[ENG] Frostforged, Emberbound

A short, complete story that I have revised a little over the last few days.

Enjoy, and have a wonderful Valentine's Day.

After the accident on the Alchemical Trade Road — which left my parents as nothing more than charred memories — I was left with nothing but the cold gaze of my Uncle Malachias. He was not a man of embraces. As an advisor to the Ruling Conclave, he was a man of sharp edges and caustic sulfur. He had never managed to bind a woman to his side. Perhaps he never wanted to. It didn’t matter.

For five years, I lived and learned with him, gaining what the world would have withheld from me in the tranquil farming life of my parents. The lonely borderlands of Oaks Heaven became my home. My toys were not dolls, but daggers forged of dragon-basalt and practice swords so heavy that my wrists throbbed in agony every night.

“The dragons tossed us magic like alms, Raya,” he used to growl while driving me across the training grounds. “But they broke our backs in the process. By taking our raw materials, they let us starve. When they offer us their healing, they make us dependent. Never rely on their fire. Rely only on your steel.”

By seventeen, I was more weapon than woman.

I could fill a vial with unstable frost-gas without my hand trembling, and I could disarm a man before he even realized I had entered the room.

I brushed my fingers over the magical runes embroidered into my jacket. They acted as a protective shield, provided one knew how to trigger them.

Thanks to my uncle, I knew.

It was he who taught me how to whet a dagger, how to conceal precious cargo with veiling runes, and how to properly load a carriage. Everything a budding lady needed to know to behave appropriately in the capital. Or, at least, in my uncle’s world.

One last checking glance over the goods, and we were underway.

The journey to the Assembly of the Four Realms took three days. We rode through the foothills of the Growling Mountains, passing gorges so deep that light never reached the floor. Uncle Malachias rode ahead in silence, his back as stiff as a drawn sword. Behind us, the wagons rumbled, laden with samples of our finest ores and the heavy, lead-lined crates housing the volatile essences.

“Up there,” Malachias said on the second day, gesturing with his whip toward a jagged outcrop that rose into the sky like a hollow tooth. “Do you see the bluish shimmer at the foot of the cave? That is no ordinary moss, Raya.”

I squinted. Indeed, an unnatural, metallic glow coated the stone.

“Vitriol-breath,” I whispered.

“Correct. An old dwelling. The heat of a dragon’s core permanently alters the alchemy of the soil. If you ever have to smoke out a nest, look for that luster. It shows you where their magic has seeped into the ground.”

I nodded, but my gaze lingered on the beauty of the light while my uncle moved on to discussing killing angles. To him, the world was a battlefield; to me, on this morning, it was — for the first time — a place of terrible wonders.

But the Assembly was no place for dreamers. It was a place for merchants, warriors, and those who, like my uncle, mastered the art of appeasing the dragons’ whims in the form of metals and essences.

“Do you think we will encounter one?”

“The dragons will come after the Conclave to inspect the samples. When everything has already been decided... then we will present them with a very special sample.”

And the way he said it — sober, cold — it sounded as if the wind were brushing over a grave. I shuddered.

Soon, however, I was busy steering my horse through the masses of travelers who shared our destination. The roads were choked with delegations from all four realms — brightly painted wagons of merchant lords, squads of heavily armed mercenaries, and the simple, gray robes of scholars.

We stopped at a narrow spring to water the horses.

That was where I first saw him.

He stood alone at the edge of the slope, looking out toward the valley of the capital. He wore the simple, dark blue cloak of a traveler, yet the way he stood made him seem like an anchor in a storm. Perfectly calm amidst the noisy chaos of the caravans.

A tall horse, as white as fresh snow, grazed at his side, and next to it stood a woman. She wore a gown of silver silk, far too fine for this dusty pass we had just emerged from. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her hair looked like liquid platinum in the light of the setting sun. She laughed at something he said, turned toward me, and placed her hand on his arm. The gesture was familiar, almost possessive, and I felt a sudden, sharp sting in my chest that no combat skill in the world could suppress.

“Who is that?” I asked softly.

Malachias spared only a fleeting glance. “Just some scholars from the North, hungry for knowledge they do not understand. Ignore them.”

But as we rode past them, the man in the blue cloak raised his head. His eyes met mine — a piercing, deep crystal blue that shimmered almost blue-green in the fading light. It was no fleeting look. It was as if he recognized me, as if he saw the knives beneath my doublet and the vessel of alchemical powder at my belt, and merely offered a mild smile in response.

A shiver ran down my spine, but it was not cold. It was a heat I did not recognize.

Though I felt his gaze on me for a long time, I kept my eyes fixed forward. Toward the capital.

The sprawling fortress of Crownguard rose from the plain like a smoldering wound of basalt and metal. Gigantic copper gates stood wide open, inviting pilgrims to explore its bustling interior. The air here smelled of smoke, spices, and the sharp musk of too many people. Voices from a hundred throats merged into a steady roar — merchants hawked their wares, mercenaries laughed harshly, scholars argued over formulas that could change the world.

Warding runes stretched over the streets like invisible nets, and every step through the city felt like walking along a taut blade. Here, business was done, negotiations were made, betrayals were carried out — and decisions were reached as to which realm would be in another’s debt tomorrow.

Crownguard was not a place where one arrived. It was a place that put one to the ultimate test.

Even before we reached the second of the three inner gates, Malachias was entirely the Conclave advisor once more. His back straightened, his gaze sharpened, and for him, the world organized itself into prices, risks, and power dynamics. Leading the horses, I followed him through the maze of streets to the Great Hall of Crownguard. The goods were registered, sealed, and placed under ward. The essences vanished into the vaults below, guarded by men whose eyes were as empty as a scavenged mine.

“Stay within sight,” Malachias said finally, without slowing down. “Crownguard devours the inattentive.”

I had not been here for the first time, but never on the occasion of an assembly like this. Not with such a crowd.

While the fate of so many was being decided.

With the final portion of a cargo that was meant to shape the image of our future.

Countless discourses later, once my uncle had sealed all business and collected overdue debts, we set up our camp outside the city gates. My uncle had to present himself for a meeting at the palace, so I strolled through the tents.

Not because I was looking for him. But I kept my eyes open and finally found him at the scholars’ fire, as if it were meant to be. Not five paces away, he sat with an old parchment, while his companion swirled a cup of wine in her hand and tenderly stroked his shoulder.

My chest tightened. I wanted to look away, to slip away, but I could not move.

He looked up.

The small campfire flickered restlessly, as if the flames were just as uneasy in their gut as I was.

“Hello,” he said, without me having spoken a word. His voice was a deep baritone that made the very air around me vibrate. “Would you like to join us?”

I stood still, my hand instinctively hovering over the hilt of my hidden dagger. “No, thank you,” I managed to say, my lips trembling. “I am expected.”

A lie.

His nostrils flared as if he could scent the untruth.

“Then perhaps another time,” he said simply, a thin smile playing about his lips. A hand glided through his hair, catching the glow of the warm light. A cool brown, like nothing I had ever seen.

Moving had become nearly impossible.

And he noticed. He rose fluidly. He was taller than I had expected, and the stillness radiating from him was almost intoxicating. He took a step toward me, and for a moment I forgot everything — forgot Malachias and the looming war for which I was being trained.

“I am Ian,” he said, reaching out his hand. “And you are?”

“Raya,” I replied, as if I had been waiting my entire life for this moment. I took his hand, which felt rough and gentle all at once. A sensational contrast that seemed to tingle in the touch between us.

“Raya,” he whispered my name, as if he had always known it — like a secret that had to be guarded.