The morning after the avalanche, the sun didn't so much rise as it did stain the gray sky a pale, sickly yellow. Elissa woke to the sound of the wind rattling her windowpanes, her body feeling as though it had been fashioned out of lead and bruised silk. The massive stain on her side had deepened to a terrifying midnight blue, making even the act of sitting up a monumental struggle.
She was bracing herself for the cold stone of the training courtyard when a sharp knock sounded at her door.
It was a young page, dressed in the charcoal and silver of the Crown Prince's personal house. He held a small, wax-sealed scroll.
"From the Prince, My Lady," the boy said, bowing low.
Elissa broke the seal with trembling fingers. The handwriting was like the man himself—sharp, precise, and leaning slightly to the left, as if it were in a hurry to be elsewhere.
"The horses require tending and the equipment was damaged by the salt-ice at the Falls. Training is suspended for twenty-four hours while the armory is reset. Do not waste the reprieve. Rest is a requirement of the North, not a suggestion."
— A.D.
Elissa sank back into her pillows, a long, shaky breath of relief escaping her lungs. She looked over at the white pup, who was currently occupied with trying to untie the silk ribbons of her bed curtain.
"He thinks he's being practical," Elissa whispered to the pup, who stopped its chewing to tilt its head at her. "He probably thinks I'm a liability if I'm tired."
"Or," Martha's voice came from the doorway as she entered with a tray of hot porridge and honey, "he knows exactly how much it hurts to hit a stone wall at twenty miles an hour. He's not a fool, Princess. He's seen enough battlefield injuries to know when a soldier—or a Princess—is running on nothing but pride."
"He didn't come himself," Elissa noted, her fingers tracing the sharp ink of his initials.
"Of course not," Martha grumbled, setting the tray down. "If he came himself, he'd have to look you in the eye. And if he looked you in the eye, he might have to admit he's glad you're alive. Much easier to blame the equipment, isn't it?"
She wasn't alone for long. Mid-morning, the heavy oak doors to her solar swung open, and Kestrel marched in, carrying a basket of tangled wool and a look of pure boredom.
"If I have to listen to the Master of Arms complain about the 'structural integrity of the practice dummies' for one more minute, I am going to set something on fire," Kestrel announced, flopping onto the divan opposite Elissa. She looked at the white pup, who immediately lunged for her dangling wool. "Oh, hush, you little cloud. Don't eat the expensive stuff."
"The trick to Northern embroidery," Kestrel said, squinting as she pulled a silver thread through a thick piece of charcoal wool, "is accepting that everything you make will eventually be stained with either wine or blood. It adds character. Or so Alistair says whenever he ruins a perfectly good tunic."
Elissa adjusted the cushion behind her back, trying to find a position that didn't make her bruised ribs scream. The white pup was currently engaged in a life-or-death struggle with the hem of her gown, its tiny growls sounding like the purring of a very angry kitten.
"Does he ruin many tunics?" Elissa asked, a small smile tugging at her lips. "He seems so... meticulously put together. I can't imagine him having a stray hair, let alone a stain."
"Oh, don't let the marble facade fool you," Kestrel laughed, tossing her tangled wool onto the table. "When we were children, Alistair was the most reckless of us all. He once tried to ride a mountain buck because Vane dared him. He ended up face-down in a snowdrift with a ripped cloak and a very bruised ego. He didn't speak to Vane for a week. Not because of the fall, but because Vane had seen him lose his dignity."
Elissa looked at the fire, trying to reconcile that image with the stern, silent commander who had held her in the cave. "It's hard to imagine him being a child. He carries himself as if he were born with the weight of the crown already on his brow."
Kestrel's expression softened, the playful spark in her eyes dimming just a fraction. "He had to. When our mother passed, the King didn't just lose a wife; he lost his anchor. He turned into the mountain itself—cold, unmoving, and demanding. Alistair was only twelve, but he stepped into the gap. He became the shield for me, Vane, and Dante. Every time the King roared, Alistair was the one who stood in front of us. You don't stay a child long when you're busy being a fortress."
The heavy oak doors creaked open, and Vane wandered in, followed by a silent, broad-shouldered Dante. A servant behind Vane was carrying a tray of honeyed winter apples and Vane wore a mischievous grin.
"Is this where the revolution is starting?" Vane asked, sliding into a chair and stretching his long legs out toward the fire. "Because the Great Hall is currently a tomb. Alistair is in there looking at a map of the border as if he intends to fight the land itself. I decided I'd rather be here, where the company is prettier and the food is actually reachable."
Dante grunted in agreement, settling onto a stool by the window, looking outside garden. "He's in a mood. More than usual."
"He gave me the day off," Elissa said, watching as Vane expertly peeled an apple with a silver paring knife. "He said the equipment needed repair."
Vane let out a bark of laughter, nearly dropping his knife. "The equipment? Elissa, the equipment in the Bastion is maintained by a legion of smiths who would jump off a cliff if Alistair looked at them sideways. The equipment is fine. He gave you the day off because he saw you shivering in that cave and his tactical brain realized that if you break, his 'Starwind' is useless."
"Is that all I am to him?" Elissa asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it. "A tactical asset?"
The room went quiet for a heartbeat. Dante turned to look at Elissa. Vane's grin faltered, replaced by a look of rare, genuine contemplation.