The snow had begun to melt at the edges, revealing patches of damp, dark soil. Life stirred beneath the frost—but so did danger.
Zareena stood atop the western watchtower, her eyes scanning the horizon. Captain Thorne approached, but she didn't turn.
"We've made progress," he said. "Towers reinforced. Training continues."
Zareena nodded. "But strength alone isn't enough. We have one mage—and he's already half in the grave."
She was thinking of Old Doren, the bitter, limping man who lived in the tower's shadow and spoke more to the fire than to people. He was sharp, yes, but age had dulled his power. And if Vireloch was going to survive a long war—especially against magic—they needed more than one worn-out spellcaster.
"Send word to the eastern ridges," she said. "There are hedge-witches, alchemists, even cultists hiding out there. Anyone who's not sworn to Marcerov. I want them found."
Thorne hesitated. "They won't come cheap. Or easy."
"I don't care. We don't need loyalty—we need fire."
Elsewhere, far from Vireloch's walls, in a manor soaked in velvet and silence, Marcerov read a report by candlelight. His thin lips curled as he saw Zareena's name inked again and again.
"She's building something," he murmured.
He tapped a finger against the side of his goblet, deep in thought.
"Send the diplomat," he told the shadow behind the curtain. "And the poisoner. Let's see how long she lasts with serpents at her table."
Back in Vireloch, Zareena watched as a raven took flight from the town's rookery—her message of recruitment flying north. She didn't know what allies she'd find in the wild lands beyond.
But she knew war was coming.
And fire would answer fire.