Snowshade was a peculiar time in Obelia, a period when the sun lingered just a little longer, casting pale light over the frost-laden landscape. The ground remained hard, still gripped by the memory of winter, but by midday, the ice would begin to soften, dripping from the edges of rooftops and trees in slow, deliberate drops. Patches of earth, long hidden beneath snow, emerged in dark streaks as the frozen rivers and lakes cracked, their icy surfaces thinning under the sun's hesitant warmth.
During Snowshade, the sky was often a muted gray-blue, as if the land and heavens both awaited the true arrival of spring. Cold winds would sweep down from the mountains at dusk, freezing everything anew, as though reclaiming what the day had begun to release. Yet, despite the lingering chill, there was a certain anticipation in the air—the knowledge that winter's grip was weakening, if only for a few hours each day.
--
Seraphina stood at the edge of the frozen pier, snorting in the icy air as it pawed at the frost-covered ground. The wind whipped at her red hair, and her breath puffed out in misty clouds. Her gaze was locked on the vast port before her, where hundreds of dark silhouettes loomed against the horizon. As the ice began to crack and splinter across the harbor, she narrowed her eyes and counted again, certain that her eyes were deceiving her.
There were over 400 warships.
Her heart thudded in her chest, and she tightened her grip on the reins. "This can't be right," she muttered under her breath. The ships bobbed in the water, their sails furled and gleaming in the weak winter sunlight. Crews moved about the decks like ants, busy with preparations as the last sheets of ice broke apart, freeing the great vessels.
"What… what kind of power is this?" she whispered, her mind racing. These weren't just merchant vessels or fishing boats—these were warships, each one bristling with weapons, built for battle. The sheer number of them was staggering, far beyond what she could have ever imagined.
If the other nations heard of this, there would be chaos. The balance of power would shift in an instant. No one could stand against such a fleet, not even the mighty empires of the south. The forces seemed like child's play compared to what lay before her now.
The sound of cracking ice brought her back to the present. The water beneath the warships was now alive, rippling with movement as the ice sheets broke apart and floated away, allowing the ships to drift out into open water. It was a sign—the ice was melting, and soon these ships would sail.
"What are they preparing for?" she asked herself, as a sense of dread settled in her stomach. War? Conquest? No nation needed such a force unless they were planning something monumental.
And the ice was breaking.
--
Martin sat at a large wooden table, pouring over reports. Across from him, Jhene watched him closely, her sharp eyes catching every detail. She leaned forward, her voice quiet but direct.
"Caelan Greyheart? You sent him to Snowveil?" she asked, her brow furrowed. "That man's ambition is as sharp as a blade. Snowveil's lands are wealthy, especially after you wiped out its forces. Putting him there is dangerous. He could seize power, turn on you."
Martin didn't look up from the parchment, his face calm. "I sent him precisely because of his ambition, Jhene."
Jhene blinked, confused. "You want him to challenge you?"
Martin finally set the papers aside, his gaze locking with hers. "Caelan is ambitious, yes, but he is also competent. When he steps out of line, I'll make an example of him. The other lords will see what happens to those who overreach."
Jhene sat back, thinking. "You're using him to send a message." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Still, Snowveil is a wealthy region. You've seized the weapons from the army. It would be easy for him to rally the wrong kind of support if he's clever."
Martin smiled faintly. "He won't. The weapons we took are now part of Rotengen's armory, and they will serve only those loyal to the crown. As for the wealth of Snowveil—it's there to tempt him, yes. But I'm not worried. If Caelan thinks wealth alone will challenge my reign, then...."
For a moment, the room fell silent, the weight of Martin's words hanging in the air. Jhene studied him carefully, realizing how far the once boy prince had come. He was shaping the kingdom to his will.
----
Caelan Greyheart pproached the once-grand manor, now abandoned after the massacre of the Snowveil family. Snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the threshold into the vast, cold halls. His breath fogged in the frigid air as he took in the remnants of the fallen house, now his to oversee—at least, temporarily.
As he moved through the manor, Caelan felt a strange weight settle over him. The land itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting. He stood before the grand windows overlooking the snow-covered fields.
Caelan's thoughts were conflicted. Drakos believed Martin was more than just a brute with mysterious powers, but here, in the silence of Snowveil, it was hard to think otherwise. The land felt haunted by that overwhelming force.
He straightened, the chill in his bones deepening. Whatever future he saw, one thing was certain—Snowveil's temporary lord would need more than just foresight to hold oversee his tenure. And Martin... well, the boy-king might not be as invincible as Drakos believed.
For now, Caelan had work to do. The land would need order, and he would be the one to bring it—even if he wasn't sure how long it would last.