He remembered the way Elissa had bit her lip until it bled rather than cry out when Vane's sword caught her ribs. He remembered her hands, trembling and raw, clutching the wooden hilt as she forced herself up from the ice for the hundredth time. He felt the impact of her tears from the night she learned of Kaelen—a memory that still felt like a cold stone in his chest.
He looked at the small jar of silver balm sitting on the corner of his desk, identical to the one he had sent to her room.
"She has not asked for rest," Alistair said softly, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"She wouldn't," Vane muttered. "She'd die on that plateau before she let you see her quit."
Alistair stood, his heavy black cloak billowing around him like a shroud. He walked to the window, looking out toward the Sun-Stone Suite. He could see the faint glow of the hearth in her room, a small spark of warmth in the middle of his frozen kingdom.
"One day," Alistair finally conceded. The words seemed to cost him, his pride wrestling with a newfound, silent respect for the girl's endurance. "Give her one day of rest. Let the balm do its work."
He turned back to his cousins, his eyes hard and unreadable.
"But tell her this: it is not a gift. It is not an act of mercy. It is a preparation. The North does not stop for anyone, and the next time she steps onto that ice, I expect her to be twice as fast."
Dante nodded, a ghost of a relieved sigh escaping him. Vane gave a sharp, appreciative tilt of his head. As they turned to leave, Alistair called out one last time.
"And Dante?"
The large vampire paused at the door.
"See that she eats. If she faints from hunger before she faints from the sword, it reflects poorly on my house."
As the doors closed, Alistair returned to his desk, but he didn't look at the map. He stared at the violet flames, his fingers absentmindedly touching the bone carving of his chair. He had given her a day. He told himself it was for the sake of the mission—but deep in the ancient, frozen part of his heart, he knew he just couldn't bear to see her break quite yet.
The fifth morning brought a silence to the Sun-Stone Suite that felt almost alien. For the first time since her arrival, Elissa was not jolted awake by the harsh summons of the training yard. She drifted in the heavy, warm cocoon of her bed, her body finally beginning to knit itself back together. The silver Glacier Balm Alistair had provided worked with a cold, tingling efficiency, drawing the heat of the bruises from her skin and allowing her to move without the sharp, jagged pain of the previous days.
Lunch was served in the suite's private parlor, a sun-drenched room with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the jagged peaks. Unlike the stifling, formal meals in the Great Hall, this felt almost human. Dante and Vane sat with her, their presence a solid, protective wall against the daunting scale of the palace.
"The color is returning to your cheeks," Vane noted, leaning back with a glass of dark, spiced blood wine. He watched her with a lopsided grin, though his golden eyes remained observant. "Another day of this and you might actually be able to lift a real steel blade instead of that wooden stick we've been hammering you with."
"I don't need another day of rest," Elissa said, her voice firmer than it had been in a week, though she still winced slightly as she reached for a piece of dark bread. "I need answers. I want to see Jarek."
Dante set his cup down, his expression turning grave. "The infirmary is restricted, Princess. King Valen's orders. He doesn't want the survivor's testimony spreading through the court until the Council has 'verified' the threat. In the North, news of a Siphon Blade is enough to start a panic."
"I am the Princess of Aethelgard," she said, her mist-grey eyes flashing with a sudden, quiet authority that made both cousins sit up straighter. "Jarek is my brother's shield-bearer. He is my subject, and I am his sovereign. I will not ask for permission to see my own people."
"You won't have to," a cold, familiar voice drifted from the doorway.
Alistair stood there, silhouetted by the hall's dim light. He wasn't wearing his formal high-collared armor, but a simple tunic of black wool and leather that made his broad shoulders look even more imposing. His blue eyes swept over the room, lingering for a heartbeat on the way Dante and Vane had made themselves comfortable in Elissa's private space.
"The King has granted me the key to the restricted ward for this hour," Alistair said, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum in the stone floor. He looked at Elissa, his gaze unreadable. "If you wish to speak to the messenger, you will come with me now. He does not have much time."
The walk to the infirmary was a silent, tense procession. Alistair walked with a predatory grace, his shadow falling over Elissa as they moved through the damp, torch-lit corridors of the lower Bastion. He didn't speak, but his presence felt like a shield, warding off the curious, hungry gazes of the passing high-born guards.
Inside the stone-walled ward, the air smelled of bitter herbs and ozone. Jarek looked even smaller than he had at the gate. His skin was the color of parchment, and the "Siphon wound" in his side pulsed with a faint, sickly grey light—a magical necrosis that seemed to resist the vampires' ancient healing arts.
When Elissa approached the bed, Jarek's eyes fluttered open. "Princess..."
"Don't move, Jarek," she whispered, taking his hand. It was deathly cold, the skin feeling like dry winter leaves.
Alistair stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't interrupt, but his sapphire blue eyes were fixed on the grey light of the wound. He was analyzing it, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested he was seeing a resonance—a signature of power—that he recognized and despised.
"The men who did this," Elissa asked, her voice trembling but her gaze fixed. "Did they say anything? Any name other than the Rose?"
Jarek coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made Elissa's heart ache. "They spoke of... the Eclipse. They said the fire of the South was a gift for the master of the Ridge. They... they laughed, My Lady. They laughed as the Prince's light turned to ash."
Elissa's grip on Jarek's hand tightened until her knuckles were white. She felt a surge of that cold, internal vibration—the resonance—humming in her blood. The room seemed to grow momentarily darker, the shadows in the corners stretching toward her.
Alistair noticed immediately. He saw the way the air around her began to shimmer. He stepped forward, his gloved hand resting firmly on her shoulder. It wasn't a gesture of comfort; it was a grounding force, a heavy weight meant to pull her back to reality.
"We have seen enough," Alistair said quietly. He looked at Jarek, his voice softening with a rare, grim respect. "You have served your Prince well, soldier. My physicians will do what they can, but the blade was cursed with a void-touch."
He led Elissa out, his hand staying on her shoulder a moment longer than necessary as they left the room. As they reached the main corridor, he looked down at her, his blue eyes burning with a relentless intensity. "Now you know the face of your enemy. They do not just kill; they humiliate. They steal the very essence of who a warrior is. Remember that when you return to the ice tomorrow."
By late afternoon, the gloom of the infirmary hung over Elissa like a leaden shroud. Sensing her downward spiral, Vane appeared at her door, dressed in heavy furs and holding a thick, wool-lined cloak for her.
"Enough of this dark stone and talk of death," Vane said, his golden eyes bright with a spark of his usual mischief. "The King is in a locked session with the Council, and Alistair is buried in war maps. I'm taking you out."
"Out? Where?"