What would you suggest?"
Sir Garran walked to the tall windows and looked out at the training grounds below where the younger squires were just finishing their evening drills. His voice was thoughtful.
"Start small. Learn their names. Ask about their hobbies. Their favorite food. Their families, if they have any."
"Food?" Arasha asked, incredulous. "That's what I'm to ask them about?"
Sir Garran chuckled. "It's the beginning of many conversations, Commander. You'd be surprised how much easier it is to bond over shared taste in honeyed bread or roasted boar than in trading blows with practice blades."
She tilted her head. "You're suggesting I… befriend the squires?"
"No," he corrected gently. "I'm suggesting you understand them."
Arasha looked down at her gloved hands. "I never had much time for anything like that growing up."
"You were raised as a warrior, a commander, a weapon," he said. "They're being raised with a commander among them. It's different. And it should be."
He turned back to her then, clasping his hands behind his back.
"That said, Commander, you can rely on me. Or the older knights. You already bear the weight of strategy, diplomacy, and keeping the Order from crumbling under outside pressure."
"And rift incursions."
"Those too," he added with a tired smile. "If you ask, we'll step in and help with the squires. You don't have to carry this alone."
There was something so simple yet profound in his words that Arasha felt her chest tighten just a little.
She looked up at him with a more grateful expression than she'd worn in weeks.
"Thank you, Garran. Truly. I…" she hesitated. "I think I needed to hear that more than I realized."
He gave a small bow. "That's what second-in-commands are for, Commander."
With that, he left her alone with her thoughts again.
Arasha leaned back, exhaling. She looked once more at the stack of reports, then out the window where the stars had begun to pierce the sky.
"Kael," she murmured to herself. "I don't know who you really are. But I'll protect that fire in your eyes—even if I fumble along the way."
Still, for tonight, she had to push those thoughts aside. There were more urgent matters demanding her focus—regional unrest, diplomatic letters from the East, and troubling rumors of a new anomaly forming on the far border.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, she'd ask the kitchen to prepare honeyed bread for the squires. And perhaps sit down during mess hour, no armor, no orders—just a commander trying to understand her young sparks.
****
The wind howled like a beast across the northern steppes, carrying with it flurries of snow that danced like ghosts across the frozen wastelands. Arasha's cloak whipped behind her, the fur-lined hood pulled low over her brow. Beside her rode a contingent of her elite knights, their armor faintly frosted with rime from the journey through the blizzard-ridden roads.
At the crest of a glacial ridge, the fortified towers of Frosthaven Hold came into view—grim, unyielding, and half-buried in snow. This was Duke Lionel's domain, the same Lionel who once knelt beside her parents' casket with tears running down his scarred cheeks and took her under his care until her uncle, the king, forcibly took her back to the palace because of her blessing, her gift.
Now he needed her.
An anomaly had been reported in the Eyrhold Caves, a network of crystalline tunnels nestled deep in the ice. The northern knights had first suspected a dragon nesting, but what emerged from the mist and frost left even hardened veterans rattled.
"The corpses rose. And something massive moved in the darkness… bones that glowed," said one of the reports.
Arasha hadn't waited for more details. She set off within the day.
****
Arasha was warming her fingers over the fire when the door burst open and Duke Lionel himself strode in—tall, silver-haired, eyes like a winter storm.
"Arasha," he said, voice gravelly with restrained urgency.
She turned, immediately standing to greet him. "Duke Lionel."
"You didn't need to come yourself, lass. But I'm damned grateful you did."
They shared a quick embrace, brief but full of mutual respect. Arasha looked him over—he bore new wounds beneath his heavy furs. The kind only cursed ice could leave.
"I heard the anomaly was far worse than expected," she said, eyes narrowing.
"We found it sleeping, at first," Lionel said grimly. "But when the scouts ventured deeper, it stirred. An undead dragon—ancient, and angry. Not just a beast… something intelligent. Twisted."
Before Arasha could respond, the heavy doors swung open again, and a figure entered clad in layered robes of black and violet, frost clinging to the hem, silver-blue runes pulsing faintly across her sleeves.
Her dark eyes flicked toward Arasha, and she gave a lazy, sardonic smile.
"Well, well. The daughter of Ashalina and Arrius Dawnbringer, standing tall before a duke. You've grown," she said smoothly.
Arasha's gaze sharpened. "You are—?"
"Linalee," Sir Garran's voice came from behind her as he entered, jaw slack with disbelief. "Linalee Mistborn. I thought you vanished after the border war."
Linalee laughed and stepped forward, flicking a strand of white-dyed hair behind her shoulder. "I did vanish. Border wars, royal decrees, court mages—tedious. I much preferred the open skies and cursed caverns."
She placed a hand on Garran's shoulder in greeting. "It's good to see you again, old knight. You've aged well, if stiffly."
Sir Garran coughed into his fist. "Still better than consorting with frost wraiths and vanishing into sealed libraries."
Linalee smirked. "That's fair."
Turning back to Arasha, Linalee's expression grew serious.
"I felt something shift—twice, actually. An unnatural twist in the weave of fate, and a strange… echo of timelines. I suspect your undead dragon is only a symptom."
Arasha's expression hardened. "You're saying it's connected to the greater rift events?"
"Possibly. I'm here to find out. And since you're marching into cursed ice caverns to slay abominations, I figured I'd tag along."
Lionel raised an eyebrow. "You invited yourself, then?"
"Naturally. I go where the strings tug," Linalee said.
****
Snow battered the party as they trekked toward the shimmering chasm that marked the entrance to the Eyrhold Caves.
The mouth of the cave was half-covered in jagged crystal ice, sharp as blades. As they approached, the howling wind seemed to stop entirely—replaced by an eerie stillness.
Even the most battle-hardened knights hesitated.
"There," Linalee whispered, her breath forming glyphs in the air as she spoke. "The presence. It's old. Ancient enough to bend the natural laws. It shouldn't exist. Yet it does."
Inside, the walls glowed faintly—frost-coated veins of crystal humming with necrotic energy. And deeper still, beneath layers of death and chill, something breathed.
A faint tremor passed through the earth.
"This isn't just an undead dragon," Arasha said as she drew her blade, its light flickering against the walls. "It's a sentinel. Guarding something far older."
Linalee nodded slowly. "Perhaps even a seal that was never meant to be broken."
Garran whispered a prayer under his breath, his gauntlet tightening around the hilt of his sword.
Arasha stepped forward, her voice calm but resolute.
"Then we close the seal again. Or bury it so deep, nothing follows."
Her knights stepped in behind her. Linalee raised her staff, a spark of violet fire igniting in her palm.
The walls of the Eyrhold Caves shook as a thunderous roar echoed through its crystalline chambers.
The light from Arasha's sword pulsed against the frost-laced surfaces, casting ghostly reflections. Before them loomed the monstrous figure—an undead dragon, its flesh long since withered away, bones infused with ice and flickering with necrotic fire.
It crawled from the shattered glacier that had entombed it, its wings—tattered banners of ancient battles—unfurling like a cursed eclipse.
Its hollow eyes glowed with sickly blue fire, and its breath sent gusts of freezing death spiraling through the cave.
"Form up!" Arasha shouted, the command sharp, steady. "Blessed formation—shield wall! Mages, prepare glyphs!"
The Scion Order and Duke Lionel's knights moved in practiced harmony despite the sheer dread pressing against them. Linalee stood off-center, hands aglow with incantations, lips moving in silent calculations.
She had been in her share of life-ending encounters, but this… this dragon was old. Wrong. Its very presence scratched at the threads of time and space.
Arasha dashed forward, divine light igniting beneath her boots as her blessing surged, shielding her allies from the biting aura of undeath. Her blade, wrapped in holy Luxfire flame, clashed against bone-hard scales with sparks that hissed into the air like dying stars.
"FORWARD! We push it back!" she yelled.
And for a moment—only a moment—time itself shivered.
Arasha vanished.
Mid-swing, mid-step, in the crescendo of a war cry—she was gone. Her light blinked out, leaving a gaping hole in the formation and in the morale of the knights.
"Commander!?"
"Where is she?!"
Panic threatened to unravel the discipline she'd instilled.
Linalee's incantation faltered as her gaze snapped to the fading afterglow Arasha had left behind. Her eyes widened—not in confusion, but in recognition. Not of what had happened, but of what it reminded her of.
"That wasn't teleportation," she muttered. "That was… something else."
And then—Arasha returned. Reappearing exactly where she vanished, stumbling slightly, breath ragged, eyes wide with something unspoken. Her blade still gleamed, but her expression was shaken.
Linalee didn't hesitate. She raised a hand and unleashed a pulse of arcane force to intercept the dragon's snapping jaws, giving Arasha just enough space to recover.
"Focus, Commander!" she barked. "Attack!"
Arasha's eyes snapped to Linalee. She nodded once, expression steeling, and surged forward again. The battle pressed on.
****
Hours later, the cavern was quiet save for the hiss of melting ice and the groans of wounded knights. The undead dragon's broken bones lay scattered and dimmed, its necrotic fire finally extinguished. What power had animated it had faded, leaving behind only the smell of scorched frost and the heavy breath of exhausted victors.
Arasha sat at the far side of the cavern, helmet removed, shoulders slumped as she drank from a canteen. Frost clung to her lashes.
Linalee stood alone near the edge of the battleground, staring at a shimmering vein of untouched ice, her brow furrowed in thought.
Sir Garran approached, limping slightly, but his voice steady. "You've had that brooding face on for too long. What's wrong?"
Linalee didn't look away. "She vanished mid-fight, Garran. Not like a spell misfire. Like reality forgot her for a moment."
Garran stiffened. "You're certain?"
"As certain as I am that you snore like a drunk troll," she quipped, before her smile faded again. "She came back different. Her aura flickered in a way I've only seen once before—in a sealed ruin that predates written history."
He said nothing, waiting.
"Something… or someone… has tampered with her fate. She's entangled in a weave that doesn't belong. I can't tell if she's being protected or used."
Garran's jaw tightened. "You think she knows?"
Linalee finally turned to face him, her eyes shadowed. "I think she felt it. But she hasn't said anything. Probably to avoid worrying her knights—or you."
Garran followed her gaze to where Arasha sat, now sharing a quiet word with Duke Lionel, her expression composed but her hands trembling faintly.
"Don't tell her yet," Linalee said softly. "Not until I know what it means."
Garran nodded solemnly. "But if she's being targeted…?"
"Then the future is shifting again," Linalee murmured. "And someone's playing gods with fate."