The dawn broke in a haze of pale gold as Selene and Lucien left Frost valley behind, the cold air still heavy with silence. A light snow had begun to fall, dusting the forest in white and muting their footsteps. The warmth of the previous night's closeness still lingered beneath Selene's skin, but neither of them spoke of it.
They were not alone.
A small escort of four scouts rode ahead and behind, silent shadows dressed in Frost valley gray. But even with the company, the forest felt uneasy.
The deeper they traveled, the stranger the path became.
"Something's wrong," one of the scouts murmured as they paused near a ravine. "The snow isn't settling right."
Selene frowned. She looked down. Beneath the thin powder, dark scorched lines snaked through the underbrush—too focused, too precise. Her fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of her dagger.
"Burn marks," Lucien said, dismounting. He crouched near a patch of blackened moss, brushing aside the ash. "Silver residue. Not from the blade."
Before Selene could speak, the wind shifted.
A scream tore through the air.
One of the scouts up front fell forward, a black arrow embedded in his throat. Chaos erupted.
"Ambush!" Lucien roared, drawing his weapon. The escort tried to regroup, but attackers surged from the trees—figures in ash-colored armor, faces masked, wielding blades dipped in obsidian. The ambush was swift, calculated.
Selene's horse reared. She hit the ground hard, rolling just in time to avoid a strike aimed at her neck. Lucien was beside her in an instant, sword flashing. One of the scouts tried to drag her back, but a blade cut him down mid-motion.
"Go!" Lucien shouted, yanking her toward a narrow path through the trees. "We're outnumbered—move!"
They ran.
Branches whipped past. Frost crunched beneath their boots. Selene's breath burned in her throat. Behind them, screams faded, replaced by a heavy, unnatural silence.
Only when they reached a small clearing by a frozen creek did they stop. Their escorts were gone—dead or captured. They were alone now.
Lucien knelt by the water, blood streaking his temple. He wasn't badly hurt, but the weight in his shoulders had deepened. He didn't need to say it—Selene already knew. Whoever those masked warriors were, they had come for the blade.
And perhaps for her.
Lucien busied himself with a fire, making it small and smokeless. Selene sat across from him, her heart still thundering. The blade, wrapped in rune-cloth and strapped to his back, seemed to hum faintly, as though aware.
"You okay?" he asked, finally glancing her way.
She nodded, though her hands trembled. "They knew who we were."
"Not many do," he murmured. "Which means someone talked."
They fell into silence, both listening to the fire's low crackle and the distant rush of water.
Selene looked at him through the smoke. "Last night. It wasn't a mistake."
Lucien met her eyes, something flickering in his gaze—pain, longing, guilt. "No. It wasn't."
But before she could say more, a low hiss cut through the clearing.
Lucien was up in an instant, blade half-drawn. Selene reached for her dagger, but a shadow lunged from the trees. Then another. And another.
A second ambush.
They had been followed.
Lucien clashed with the first attacker, steel sparking against obsidian. Selene was forced back as a masked warrior lunged at her, but she twisted, dodging the blade.
One of them grabbed her arm—rough, cold, merciless.
Everything stopped.
A sound erupted from within her—a heartbeat made of fire.
The blade, still wrapped at Lucien's back, flared. The rune-cloth burned away, revealing a silver edge glowing with pulsing light. Selene reached for it instinctively.
It flew to her hand.
Flame erupted.
Silver fire danced along her limbs, surging from her chest outward. The blade lit up, thrumming with ancient power. Her mind blurred. Instinct guided her arm as she slashed, turning the clearing into a storm of heat and light.
Screams echoed. Ash fell like snow.
By the time the fire receded, the attackers lay scorched and broken. Lucien was on his knees, blood soaking his side.
Selene dropped beside him. "You're hurt."
"Not as bad as them," he joked weakly.
She tore open his tunic, hands shaking. "I need to stop the bleeding."
He reached up, touching her wrist. "You did that."
"It was the blade."
"No," he said. "It answered to you."
They sat in silence while she dressed his wound, the fire now a low ember beside them.
Lucien's voice broke the quiet. "I have to tell you something."
She stilled.
"I was there. The night the Citadel fell. I fought for Alaric."
The words twisted in her gut.
"I didn't know your face," he went on, eyes on the trees. "Only your flame. I saw you die. I told myself you were just the queen. The enemy. But I remember now. That fire… It was you."
Selene stood slowly. "You fought for the man who killed our child."
Lucien flinched. "If I had known—"
"But you didn't want to know."
He didn't argue.
Selene turned away, grief and rage battling inside her. "What if Alaric wasn't alone? What if it wasn't just betrayal—it was a conspiracy?"
Lucien stood too, limping slightly. "Then we need more than just vengeance. We need the truth."
She looked down at the blade.
Still humming. Still burning.
"I'm going back to the Citadel," she said. "Not to reclaim my throne. To uncover every lie that led to my death."
Lucien nodded, his voice quiet. "Then I'll follow you. Even into fire."
The blade pulsed once more.
And the path forward—bloodstained and burning—lay open.