The carriage was a coffin on wheels.
Naevia, Duchess of the Northern Reach, watched the frost form intricate, brittle patterns on the window. Each one was a map of her failing territory. A crack here for the failing harvest. A split there for the bandit raids. A deep, jagged line for the gnawing cold that never left her people's bones.
Her father's greatsword, Winter's Mourning, lay across her lap. Its weight was the only comfort she had left. The steel was cold. She was cold. The memory of his funeral pyre, blazing against the eternal grey sky of the North, was the last warm thing she could remember.
The carriage jerked, wheels slipping on black ice. She didn't flinch. Her body, tempered by twenty-three years of Northern wind and combat drills, absorbed the shock without protest. Her face, a sculpture of sharp, beautiful lines and pale skin, remained impassive. Eyes the colour of glacial ice stared forward, seeing nothing and everything.
"We are entering the Capital's outer ring, My Lady," her driver called back, his voice muffled by the howling gale that had chased them south.
The Capital. His city. The heart of the Sunfall Empire. A place of warmth, decadence, and soft people. A place her father had despised but had dutifully visited once a year to swear fealty. Now, she had to go not as a dutiful daughter, but as a failing ruler, to beg.
The thought was ash in her mouth.
'A warrior does not beg, Naevia. A warrior states what is needed. The strength of your arm and the truth of your cause are your only currency.'
Her father's ghost whispered in her ear. But her father was dead. Killed not by a rival warlord or a monster from the frozen wastes, but by a creeping, whispering sickness that had stolen the warmth from his mighty heart. His strength had meant nothing.
Now, she was the strength of the North. And it was not enough.
The carriage passed through the immense Sunrise Gates. Instantly, the world changed.
The punishing wind died. The eternal grey twilight of the North was replaced by the soft, golden glow of countless sun-lanterns, magically fueled to burn day and night. The air lost its biting edge, becoming merely cool. She could smell baking bread, perfume, and the faint, ever-present scent of magic—ozone and honey.
People thronged the wide, clean streets. They wore bright colours. They laughed. They moved without the hunched, hurried desperation of her people. They were soft. Whole.
A wave of visceral, bitter contempt rose in her throat. She forced it down. Contempt would not save the North. Only resources would. Soldiers. Grain. Gold. Magical wards against the cold.
The carriage clattered to a stop in front of a grand administrative building, the Office of Imperial Petitions. Her destination. Her humiliation.
She did not wait for the driver. She pushed the door open, the greatsword in her hand, and stepped into the false spring of the Capital.
Her boots, rugged Northern leather and fur, crunched on immaculate white gravel. Her attire—a practical, grey-and-white tunic over reinforced trousers, a heavy fur cloak draped over her shoulders—marked her as an outsider, a barbarian from the icy fringe. People stared. Some whispered. She ignored them all, her posture straight as the pines of her homeland, and walked into the lion's den.
The official behind the desk was a small man with a perfectly trimmed beard and eyes that looked at her form, then her sword, then her face, calculating her threat level and her social rank in that order.
"The petition for emergency aid for the Northern Reach is… under review, Duchess Naevia," he said, not even looking up from his scroll.
"It has been under review for two months," she said, her voice flat, devoid of the melodic lilt of the Capital. It was the sound of grinding stones. "My people are starving. The Frostspine Ogres grow bolder. The Ever-Winter pushes further south every day."
"The Empire has many concerns," the official sighed, as if explaining something to a child. "The southern plantations had a poor yield. The eastern trade routes are plagued by sky-pirates. Resources are strained. Your… situation is noted."
"Noted." She repeated the word. It hung in the warm air between them. "My father served this Empire for forty years. He bled for its borders. He died in its service. The North has paid its taxes in blood and ore for centuries. And now we are 'noted'?"
A flicker of annoyance crossed the man's face. "Sentiment does not fill granaries, Duchess. Procedure must be followed."
Procedure. The word was a trapdoor leading to nothing. She could fight a hundred Ogres. She could not fight procedure.
She leaned forward, just a little. The official instinctively shrank back. "What must I do to move past procedure?"
He cleared his throat, adjusting his robes. "A more detailed report. Signed testimonies from your garrison captains. A full audit of your remaining stores. Presented in the proper triplicate forms." He gestured to a towering shelf filled with scrolls and ledgers. "The forms are there. You may begin."
Naevia looked at the shelf. She looked at the man. She saw the death of the North in his bored, bureaucratic eyes.
Without another word, she turned and walked out. The greatsword's tip scraped the marble floor with a sound that made the official wince.
Night in the Capital was not true night. The sun-lanterns glowed, casting long, playful shadows. Music drifted from taverns. The air was still warm.
Naevia walked. She had no destination. The fury inside her was a frozen, silent thing. It needed motion. She found herself in a quieter district, near a sprawling public garden. The scent of night-blooming flowers was cloying.
She thought of the forms. The testimonies. The audits. It would take weeks. Her people did not have weeks.
Her boot caught on a loose, ornate cobblestone. She stumbled, her balance impeccable, but the sudden jolt broke her furious reverie.
And she walked directly into someone.
It was like walking into a mountain made of silk.
There was no give. Only a solid, unyielding presence. The impact was surprisingly soft, but absolute. She bounced off, taking a half-step back, her warrior's instincts raising every alarm at once.
How did I not sense him?
Her head snapped up.
The man was tall, taller than her. He wore simple, expensive black trousers and a white shirt, open at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was a stunning, impossible cascade of pure white, like fresh-fallen snow, falling just to his shoulders. His face… was unfair. It was a face carved by a god with a sense of humour—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, a mouth that seemed on the verge of a smile even at rest. His eyes were a lazy, warm amber, currently wide with surprise.
And he was holding two skewers of candied fruit, one of which was now dangerously close to staining his shirt.
"Oh!" he said, his voice a rich, pleasant baritone. "A collision. My apologies. The pavement here is treasonous."
He smiled. It was a bright, easy, utterly disarming smile. It belonged in a comedy play, not on a street at night.
Naevia's instincts were screaming. This man… his posture was relaxed, but the line of his body was all wrong. He stood with the casual confidence of something that had never known a threat. His hands, holding the stupid sweets, were long-fingered and unmarked, but something in the way he held himself spoke of a latent, terrifying power.
"My fault," she said tersely, her voice even colder than usual. "I was not looking."
"Clearly a fellow victim of deep thought," the man said, his amber eyes taking her in—the fur, the sword, the severe beauty of her face. His gaze lingered on the greatsword for a second, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "That's a serious tool for a midnight stroll. Expecting an invasion of pastries?"
He held out the unstained skewer. "Peace offering? It's peach. Shockingly good."
She stared at the offered sweet. At his smiling face. At this absurd, beautiful man who appeared out of the shadows smelling faintly of sugar and something else, something old and deep like stone.
Every part of her training said this was wrong. He was wrong.
But the utter, ridiculous normalcy of him, the comedy of the situation after a day of bureaucratic hell, broke through her frozen fury for a single, fractured moment.
"I do not eat sweets," she stated.
"A tragic life choice," he sighed, taking a bite of the peach skewer himself. He chewed thoughtfully. "So. You're not from around here. The North, I'd guess, by the aesthetic. All fur and grim purpose. Let me guess… lost? Petitions not going well?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What is it to you?"
"Nothing! Absolutely nothing," he said, raising his free hand. "Just making conversation. I'm a connoisseur of people having worse days than me. Yours seems champion-level. You have the look of someone who wants to set a building on fire using only their glare."
Against all odds, a sliver of something that was not fury or despair cracked inside her. Amusement? No. Bafflement.
"Who are you?" she asked, her hand resting on the pommel of her sword.
"Me? Oh, nobody important. Just a humble soul enjoying the night." He gave a slight, theatrical bow. "Zane. At your service."
"Naevia," she said, before she could stop herself.
"Naevia," he repeated, and her name in his mouth sounded different. Softer. "A strong name. It suits you." He finished his skewer and tossed the stick into a nearby bin with perfect, casual accuracy. "So, Duchess Naevia of the Northern Reach… what brings you out into the treacherous cobblestone wilderness?"
She didn't ask how he knew her title. Anyone with eyes could guess. "Thinking."
"Ah, the silent killer. I prefer action myself. Or dessert." He leaned against a garden wall, studying her. "Your people are in trouble."
It wasn't a question. She gave a single, sharp nod.
"And the Capital's wheels grind slowly."
Another nod.
He was silent for a long moment, the playful light in his amber eyes dimming into something more thoughtful, more assessing. "You need help. Not from them." He jerked his head vaguely toward the administrative district. "Their help comes with forms in triplicate and a waiting period longer than a dragon's nap. You need… direct action. Muscle. Solutions."
"I need an army. I need supplies. I need a miracle," she said, the words slipping out, raw and honest in the strange intimacy of the dim, fragrant lane.
Zane's smile returned, but it was different now. Sharper. More interested. "Miracies are overrated. They're messy. I'm more of a… practical interventionist." He pushed off the wall. "I find myself at a loose end. Bored, even. And I have a certain set of skills. Mostly involving making problems go away."
Naevia stared at him. This beautiful, ridiculous, white-haired man offering… what? Help? "What are you proposing?"
"A job," he said simply. "You hire me. As your attendant. Your… personal problem-solver for Northern affairs. I get room, board, and the entertainment value of watching you glare at ogres. You get my… unique skill set applied to your problems. No forms. No petitions. Just results."
It was insane. He could be a criminal. A spy. A fool.
But he had seen through her situation in seconds. And he stood like a king in borrowed clothes. And she had nowhere else to turn.
"What skills?" she asked, her voice a whisper of frost.
He grinned, that bright, disarming grin again. "Oh, a bit of this, a bit of that. Logistics. Negotiation. Intimidation. I'm a very fast learner. And surprisingly durable."
She looked at him—this smiling, candied-fruit-eating enigma—and then at the ghost of her father's disappointed face in her mind. A warrior states what is needed.
"I cannot pay you in gold," she said.
"I don't want gold."
"What do you want?"
His amber eyes held hers. "A good story."
It was the worst reason she had ever heard. It was also, somehow, the only one she could believe in this moment of desperation.
"We leave at first light," she said, turning on her heel. "The North does not wait for the leisurely. Be at the Ironfrost Lodgings if you are serious. Do not be late."
She walked away, her cloak swirling, not looking back.
Behind her, Zane—Voren, Emperor of the Sunfall Empire, Supreme Arbiter, Scourge of the Southern Hordes, Bored Beyond Measure—licked the last of the peach syrup from his fingers, his warm amber eyes watching the fierce, lonely Duchess disappear into the glowing night.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face.
"Finally," Emperor Voren whispered to himself. "Something interesting."