Far from the frozen garrison of Fort Vireloch, in the heart of the sunlit capital of Velkaria, whispers bloomed like wildfire.
Zareena Valeska ibn Rashanov.
Once ignored. Now impossible to ignore.
The news reached the gilded halls of her father's estate first.
House Rashanov.
One of the oldest families in the northern dominions, proud and cold. Their wealth came from land, steel, and strategic cruelty.
Lord Askan Rashanov read the report with a frown. He was a man of stone and smoke—silent too long, and dangerous when stirred.
"She should've frozen with the rest," he muttered.
In the far corner, his eldest son, Vorian, leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowed.
"Maybe you shouldn't have sent her to die," Vorian said, dryly. "Now she's a myth. A noble who didn't run. That makes her dangerous."
At the window, Selvine, the youngest of the step-siblings, laughed.
"Dangerous? She's a doll with a spine. That doesn't make her a threat. She's still just the late Lady Mirha's shameful last gift to this house."
No one spoke of Zareena's mother anymore.
A noblewoman of southern blood, dead too soon.
And her daughter — left to rot quietly at the edge of the realm.
But she hadn't.
Meanwhile, in a darker hall across the city, the news reached House Draeven.
The Draevens were the Rashanovs' old rivals. Powerful, calculating, with whispers of blackened blood in their lineage. Their youngest son, Prince Kaelion Draeven, a man of scandal and silken menace, read the raven's letter slowly.
He smiled.
"Zareena," he said aloud, tasting the name like wine.
"What a beautifully inconvenient surprise."
Behind him, his aunt—the Dowager Lady Lysdra—stepped into the light.
"If she has the people, and now the nobles' attention… she may have the future."
Kaelion's smile widened.
"Then perhaps… it's time I paid a visit to the borderlands."