The wind atop Velwynd's battlements was alive, laced with the scent of pine needles, damp earth, and distant river water. It carried the tang of oiled steel and the smoky breath of a thousand campfires scattered across the slopes below. The ancient keep itself—gray, immovable, dappled with light and shadow—stood watch over it all, its stones warmed to a soft glow by the late afternoon sun.
Elias Wylt stood alone at the highest parapet, hands braced against cold granite, his cloak billowing in the wind like the shadow of some great bird. From here, his entire domain sprawled before him—a living, shifting tapestry of banners, canvas, and the glint of armor in the dying light. The armies of Theralorne had answered his summons with a zeal that humbled and unsettled him both.
Where the courtyards once lay empty and still, they now teemed with life: the clangor of smiths at their forges, the barking of captains drilling raw recruits, the darting shapes of stable boys weaving through rows of stamping, impatient horses. Beyond the walls, the meadows had been devoured by tents and wagons, every foot of earth claimed by men loyal to the phoenix crest—a silver bird rising defiantly from ashes, stitched onto tunics, snapping from lance tips in the ever-hungry wind.
Within Velwynd's streets, the city itself pulsed with new urgency. Inns overflowed, voices spilling into the lanes. Bakeries and butcher stalls worked through the night. Soldiers—his soldiers—strode the cobbles with easy confidence, heads lifting, eyes lighting as Elias passed. They saluted him, and bowed deeper when Ilya was at his side. She had become both rumor and reassurance among them. Sometimes she brought bread and wine to the youngest men at dusk; other times only her quiet, gentle encouragement. Wherever she went, laughter grew warmer, burdens lightened—even his own.
Elias lingered, letting it all sink into him: the rough laughter of men at their supper, the steel-sharp ring of practice blades, the distant call of a hunting horn echoing off stone. It was as if he stood both inside the present and hovering somewhere just above it, one foot caught in a waking dream. His thoughts slid back—almost involuntarily—to that stolen moment in the garden: Ilya's lips on his, her questions about his father, the echo of old pain mixed with unexpected peace.
He closed his eyes, the memory cresting over him. The steady grip of his father's hand on his shoulder; the rough, reassuring voice; the crisp bite of air thick with the scent of pine and burning wood. He let himself drift—years dissolving like morning mist—until the burdens of command fell away, and he was a child once more at his father's side.
He hadn't been born to marble halls or silken intrigue. His father, Sir Cailen Wylt, was a knight—hard-handed, plainspoken, respected not for blood but for the scars on his arms and the weight of his sword. The Wylt name was spoken on muddy roads and in smoky taverns, a family that endured where others broke.
The North itself was legend—a wild, lawless sprawl where ancient ruins jutted from hills and monsters still prowled the forests. Bandits ruled the highways, villages flickered and vanished like candle flames. Sir Cailen never shrank from it; he rode out to meet danger, dragging Elias with him as soon as he could sit a horse.
Elias's earliest memories were of those rides: the chill of morning seeping through a worn cloak, the jingle of chainmail, the coarse jokes and sharp laughter of men who had seen too much. There was no soft schooling—only lessons forged in sweat, smoke, and steel.
"Remember this," his father would say, tossing him a battered wooden blade before dawn. "Blood and lineage mean nothing. Grit makes a leader. If you want a home here, you fight for every inch."
His mother, Mira, was no noble lady. She was a healer, the daughter of a border merchant, her hands forever stained with herbs and blood, her eyes clear and sharp as a winter sky. She taught Elias to bind wounds as well as inflict them, to offer words of comfort as much as commands. Her laughter warmed the timbered halls of their first home, her stories weaving through dark winters and howling storms. She believed—fiercely—that the wild land could be made gentle, if only someone loved it enough.
Where Velwynd Keep now towered, there had once been only a battered village of castoffs and wanderers—a cold northern people who had nowhere to go and so made a place for themselves. He remembered sitting on his father's shoulders, teeth chattering in the cold, staring out over a sea of lantern lights.
"Someday our name will be strong enough to rule here, Elias," his father would say, voice rumbling beneath him. "Your grandmother was born in this town, and your mother after her. Our roots are here, and we will claim it again."
He remembered the scratch of his father's beard, the prickle of rough wool, the stinging air. The stars above Velwynd seemed impossibly bright then, full of silent promises.
But those nights were never truly safe. Even as a boy, Elias felt the threat pressing at the edge of firelight: wolves in the dark, desperate men hungrier still. Yet his father stood unbowed, and the people grew bold in his shadow. Soon, they looked to the Wylts for hope as much as for their swords.
His mother was the gentle heart at the center of it all. In a world where old wounds festered and grief grew wild, Mira Wylt stitched flesh and spirits alike. She taught Elias to listen, to mend, to see the frightened soul beneath the hardened mask. In the worst winters, she filled their home with warmth—stories swirling through smoke and laughter, the scent of herbs mingling with tallow and bread.
Her hands had steadied the dying and the newborn alike.
Her death was the first true wound Elias ever suffered.
His father did not break, but he grew quieter, more distant. Work became ritual: training at dawn, riding the borders at dusk, never flinching. He had little patience for softness, but he never struck Elias in anger. If the boy failed, he was made to try again, fiercer each time.
For years, it was necessity—not ambition—that drove them. The roads needed clearing, monsters hunting, the weak defending. Every victory was carved from hardship: a bridge rebuilt, a thief's den destroyed, a starving family given bread. Each year, the village grew—a little larger, a little safer.
By the time Elias was sixteen, the wooden hall had been replaced by stone. Men came from the wild north to see the new keep, to trade, to join the cause. When Sir Cailen fell—struck down by wicked men paid in gold—Elias buried his father with his own hands beneath the yew tree, blisters splitting his skin. He stood alone in the snow, the townsfolk drifting away, a boy with only the dark for company.
It was Ilya's question, days ago in the garden, that summoned this ache: "What was he like?"
Stern. Immovable. But never cruel.
Elias had fought for the North not for glory, but for a promise made kneeling in the snow beside his father's grave: he would not let the wild reclaim them. He would make the North a home for outcasts and orphans, for all those with nowhere else to belong.
He knew that if he freed the land, it still would not truly be his. To claim it with authority, he had to seize power from the King. He left, joined the Kingsguard, fought until his hands bled and his spirit burned. Inch by inch, he carved Theralorne from the grip of the South. He slew a dragon to claim it. The southern lords came, haughty and wary, expecting chaos, and found instead a new banner—a phoenix rising from ash.
They called him Archduke at last. Not just a title, but a recognition that something new had been forged. It was never about crowns or glory. It was about preserving his mother's warmth, his father's strength—about buying peace with sweat and blood and hope.
Now, as the wind tugged at his hair and the campfires flickered below, Elias let himself feel, if only for a heartbeat, something dangerously close to pride.
He was the child of knights and healers, of exiles and survivors. The North was his, not by right of blood, but by endurance.
And he would defend it, always.