CHAPTER 203: VISITOR

The words landed like blows.

Isolde opened her mouth. Closed it. Tears spilled faster now. "I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Your Majesty. I thought... I thought I was helping."

"I know." Vetra’s expression softened fractionally. "Which is why you’re here instead of still locked in that holding chamber."

A knock interrupted them.

Sharp. Demanding.

Vetra’s eyebrows rose fractionally. She wasn’t expecting visitors. Had specifically instructed her staff that she wasn’t receiving anyone tonight.

The knock came again. Louder.

"Your Grace." A servant’s voice filtered through the door. Nervous. Apologetic. "You have a visitor."

"I’m not receiving—"

The door opened.

Vetra’s head snapped toward the entrance, fury flashing across her face at the intrusion. No one opened her doors without permission. No one dared...

A woman stood in the doorway.

Or what had once been a woman.

Isolde gasped, hand flying to her mouth.

The visitor was draped in layers of dark fabric that covered most of her body, but what showed was... wrong. Skin mottled with burn scars that twisted and pulled, creating patterns of destruction across every visible surface.

Her face was partially hidden by a deep hood, but what could be seen was a landscape of melted flesh. Eyelids that didn’t quite close properly. Lips pulled into a permanent grimace. Nose flattened and distorted.

She moved with strange grace despite the injuries. Fluid. Controlled. Like someone who’d learned to inhabit a body that no longer quite fit.

In her arms, she carried a large book. Leather-bound. Black as midnight. Old enough that the spine cracked softly with each slight movement.

Isolde scrambled backward in her chair. Instinctive. Visceral. The kind of reaction humans have to things that trigger deep, primal disgust.

The woman didn’t react to the recoil. Didn’t flinch at Isolde’s horrified expression. Simply stood in the doorway, hood shadowing her ruined face, waiting.

Vetra stood.

For the first time in hours, her expression shifted. The ice melted. Something else emerged. Not warmth, exactly. But recognition. Satisfaction. The look of someone who’d been waiting for this moment and was pleased to finally see it arrive.

She smiled.

A genuine smile. The kind she hadn’t shown in days. Perhaps weeks.

"I see you came."

The visitor’s voice emerged raspy. Damaged. Like someone who’d inhaled too much smoke and never quite recovered. "You summoned."

She stepped fully into the room. Closed the door behind her with one scarred hand. The lock clicked into place with soft finality.

Vetra crossed the space between them, movements eager despite her usual controlled composure. Her eyes dropped to the black book. Lingered there.

Something dangerous gleamed in her gaze. Something hungry.

"Is that...?"

"Yes." The visitor shifted the book slightly, angling it so Vetra could see the cover more clearly. Symbols etched into the leather. Old symbols. The kind that predated Nevareth’s written language by centuries.

Vetra reached out, fingers hovering just above the surface without quite touching. "I wasn’t certain you still had it. After everything that happened..."

"I’ve kept it safe." The raspy voice carried no emotion. Just statement of fact. "With my life."

Behind them, Isolde had found her voice again. "Your Majesty, who is this? Why is she—"

Vetra turned, that smile still in place. "Isolde, may I introduce an old friend. Someone who’s been very patient. Very loyal." She gestured to the scarred woman. "Someone who’s going to help us solve our little problem."

"Problem?" Isolde’s voice climbed higher. "That foreign bitch is more than a problem! She’s—"

"Eris Igniva," Vetra interrupted smoothly, "is indeed more than a problem. She’s a threat. To our plans. To our position. To everything we’ve built over the past fifteen years."

She turned back to the visitor, that dangerous gleam intensifying. "Which is why I called in a favor. A very old, very specific favor."

The scarred woman inclined her head. Agreement. Understanding.

"Then we have much to discuss," Vetra said.

She gestured to the sitting area, where a low table stood surrounded by cushioned chairs. The visitor moved toward it with that same strange grace, settling into a seat without hesitation despite the obvious pain such movement must cause.

She set the black book on the table.

It landed with a soft thud that somehow sounded heavier than it should. Like the weight wasn’t just physical. Like the book carried something else. Something that pressed down on the air itself.

Isolde remained frozen in her chair, still staring at the visitor with barely concealed horror. Her family would be arriving soon. Her father, Count Ravencrest, and her two brothers. All summoned by urgent message after Isolde’s arrest. All ready to plot, to scheme, to find ways to prevent Eris’s marriage.

But looking at that black book, at the symbols etched into its cover, at the way Vetra’s eyes gleamed with anticipation...

Isolde wondered if plotting was necessary at all.

If perhaps Vetra had already found a solution.

One that didn’t require politics or manipulation or careful maneuvering.

One that required something else entirely.

The visitor’s scarred hand rested on the black book’s cover, fingers tracing symbols that seemed to shift under torchlight.

Then Vetra spoke.

"You’ve met her before." She said. "Eris Igniva."

"Yes." The raspy voice carried weight. Memory.

Vetra’s attention sharpened. "When?"

"A month ago. In Solmire." The hood shifted as the witch’s head tilted, remembering. "I was working with a man named Caldus. Her knight guard. He wanted her dead. Gathered others who felt the same. We had a plan."

She paused, scarred fingers tightening on the book.

"We had this." She tapped the ancient relic. "An artifact old containing spells enough to predate the kingdoms. Designed specifically to turn a fire wielder’s power against them. To make them burn from the inside out."

Isolde leaned forward despite her horror. "What happened?"

"We ambushed her in a market. Tent. Isolated. Perfect conditions." The witch’s voice dropped lower. "I performed the ritual. Spoke the ancient words. ’Esh’Zhar’kul ven drathis. Or’mekh bal thurin.’ Commanded her own fire to consume her."

"And?" Vetra’s tone remained perfectly controlled, but something flickered in her eyes.

"It worked." The witch’s laugh came out broken. Bitter. "The spell activated. Her fire rose. Shaped itself into a dragon made of black flame. Towering. Massive. Exactly as the ritual promised."

She shifted in her seat, and the movement suggested pain. Old pain that had never quite healed.

"Then it turned." Her voice went flat. "Not on her. On us."

Silence fell.

"The fire we’d summoned, the one meant to destroy her, swallowed my companions whole. Turned them to ash in seconds. The spell had backfired completely." The witch’s scarred hand rose to touch her ruined face. "I barely escaped. Crawled through smoke and flame with a barrier spell while she stood at the center of it all, burning everything. Everyone."

"She was screaming at us to run. Begging us. But the fire wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. It consumed the entire market." The raspy voice cracked. "I got out because she was too busy trying to control what she’d unleashed. Too busy burning to chase me."

The witch’s hood turned toward Vetra. "I’ve carried these scars ever since. A reminder that some things shouldn’t be challenged. Some powers shouldn’t be touched."

Isolde’s voice came out strangled. "That... that’s an abomination. Her very existence is an abomination."

"Yes." The witch’s agreement was immediate. Absolute.

Vetra leaned forward, eyes gleaming with something dangerous. "You said some powers shouldn’t be touched. What did you mean?"

The witch’s scarred fingers drummed once against the black book. "That night, while I was crawling away through the flames, I felt something else."

"Something else?" Vetra’s tone sharpened.

"Another presence." The witch’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Apart from the blazing fire. Apart from her magic. Something small yet overwhelming. Coming from inside her."

She reached into her robes with her free hand, pulled out a small object. A compass, but not for direction. The needle was made of bone, and the face was etched with symbols similar to those on the black book.

"This," the witch said, setting it on the table, "belonged to a high priest of Pyronox. Dead three hundred years. Said to react to divine presence. To power that exceeds mortal limits."

The bone needle spun wildly, then stopped. Pointing directly toward where the palace’s western wing would be.

Where Eris’s chambers were.

"It hasn’t stopped moving since she arrived in Nevareth," the witch said quietly. "Whatever is inside her... it’s not just fire magic. It’s not just power."

She looked up at Vetra. "It’s something one might mistake for a god."

The temperature in the room dropped.

Not from magic. From the weight of those words settling over them like frost.

Isolde made a small sound. Disbelief mixed with horror. "That can’t be possible. She’s just a woman. A cruel, powerful woman, but still—"

"She’s not just a woman." The witch’s interruption was firm. "She might not even be a child of Pyronox’s blessing. She’s something far more dangerous. Far more powerful."

Vetra stood. Moved to the window. Looked out over snow-covered grounds with eyes that saw past the physical into implications and possibilities.

"The real source of her power," she murmured. "Something sealed inside her."

"Something," the witch agreed, "that could threaten the balance of your realm."

"No." Isolde shook her head frantically. "No, that’s... perhaps she conjured Pyronox’s powers for herself. Stole them somehow. Used some forbidden ritual—"

"It’s far worse than that." The witch’s raspy voice cut through Isolde’s denial like a blade.

The moment she spoke those words, ice cracked across the window where Vetra stood.

Not intentionally. Not consciously. Just her power reacting to the implication. To the truth settling into place.

Vetra’s hand rose to touch the ice spreading across glass. Traced the patterns with one finger.

And remembered.

Soren. The day she’d found him. A child barely old enough to walk, hidden in the servants’ quarters, eyes too old for his face. She’d felt it then. That same otherworldly presence. That sense of something vast and terrible compressed into mortal flesh.

She’d thought it was just his ice magic. Unusually strong. Divinely blessed.

But what if it was more?

What if he, like Eris, housed something that shouldn’t exist in human form?

Fire and ice.

Two gods.

Two powers that could tear their world apart if they collided.

Or worse. If they merged.

"Two powers cannot coexist," Vetra said softly, still tracing ice patterns. "One must conquer the other."

She turned from the window. Looked at the witch. At the black book. At the bone compass still pointing toward Eris’s chambers.

Her expression hardened into something absolute. Unshakable.

"I will be the one to end her." Her voice carried the weight of imperial command. Of decades of ruthless survival. "And when I do, I will take what’s inside her for myself."