The hallways of the castle were quieter now. The festivities had ended, with servants sweeping away flower petals and gathering half-burned torches from the courtyard. Only the scent of rose oil and spiced wine lingered, haunting the stone.
Eir walked alone, her steps sharp against the flagstones, her clothes whispering as she moved. Her heels echoed down the corridor like the tick of a slow clock she could not escape.
She had not slept.
The wedding had been beautiful — painfully so. Not because of the banners or the feast or the music that still rang in her ears. But because of the way he had looked at her.
Killan.
She had known him for years. Followed him into the storm and out of it. Watched him fight. Watched him bleed. Watched him command entire armies with a single look.
But yesterday, she had seen something different.
Something she had never been offered.
His gaze had softened for the Northern Queen — not the way a soldier looks at an ally, or a commander to another general. It was… intimate. Protective. As though he had already folded her into his world, his plans, his blood.
Eir's hands curled into fists at her sides. She remembered the way Aya had walked into the hall alone, calm and stately in her Northern garb, all quiet pride and veiled power. How the nobles had turned to admire her, whispering not about her house or her power, but her grace. Her poise.
And Killan—he had smiled.
Smiled.
Not the calculated, razor-sharp smirk he wore everyday. But something gentler. Something rarer.
Eir hated it.
She hated that Aya hadn't earned it. That she had done nothing but exist and somehow turned his attention so fully. She hated the way the court had already begun shifting its weight—leaning not toward the trusted Commander who had fought for Athax for years, but to the Northerner with the haunted eyes and veiled stories.
She had spent her whole life proving herself. And yet here she was—relegated to the shadow of a wedding veil.
"She doesn't even know what to do with him," Eir muttered under her breath, pacing the edge of the courtyard. The grass was still damp, the air thick with dew and bitter smoke from extinguished torches.
She'd heard the whispers. Aya hadn't shared Killan's bed, not truly. She had lain beside him, cool as snow. Untouched. Unbothered.
Eir pressed her lips into a thin line.
She would not let this stand. Not forever.
A shadow emerged from behind one of the worn pillars near the archery wall. Vignir, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
"Still walking off the wine?" he asked, voice casual but edged.
Eir gave him a look. "I wasn't drunk."
"No," Vignir said slowly, "just proud. And angry."
She stiffened. "You're watching me now?"
"I always have," he replied, stepping closer. "And I'm warning you. Whatever's brewing in your chest—put it out."
"I haven't done anything," Eir said flatly.
"Yet," he said, voice dropping. "But don't forget your place, Eir. You serve Athax. Not your pride. Not your heart."
She looked away, jaw tight.
He stepped closer still. "Killan is not yours. He never was."
The words hit harder than she expected. Not because they were untrue — but because they were.
She didn't reply. Not right away.
Finally, she said, "You think I'll sabotage her?"
"I think you could." Vignir's gaze sharpened. "Which is why I'm telling you not to."
Then, softer, "Don't become the kind of woman stories make into villains. You're better than that."
Eir watched him go, her breath uneven, heart pulsing loud in her chest.
Was she?
The silence that followed did not answer.
Eir did not return to her quarters. Instead, she found herself in the old map room — a lesser-used chamber tucked between the library and the war council wing. Dust clung to old banners. The hearth had long since gone cold.
She needed stillness to think. To plan.
Vignir's words echoed in her mind: "Don't become the kind of woman stories make into villains."
But what did he know of stories? Of battles not fought on fields, but in silence — in gazes, in alliances, in carefully dropped words?
Eir moved toward the table, fingers brushing over the carved ridges of old maps. Borders etched in iron and ash. She studied the Western coasts, the high ridges of the North, the flame-marked paths of the South. A thousand stories crammed into jagged lines.
Aya does not belong here, she thought. She's not one of us. She doesn't understand what it means to bleed for this kingdom.
Aya had arrived with cold eyes and haunted silences, and in weeks had become the Queen they all now whispered about. Eir had spent years climbing her way into the rooms that mattered. And now—this girl, this Northern stranger—sat at the center of them all.
It wasn't just jealousy. Not entirely.
It was the unsettling sense that something wasn't right. Aya was hiding things. Her magic, yes—but more than that. Her intentions. Her silence was not passive. It was strategic. Measured.
Eir had seen quiet women rise before. They were always underestimated—until they weren't.
She stared down at the map, lips pressed thin, fingers tightening on the edge of the table.
She wouldn't act. Not yet.
But she would watch.
And if a weakness showed—if this Northern Queen cracked—Eir would be there.
Not to destroy her. No. That would be crude.
To replace her.