Snow clung to the broken stones of Fort Vireloch, like white moss on the ruins of something once proud. The soldiers, rough and unshaven, watched her from doorways and behind barrels, eyes sharp with skepticism. Zareena stood still at the heart of it all, her fur-lined cloak heavy on her shoulders and her breath forming pale clouds in the icy air.
No one welcomed her. Not really.
The garrison captain, Commander Aldric, had offered a stiff bow and a muttered, "Didn't expect them to actually send someone." He hadn't said princess. He hadn't even looked her in the eye.
Good.
She preferred it that way.
Her quarters were small. Damp stone, no firewood, and the windows didn't close properly. A noble daughter would have complained. Zareena said nothing. She simply unpacked her meager belongings—two books, a worn leather notebook, and a cracked ivory comb—and arranged them on the shelf like armor.
By the third day, rumors had already started.
"She doesn't speak unless spoken to."
"Probably cursed. Look at her eyes."
"Too soft. She won't last the month."
Zareena heard them all. She listened as she walked the halls, sat silently during meals, watched the courtyard drills from the shadow of a crumbling arch.
She was always watching.
And slowly, the garrison began to notice that the soft-spoken girl wasn't so simple after all.
One morning, she stood beside the stable boy while the horses were fed. She asked for his name. He blinked. Stammered. Told her it was Tarn.
The next day, she asked how many horses were sick.
By the end of the week, she was drawing up a new rotation plan to give the injured beasts rest—and to give Tarn time to sleep.
Commander Aldric scoffed when he saw it. "You think schedules will keep wolves out of our gates?"
Zareena looked at him calmly and said, "No. But wolves don't kill what's already dead from inside."
He didn't reply. But the plan was posted the next morning.
In the following days, more changes followed—not through force, but suggestion.
When the kitchen ran out of salt, Zareena arranged a supply trade with a mountain village, offering old lumber in return. When three scouts refused to ride with a mage rumored to be cursed, she invited the mage to dinner.
He hadn't spoken in weeks. That night, he laughed.
And slowly, the fortress changed.
Not because she demanded it.
Because she saw them—every broken soul in the stone halls—and made them feel visible.
In the highest tower, a spy wrote a letter by candlelight.
"The girl is not what she seems. She does not command by title, but the garrison watches her. Listens. She may become something dangerous… or something valuable."
The wax was stamped with a black seal: House Alimov.
And far to the south, a letter was delivered into the pale hands of a prince with amber eyes and a reputation carved in fear.
He read it. Smiled faintly.
"Interesting," whispered Rashid Alimov.