The carriage was a monstrous thing of gilded wood and black iron, standing in the center of the muddy courtyard like an intruder from another world. Elara stood on the frost-dusted cobblestones, the wind whipping her hair into a frantic tangle of dark silk. This was the moment she had dreaded—the severance. To her left stood Lyra, her eyes bright with a dangerous, volatile anger, and to her right, Serafina, who looked so fragile she might simply dissolve into the mist.
"Do not go," Lyra hissed, her voice low enough that the Southern guards, standing like golden statues ten paces away, could not hear. "We have the mountain passes. We could hide you in the Iron Peaks. Let them come for us. Let them find nothing but rock and arrows."
Elara reached out, taking Lyra's hands in hers. They were hot, pulsing with the reckless fire that defined the middle sister. "If I fly, Lyra, they will burn the granaries. They will salt the fields. Our people cannot survive another winter of war. I am not leaving because I am a coward. I am leaving so that you can stay."
She turned to Serafina, the youngest, whose silence was often more profound than any shout. Serafina reached into the folds of her cloak and pulled out a small, heavy object wrapped in a scrap of old lace. She pressed it into Elara's palm. It was a carving of an oak leaf, smoothed by years of touch.
"The roots of the North go deep, Elara," Serafina whispered, her voice trembling but certain. "No matter how much sun they force upon you, remember the shade of the forest. Do not let them change the shape of your soul."
The sound of a heavy, leather-shod footstep crunching on the frost interrupted them. Lord Malcor stood behind them, his shadow stretching long and thin across the sisters. He didn't speak, but the smell of his exotic, spiced cologne—something like sandalwood and dried blood—preceded him. He held the carriage door open with a mocking bow of his head.
"The sun waits for no one, Your Highness," Malcor said, his amber eyes dancing with a cruel, knowing light. He looked at Lyra and Serafina as if he were cataloging their weaknesses for future use. "And neither does the King."
Elara pulled her sisters into a final, crushing embrace. She could smell the pine and woodsmoke on their skin—the smell of home. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, she stepped away. She did not look back as she climbed into the dark, velvet-lined interior of the carriage.
As the door clicked shut, sealing her in a world of stifling luxury, the carriage began to move. Through the small, barred window, she watched the grey towers of Oakhaven disappear into the fog. The obsession of the South was pulling her in, and for the first time, Elara felt the true weight of her own heartbeat—not as a pulse of life, but as a ticking clock.