"The den was in the path of the main slide, Elissa," Alistair said, his voice low. He stopped a few feet away, his black cloak dusted with the silver frost of their failed search. "The North is a cruel mother. She does not leave scraps when she clears her table."
Elissa looked down at the pup. He was so small against the backdrop of the massive, broken falls—a tiny spark of life in a graveyard of ice. She looked up at Alistair, her eyes reflecting the dying light.
"He'll die out here alone," she said, her voice catching. She didn't declare her intent this time. Instead, she took a step toward him, her gaze searching his luminous blue eyes for a flicker of the man she had seen in the cave. "Alistair... please. May I bring him back? I won't let him be a burden. I'll feed him myself, I'll train him—I just can't leave him to the wilderness."
Alistair looked from her to the fluff of white fur in her arms. To anyone else, the creature was a liability—a predator that would grow to be dangerous and a mouth that required meat in a land where resources were guarded.
But he saw the way Elissa held the pup, as if it were a piece of her own soul she was trying to keep warm.
"You are asking to bring a Frost-Walker into the heart of the Bastion," Alistair noted, his face a mask of aristocratic neutrality. "My father would say it is like inviting a storm to sit by the hearth."
"Then let me be the hearth," Elissa whispered. "Please." She pleaded eyes lowered.
Alistair remained silent for a long beat, the wind whipping between them. Then, he gave a sharp, almost imperceptible nod.
"He is small enough to fit in a saddlebag for now," Alistair said, his voice a low vibration. "But if he bites Vane, I will not be the one to defend him."
"Thank you," Elissa breathed, a look of pure, radiant relief breaking across her face.
"Do not thank me yet, Princess," Alistair replied, turning toward the Shadow-Grey. "Dante! Find a way to secure the creature. We've spent enough time standing in the shadow of a collapse."
The return to the Bastion was a blur of biting wind and exhaustion. By the time the obsidian gates groaned open to receive them, Elissa was barely conscious, her body sustained only by the heat radiating from Alistair behind her.
Alistair dismounted, practically lifting Elissa from the saddle. "Dante," Alistair said, his voice a sharp, military snap. "See the Princess to her wing. Ensure the Martha has everything she requires. And get that beast out of the wind before it dies of spite."
With that, he turned and strode toward the his own chamber, his black cloak billowing behind him like a storm cloud. To any observer, he looked entirely indifferent, a commander moving on to his next duty.
"He's back to being a block of ice, then," Vane muttered, offering Elissa a hand to steady her. "Don't take it personally, Princess. The mountain has a way of making him even more... Alistair-ish."
Inside Elissa's chambers, the fire was roaring, and the scent of lavender steam filled the room. Martha, the head of the housekeeper, was already waiting with a stack of heated linens.
"Oh, my poor lamb," Martha, said her face concerned.
"The Prince is in a rare mood," Martha noted as she began peeling away Elissa's salt-crusted layers.
Elissa didn't speak; she simply stood there, swaying slightly as the layers of sodden wool and linen were removed.
"The water is hot," Martha said simply.
As the final layer of the silk shift fell away, Martha stopped. The sponge in her hand hovered mid-air. She didn't gasp, but the silence in the room suddenly felt very heavy.
"Elissa... stay still."
Martha grabbed a polished silver mirror, angling it so Elissa could see her own reflection. Spreading across the pale skin of her lower back and ribs was a massive, terrifying bruise—a deep, mottled sea of violent purple and angry crimson. It was the mark of where she had slammed against the cave wall, a wound that was only now beginning to throb with a sickening, rhythmic heat.
"It's just a bruise, Martha," Elissa whispered, though her voice wavered.
"It's a miracle you're standing," Martha countered, her voice low. "I'll fetch the salve. You should stay in bed tomorrow. I'll tell the Princes you've caught a chill from the snow."
"No," Elissa said, her hand catching Martha's arm. "You won't say a word. To anyone. Especially not to the Crown Prince."
"Child, you can't train with a side that looks like a crushed plum."
"I have to," Elissa insisted, her eyes hard. "Alistair finally started to treat me like a student instead of a hostage. If he sees this, the walls go back up. I won't be the 'fragile Southern girl' again. Please, Martha. Let this stay between us."
Martha looked at the bruise, then at the girl's determined face. She gave a slow, reluctant nod. "On your own head be it, then."