A presence joined him at the parapet: a soft footfall, the brush of fur. Ilya, wrapped in a mantle of wolfskin, leaned quietly at his side, gazing down at the sea of banners and flame.
She said nothing at first, only rested her head against his arm. Her nearness steadied him, anchoring him to the moment as surely as memory rooted him in the past.
"Does it ever feel real?" she murmured, her eyes tracing the horizon.
Elias shook his head, a quiet smile flitting across his lips. "Some days, I expect the woods to have swallowed it all. But then I see you here. I see the city, the fires. And I remember—this is ours because we chose it. Because we built it."
Her hand slipped into his, fingers twining gently.
"Your mother would be proud," Ilya whispered. "And your father, too."
He swallowed, the ache of absence mixing with a fragile peace. The wound would never truly heal, but here—at the edge of what his family had begun, with the woman he'd chosen—he allowed himself to believe that something enduring had grown from all the hardship.
That beauty could bloom even in stone.
A footstep behind them; Simon approached, his coat dusted with soot and travel. He bowed, his expression grave.
"Archduke. Forty percent of our forces have arrived. But—our riders to the eastern marches have been intercepted. Your cousin and his men remain unaware of our intentions."
Elias's jaw tensed. "So—twenty thousand, then. Still more than Valenpor. Even if he has allies, I trust the strength of our soldiers over theirs, any day."
Beside him, Ilya's hand tightened around his. The reality of it struck her: she was about to make war upon the house that raised her. The stepfather who had ruled her life. The girl she once was would have wept to see this day arrive.
"I will go," she said suddenly. Both men turned to her, Elias's frown deepening.
"What do you mean?"
She steadied herself, looking into his eyes. "I'll ride east, to your cousin in Belfyr. I may not be trained for the battlefield, but I can do this. Let me take Sir Caeden and a few men—we can be back within six days. Maybe sooner."
Elias shook his head, eyes shadowed with worry. "No. You must remain here. Watch over the Keep for me, Ilya. I cannot fight a war with my heart divided, wondering if you're safe."
She searched his face, her resolve meeting his protectiveness. But she nodded at last, understanding the depth of his fear—and of his love. He bent, pressing a kiss to her brow.
"Fear not," he said softly. "I will return soon."
Elias turned, drawing his sword from the rack and strapping it to his hip. Ilya watched him descend the stairs, his silhouette fierce and solitary against the flickering lamplight. She moved to the battlements, standing where he had just stood, heart pounding. Below, her husband mounted his horse, looking up at her one final time, their eyes meeting across the distance—a silent promise passing between them.
Then the horns sounded. The gates groaned open, and the army poured forth like a living river of steel and hope and fear. Ilya watched until the last of the soldiers vanished over the hills, the thunder of hooves swallowed by the wild hush of twilight.
She pressed her hand to the cold stone, her breath catching in her throat. Only then did she let her mask fall, her fingers trembling with grief and resolve.
"Forgive me, my love," she whispered to the empty sky, to the ghost of his warmth beside her. "I do what I must."
With purpose, she turned. The halls felt cavernous now, haunted by memory and possibility. In her chambers, she seized quill and parchment, words spilling quick and sure. Her message was brief, but her conviction burned through every stroke.
She sealed the letter, hands steadying as she slipped into the shadowed corridor. Her fate was set.
To the east.
**********************************
Ilya rode hard—harder than she ever had in her life. The wind whipped at her cheeks, stinging her skin and tangling her dark hair beneath her hood. The rhythmic thunder of hooves beat beneath her, steady and relentless, a physical echo of the pulse in her veins. She had left Velwynd at dawn with three loyal guards—men she had trained alongside in the last fleeting days of peace. Men she trusted with her life, and who, she suspected, had come to trust her in return.
The land around them was wild, the road a winding scar carved between black firs and moss-laden boulders. Mist clung low to the earth, swirling in silver ribbons as they pressed eastward, urgency driving them faster with every passing mile.
They rode for nearly an hour before the mountains rose higher and the road narrowed—a steep, craggy pass cut through the heart of Garam. There, at a lonely bend, Ilya spotted a lone horse tied to a weathered post. Beside it, on a rough-hewn bench, sat Sir Rylan Caeden. He rose as they approached, the early light catching on his newly trimmed beard and the confident glint in his eyes.
"I was going to give you a day," he called out, smirking as he swung his pack over one shoulder. "But when Elias mentioned your eagerness to ride east to Lord Leopold Wylt, I knew you wouldn't take his command lying down. I made sure His Lordship understood it would be best if I watched your back. He agreed."
Rylan's stance was easy, but there was a quiet strength beneath it—the kind of strength that made Ilya hesitate. She pulled her horse to a stop, studying him warily, heart pounding. Was he here to drag her back to Velwynd? To imprison her on Elias's orders? She searched his face, searching for any sign of betrayal, but saw only calm resolve and the faintest flicker of respect.
"Well?" Rylan said, gesturing to the narrow path ahead. His lips quirked into a wry smile. "Lead the way, Duchess. I told Lord Wylt I'd guard you. I never said where you had to be while I did it. Let's get moving—before it's too late for any of us to help His Lordship at all."
Relief and pride welled in Ilya's chest, so fierce she had to blink away sudden tears. For a moment, she couldn't speak. She managed a nod, her voice soft but sure. "Thank you, Sir Caeden."
Without another word, she tightened her grip on the reins and nudged her horse forward, heart swelling with determination. The others fell in behind, their silent loyalty an anchor against the uncertainty ahead.
Upward they rode, into the pass—a place of unsettled shadows and ancient stone, where the world felt as old and as perilous as prophecy. Ilya did not look back.
***************************
The fire had burned down to orange embers, painting restless shadows on the stone. Ilya had slept in fits and starts, haunted by the cold and the unfamiliar noises of the wild: the occasional snap of a branch, the sigh of the wind slipping through the firs. Each time she closed her eyes, dreams tangled with memories—her father's voice, Elias's steady hand, her own uncertain future. The land seemed to breathe around her, ancient and watchful.
It was the snort of a horse that brought her half-awake, followed by a hush so deep it made her heart thud in warning. She blinked blearily, clutching her cloak tighter as she peered at the shapes around the dying fire. The soldiers were awake, too—Rylan among them, already up on one knee, hand on his sword.
A faint sound scraped the edge of hearing—a whisper, a giggle, a strange clicking that made Ilya's skin crawl. She reached for the dagger at her belt, heart hammering.
Then something darted into the light—a squat, green-skinned figure, no taller than a child but twice as quick, teeth bared in a rictus grin. Its eyes were small and shining, its limbs spindly, grasping a jagged scrap of iron.
"Goblins!" hissed one of the soldiers, barely above a breath.
The camp exploded into chaos. The goblins poured from the darkness, ten of them at least, shrieking and brandishing crude weapons—broken blades, knotted clubs, bits of sharpened bone. They were filthy, feral, their movements wild and erratic, but what they lacked in skill they made up for in vicious speed.
Rylan met the first with a clean sweep of his sword, splitting the creature almost in two. Another leapt at Ilya, jaws snapping. She dodged by instinct, slashing out with her dagger. The blade caught the goblin in the shoulder; it tumbled backward with a wet, angry hiss.
The men closed ranks quickly—disciplined, backs to each other, fending off the creatures with practiced efficiency. The goblins threw themselves at the ring, heedless of their own safety, shrieking and clawing. Their numbers made them dangerous, but they had no sense of tactics, no coordination—only hunger and rage.
Ilya's fear sharpened into focus. She ducked as a goblin hurled a rock at her, the stone glancing off the boulder behind. Another lunged at her legs, and she kicked it away, driving her dagger into its throat as it shrieked and writhed. Blood—dark and stinking—spattered her boots. She swallowed a cry and pressed in closer to the fire.
Rylan's voice cut through the din. "Stay together! Don't let them circle behind!"
The soldiers moved as one. Steel flashed in the half-light, cutting down one goblin after another. Their shrieks grew desperate, bodies piling up at the camp's edge. Ilya found herself back-to-back with Rylan, panting, adrenaline burning through her. She was bleeding from a cut along her shoulder- another sharpened stone hurled to kill.
A goblin managed to scramble atop the nearest rock and launched itself at her head, clawed hands outstretched. Ilya raised her dagger just in time, driving it upward. The creature shrieked and fell, landing hard on the stones at her feet.
It was over almost as quickly as it had begun. The few goblins who survived the onslaught turned and fled into the darkness, gibbering with terror. The campsite stank of blood and smoke, the bodies twitching and then falling still.
Ilya knelt, breathing hard, her hands sticky with gore. Rylan crouched beside her, checking her arms for wounds, finding the small one and beginning to clean it quickly
"You're not hurt anywhere else?"
She shook her head, voice shaking. "Just shaken. I never—"
He smiled grimly, wiping his sword clean on the grass. "Welcome to the North, Duchess. That was nothing compared to what hunts these woods by daylight."
The soldiers moved quickly, rolling the bodies away and restocking the fire to keep any more creatures at bay. Ilya stared into the flames, her heart still racing as Rylan set a balm into her wound, the duchess wincing a little at the pain.
She had faced worse things in southern courts—lies, betrayal, the slow poison of indifference. But this was a different kind of fear: raw, immediate, answered only by courage and steel.
As dawn began to pale the sky, Ilya realized she was beginning to feel less a stranger here. She had survived her first northern night, blood on her blade, surrounded by men who had come to trust her. She'd fought for this land, even if just once, with her blood now part of the dirt.
She may not be a child of the wild places like Alura….but she could learn to fight like one.