Dante leaned in, his presence acting as a shield, murmuring words of quiet consolation that only she could hear. Vane stayed close on her other side, his hand hovering near her back, a silent promise of support.
Across the room, Alistair stood like a statue of jagged glass. He didn't move to touch her. He stayed back, his crystalline blue eyes narrowed as he watched the tears track down her pale cheeks. He felt the weight of her grief hitting him like a physical blow to the chest—an impact he wasn't prepared for. Seeing her try so hard to be strong, only to have her eyes betray her, stirred a dark, turbulent protective instinct in his soul that he didn't have a name for yet.
"I know I am weak," Elissa whispered, her voice cracking as she looked toward the King, then toward Alistair. "I have no fire. I have no steel. But I will not let them erase him. I want to avenge him. I want to find a way to bring him back, even if I have to burn my own life to do it."
Alistair watched her—watched the way Dante held her and the way Vane hovered. He saw her fragility, but more than that, he saw her will. There was no glow, no resonance, only the raw, human heart of a sister who had lost her sun.
"Enough," Alistair said, his voice quiet but carrying a sharp edge that cut through the room. "She has heard enough. Dante, Vane—take her back. She needs the silence of the North Wing."
They escorted her back to the Sun-Stone Suite, their presence a heavy guard until they reached her door. Once inside, they signaled for Martha, who was already waiting with a worried expression.
The moment the door clicked shut and the Princes were gone, the mask Elissa had tried so hard to wear shattered completely. Martha didn't say a word; she simply opened her arms. Elissa collapsed into the older woman's embrace, her fingers clutching Martha's apron as the silent tears turned into racked, heavy sobs.
In the safety of that motherly warmth, Elissa finally broke. She wept for Kaelen, for her own perceived helplessness, and for the terrifying, cold world she was now forced to navigate alone. Martha held her through the night, stroking her hair and whispering that even the smallest star has a place in the dark.
The Sun-Stone Suite was still draped in the deep velvet shadows of pre-dawn when Martha entered. She didn't carry the usual tray of sweet tea or mountain berries. Instead, her face was set in a look of quiet, maternal concern as she set a basin of steaming water down.
"Wake up, my lady," Martha whispered, gently shaking Elissa's shoulder. "Prince Dante has sent word. He is waiting in the courtyard with Prince Vane. He says the time for weeping has passed, and the time for the sword has begun."
Elissa sat up, her head heavy and her heart still aching from the news of Kaelen. She looked at the sturdy leather tunics and thick wool leggings Martha had laid out—gear designed for movement, not for beauty. "Alistair's idea?"
"The Prince-Regent is a man who believes strength is the only cure for sorrow," Martha replied softly, helping Elissa into the heavy gear. "He has instructed his cousins to begin your instruction. He wants you ready for the world that is coming."
The Frozen Training Grounds were a desolate, wind-swept plateau on the edge of the fortress. The air was so cold it felt like breathing glass. Dante and Vane stood in the center of the ring, their shadows long against the blue ice.
Dante didn't greet her with a smile. He stood with his arms crossed, his golden eyes scanning her from head to toe. "Alistair wants to know if you have the spine for the North, Princess. He told us to treat you not as a guest, but as a recruit. If you fail, you stay behind the walls. If you learn, you get your vengeance."
"I won't fail," Elissa said, her voice small but steady.
"We'll see," Vane said, tossing her a weighted wooden practice blade. The wood was cold enough to sting her palms. "Defend yourself."
The training was brutal. Vane was a blur of silver and shadow, his strikes coming from angles Elissa couldn't predict. He didn't pull his punches. When she was too slow, the wooden sword caught her across the forearm; when she lost her footing on the slick ice, she crashed down hard.
"Get up!" Dante barked from the sidelines. He didn't move to help her. "The men who siphoned your brother won't wait for you to find your balance. Again!"
By the third hour, Elissa's lungs were burning, and her body was a map of rising welts and deep bruises. She fell for the tenth time, her right shoulder slamming into the frost-covered stone. A sharp cry escaped her lips, but she immediately bit it back, her mist-grey eyes flaring with a sudden, desperate heat.
The Watcher on the Ramparts
High above, hidden by the jagged crenellations of the North Tower, Alistair stood in total silence. His crystalline blue eyes were fixed on the girl below. He watched her struggle; he watched her bleed.
Every time she hit the ice, his hand tightened on the stone railing until the obsidian began to hairline-fracture under his grip. He saw Vane's blade strike her ribs, and he saw her shoulder take the brunt of the final fall.
He didn't stay to see the end of the session. He knew Dante and Vane would follow his orders to be relentless. He turned away, his black cloak snapping in the wind, his expression a mask of icy indifference. But as he strode back toward the War Room, he signaled a passing servant.
When Elissa finally returned to her room, she could barely stand. Martha was there instantly, her eyes filling with tears at the sight of the Princess's battered state.
"Those boys... they've gone too far," Martha fretted, guiding Elissa to the chair by the fire.
As Martha began to carefully peel back the sweat-soaked tunic, she stopped. "My lady... look."
On the small table beside the bed sat a heavy crystal jar filled with a shimmering, blue-tinted ointment—Glacier Balm, a rare medicine used only for the Royal Guard. Beside it lay a bundle of the finest Northern silk bandages.
"I didn't request this," Martha whispered, her voice filled with wonder. "This only comes from the Prince's private apothecary."
Elissa winced as she touched her right shoulder, which was already turning a deep purple. She realized then that Alistair had seen it all. He hadn't been in the yard, but he had known exactly where the wood had struck her and exactly where she had hit the ice.
He was pushing her to her breaking point, but he was also the one providing the means to mend.