The evening carriage had barely come to a halt in the frost-slicked courtyard before Kestrel stepped out. She didn't wait for the footmen or the ceremonial stairs; she leaped into the biting air, her silver-lined hood falling back to reveal a face that seemed to capture the very essence of the aurora borealis—vibrant, shifting, and impossible to ignore.
Earlier that evening, the Great Hall had been a theater of tension. Alistair and Dante were hunched over a map of the Iron Ridge, their expressions so grim they looked like they were carving the strategy into the stone table with their glares.
Then, the doors burst open. The stagnant, icy air of the hall was punctured by a sudden, bright energy.
"Father! Brothers! I see the gloom is still the primary decor in this tomb!" Kestrel's voice rang out, melodic and startlingly cheerful.
Alistair was the first to react. His stoic mask didn't slip, but the luminous blue of his eyes softened in a way that happened for no one else. He stepped forward as Kestrel rushed him, catching her in a brief, protective embrace that he ended quickly, as if remembering he had a reputation for being a glacier.
Dante let out a rare, gruff chuckle, clapping a massive hand on her shoulder that would have leveled a lesser vampire. Vane, however, abandoned his dagger entirely, a wide, genuine grin breaking across his face.
"You're late, Little Star," Vane teased, leaning against the map table. "Grandmother must have been holding you hostage with those ancient tea ceremonies again. Or did you get distracted by a shiny rock on the way?"
"She was, and she sends her 'regards'—which mostly means she thinks you all need to bathe more often and grow a conscience," Kestrel shot back, her smile dimpling her cheeks. She turned to King Valen, who sat like a gargoyle on his throne.
The King's expression remained stern, but the predatory edge in his eyes dulled. He placed a heavy hand on Kestrel's head. It was a gesture of affection that looked almost alien on him, like a mountain trying to pet a bird. "You've grown pale, Kestrel. The Matriarch's Seat has made you soft."
"It has made me wise, Father," she replied fearlessly, stepping out from under his hand. Her flickering eyes darted around the hall, searching the shadows. "Now, where is she? I've heard nothing but whispers of the 'Southern Rose' since I crossed the Ridge. Alistair, stop hoarding her. Introduce me. I want to see the woman who managed to survive your personality for more than an hour."
"First, you should take some rest, Kestrel," Alistair said, his voice dropping into a low, warning rumble. "You smell of travel and Southern horses. You can meet her at dinner."
Kestrel's eyes narrowed, her resonance sparking with a playful defiance, but she held up her hands in a mock gesture of surrender. "Fine. If you want to play the protective husband-to-be, I'll play the weary traveler. For now."
She followed Vane out of the study, but as soon as they were out of the King's earshot, her "weariness" vanished. While her trunks were being hauled to the North Wing, Kestrel didn't head for her bed. She cornered Vane in the narrow servant's passage, pinning him against a stone archway with a look of intense curiosity.
"Tell me everything, Vane," she demanded, her voice a sharp whisper. "Alistair's letters to Grandmother were... strange. He didn't just ask about the treaty. He asked for 'diplomatic advice' on Southern temperament. And then—and I swear I nearly choked on my tea—he asked which flowers from the Southern provinces could survive a frost-graft."
Vane let out a suppressed snicker. "He did what?"
"He asked about gardening, Vane! My brother hasn't cared about a plant in a thousand years unless he was using it for camouflage in a trench," Kestrel hissed, her eyes alight with excitement. "So, tell me. Is she a witch? Did she enchant him? Or did he finally just break?"
Vane grinned, checking the hallway for Alistair's shadow. "She's a Starwind, Kestrel. But she's... different. She tripped four times on the Iron Bridge, tore her own dress to shreds, and today she managed to get a Frost-Walker pup to fall asleep on her boots. Alistair is currently oscillating between wanting to lock her in a tower and wanting to burn down the South for stressing her out."
Kestrel's jaw dropped. "A Frost-Walker? For a belly rub?" She leaned back, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her face. "Oh, dinner is going to be magnificent. I haven't seen Alistair this flustered since he lost his first training sword."
"He's not flustered," Vane corrected, "he's 'intensely focused.' That's the official royal term."
"Call it what you want," Kestrel laughed, turning to head toward her room. "But if there are frost-grafted flowers on that table tonight, I'm never letting him live it down."