CHAPTER 100: LETTER

The room shook.

Not gently. Not subtly.

The entire chamber lurched, as though a giant hand had grabbed the palace and given it a single, violent shake. Chandeliers swayed, crystals clinking together in discordant chimes. Goblets rattled against the table. One tipped over, spilling wine in a spreading red stain that looked disturbingly like blood.

The advisors stopped mid-sentence, eyes wide, hands gripping the table for balance.

"What—"

"Earthquake?"

"Pyronox preserve us—"

"Silence."

Caelen’s voice cut through the panic like a blade.

He stood slowly, deliberately, his chair scraping against stone. His eyes were fixed on the windows, where something impossible was happening.

The sky was darkening.

Not with clouds. Not with night. With something else entirely.

Red lightning crackled across the heavens, jagged, violent, utterly silent. No thunder. No storm. Just power made visible, tearing across the sky in patterns that looked almost deliberate, almost like runes being written by an invisible hand.

The light that filtered through the windows turned crimson, bathing the council chamber in the color of old blood, of dying suns, of endings.

"What in Pyronox’s name..." one of the advisors whispered.

Caelen didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because he knew this magic.

Had felt it before, wrapped around him like chains, burning through him like fever. Had watched it pour from her hands when she was angry, when she was desperate, when she was broken.

Eris.

His hands gripped the edge of the table hard enough that his knuckles went white.

What has happened to Eris?

Meanwhile,

The Frozen Court lived up to its name.

Carved directly into the heart of the Frostspine Mountains, its walls were ice and stone married together so seamlessly that no one could say where one ended and the other began.

The throne room was a cathedral of winter, soaring arches, crystalline pillars that caught light and shattered it into rainbows, floors polished smooth as glass.

Beautiful. Cold. Unforgiving.

Exactly like the name who ruled it.

Vetra Nivarre sat upon the throne, not the regent’s seat, never the regent’s seat, for she was no mere placeholder. It was Soren’s throne, yes, but she claimed it all the same, for she held herself near his equal, close enough in power to rule his court as if it were her own and presided over the council with the kind of efficient ruthlessness that had kept Nevareth stable through three assassination attempts, two border wars, and one very unfortunate plague.

Despite her age, she was still regal in the way glaciers were beautiful, cold, eternal, capable of grinding mountains to dust if given enough time. Her hair, once ash blonde, had gone silver early, worn in an elaborate braid that hung over one shoulder. Her eyes were the pale blue of winter sky, sharp enough to flay skin from bone.

"The northern outposts report increased Raugar activity," a general was saying, pointing to a map. "We should reinforce—"

The temperature dropped.

Sharply. Suddenly. Unnaturally.

One moment, the room was its usual cold-but-bearable temperature. The next, it was freezing, cold enough that breath turned to mist, that frost began creeping across the windows from the inside, delicate patterns spreading like living things.

The councillors murmured in confusion, pulling furs tighter around their shoulders.

"What—"

"Is there a breach in the walls?"

"Someone check the heating runes—"

And then they heard it.

Distant. Muffled by miles of stone and ice. But undeniable.

A rumble.

Not sound, vibration. It rolled through the mountain itself, resonating in the bones of the earth, making the crystalline pillars hum like struck bells. The frost on the windows cracked, spidering outward in patterns that looked almost like words in a language no one could read.

Vetra stood.

Slowly. Deliberately.

Every eye in the room turned to her.

She stared at the frost patterns on the glass, her expression unreadable, and when she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Little lamb... what have you done?"

Before anyone could respond, before anyone could ask what she meant, the doors burst open.

A messenger stumbled in, frost still clinging to his cloak, ice in his hair, breathing so hard he could barely stand.

"Your Majesty!" He clutched a sealed letter like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

"Urgent news from His Majesty!"

The room went silent.

Vetra descended the steps with measured grace, took the letter from the messenger’s trembling hands, and broke the seal.

Her eyes moved across the page.

Once. Twice.

Her face went carefully, perfectly blank.

The kind of blank that meant thoughts were racing too fast to show on the surface, that meant decisions were being made at speeds that would leave lesser minds bleeding.

"Your Majesty?" A councillor leaned forward.

"What is it?"

Vetra looked up.

"The Emperor," she said, her voice steady, betraying nothing, "has chosen a bride."

A ripple of surprise. Then excitement.

"A bride! At last!"

"It’s about time—"

"Who is she? Which house?"

"Some northern lady, surely—"

Vetra’s lips thinned into something that might have been a smile if smiles could cut.

"Eris Igniva," she said clearly. "The Fire Queen of Solmire."

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

Then chaos.

"The Fire Queen?!"

"The tyrant?!"

"Has he lost his mind?!"

"She’ll destroy him!"

"She’s a monster—"

"This is a disaster—"

"We must intervene!"

"Someone has to stop this—"

CRACK!

Vetra’s hand slammed down on the table.

Ice exploded from the point of impact, spreading in jagged spears across the entire surface, silencing every voice as surely as if she’d cut out their tongues.

Her eyes blazed with cold fury.

"This meeting," she said softly, dangerously, "is adjourned."

No one argued.

They fled.

Filing out in a rush of furs and fear, leaving Vetra alone in the frozen council chamber with a letter clutched in her hand and frost spreading across the floor like blood from a wound.

She stared at the letter again.

At Soren’s handwriting. His seal. His choice.

And whispered into the empty room:

"Soren... what are you playing at?"

But the ice gave no answers.

Only silence.

And the distant echo of something that might have been thunder.

Or might have been the sound of the world shifting.