Pyrehold, Day Fifteen
The silence of Pyrehold had become something close to routine.
Toy Crimson knew the pattern of the torches now — how they flickered at mid-day, how the warmth in the floor dipped during nightshift, how the pressure in the mountain shifted ever so slightly just before Fenra arrived with the rations.
But that day, it wasn't Fenra who came.
The door groaned open without warning.
And he stepped in.
Warden Vyle.
A tall man, sharp as broken glass, with gray-streaked hair pulled tightly back and a blade-slim frame wrapped in officer's leather. His eyes were pale — not like Lara's, not like frozen lakes. These were dry, cracked things. Eyes that had stopped feeling years ago.
Toy rose to his feet, automatically moving to shield Lara, though she hadn't reacted yet. She simply remained still — her head turned slightly, watching.
Vyle took three steps into the cell. The chains at his belt clinked. He didn't look at Lara. Not directly. As if she was just a statue to be avoided.
"You've gotten too comfortable," the Warden said.
Toy didn't answer.
Vyle's gaze flicked to the half-finished tray. "She's eating again. That's progress."
Still, Toy said nothing.
Vyle finally looked at him. "You weren't meant to bond with her, Crimson. You were assigned to survive her. Observe. Report. Not... soften."
Toy held his ground. "I've kept her from killing anyone, haven't I?"
"That collar keeps her magic in check. Not you."
"Collars don't change people," Toy replied. "But presence does."
The Warden gave a thin smile — no amusement behind it.
"You think she's changing?" he asked. "You think the Winter Witch is becoming something else?"
Toy glanced back at Lara. She met his eyes briefly, but said nothing.
"Yes," Toy said.
Vyle's hand twitched toward the baton on his belt.
"You think you're her savior?"
"No," Toy said. "I'm her witness."
The Warden's face hardened.
Then, coldly: "Orders from the capital. You'll receive a visitor within the week. A new evaluator. A mage of high standing."
"What for?"
"Assessment. There are whispers Lara Frostborn is regaining influence. That perhaps she's not a prisoner anymore... but a symbol. A risk."
Lara's head tilted slightly.
"She hasn't spoken to anyone but me," Toy said.
"Which is precisely the problem." Vyle stepped closer. "If she speaks to you, she might begin to speak to others. Influence can be more dangerous than spells."
Toy's jaw tightened. "She hasn't cast anything."
"Doesn't need to," Vyle said. "Look at her. Look at you. Already, you're speaking as if she matters. As if this—" he gestured to the cell "—isn't a cage."
Lara's voice cut in. "It never was a cage."
The Warden flinched.
Toy smiled, just a little.
Vyle turned sharply toward her, finally meeting her gaze — and recoiled.
Not from magic. But from her stillness. Her certainty.
"Speak again," he said, voice low.
Lara's expression remained unreadable. "Speak again, and what? You'll tell the empire I blinked twice instead of once?"
The Warden stared at her for a long time.
Then, turning back to Toy, he said, "This changes nothing. The evaluator arrives in five days. If she speaks again — or if you do anything foolish — it won't be her head on the block. It'll be yours."
Toy stepped forward. "Good. Then you'll know exactly where to look when things fall apart."
Vyle narrowed his eyes. "Watch her."
"I have been," Toy said. "You haven't."
The Warden left in silence, bootsteps ringing off the stone.
The door slammed shut behind him.
The room returned to stillness.
Toy exhaled slowly.
Then Lara whispered, "You're not just my witness, Toy Crimson."
He turned toward her.
She met his gaze.
"You're my first defense."