"Damn him."
Lady Elara strode through the frostbitten halls of Frostholm, her emerald skirts sweeping behind her like the tide of a gathering storm.
A dozen handmaidens followed in her wake, their hurried steps whispering against the cold stone, their hushed voices little more than the wind at her back.
None dared to touch her, though few reached as if to do so - only to think better of it.
Her gown was a thing of rich beauty, deep green like the pines that crowned the northern cliffs, its fabric rich with fine embroidery.
Beneath it, black silk flowed around her legs, dark as the winter sea. And her hair - thick and curling, a shade caught between deep ginger and chestnut - spilled over her shoulders in wild disarray, loosed from the careful styling of the morning.
"My Lady-" one of the handmaidens ventured, voice soft as snowfall.
"He didn't even say goodbye," Elara cut int, her breath sharp with grief, her steps never slowing. If they spoke, she did not hear them. If they pleaded, she did not care.
There was only the bitter taste of abandonment on her tongue, only the hollow silence he had left behind.
Elara's heart ached in his absence, a slow and twisting pain that curled deep in her chest. Not only that - but the lie, the careful way he had kept it from her, stung worse that any wound steel could carve.
She swept ito the eating hall, her breath tight, her steps quick. Thae air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and fresh bread, the low murmur of voices, the scrape of knives on wooden plates.
None of it mattered. Not now.
Lady Elara strode across the room, her footsteps heavy upon the stone floor, as if the weight of the world pressed upon her every move.
Before her, her children sat close at a great wooden table. The air was thick with the chill of an unyielding winter, the light streaming through the narrow window pale and lifeless, as though the sun itself had abandoned the land in sorrow.
Only the fire, roaring fiercly in the hearth, dared to push back the gloom, its crackling warmth struggling against the unrelenting cold that seemed to seep into the bones of all who dwelt within these walls.
Elara had always felt the cold more keenly than most, her skin quick to prickle at the slightest draft, her fingers forever chilled even by the summer winds.
But now, her blood boiled.
She had not reached the table where her children sat before she turned, emerald skirts sweeping, to face her handmaidens. She shut her eyes, drawing a slow breath through her nose, willing the fury from her chest.
It did not leave her, but it quieted, stilled enough that she might speak without her voice breaking from rage. When she turned back, her face was calm, though her blood still boiled beneath it.
Her children were seated at the long oaken table, beneath the high-beamed ceiling where smoke leftover from the hearth curled lazily toward the rafters.
Before them lay a spread fit for their station: roasted venison haunch, seared crisp at the edges and draped in a thin sauce of honeyed wine: thick-crusted oat bread, split down the middle and slathered with soft, salted butter; boiled eggs, their yolks bright and golden; a basin of stewed apples spiced with cinnamon and cloves; and a wheel of sharp white cheese, already cut into wedges.
A jug of grape juice rested beside a pot of dark, steaming tea, its aroma rich with dried mint and heather.
A meal for lords and ladies. Yet she had no appetite.
Elara lowered herself into the chair at the head of the table, her movements measured, deliberate. A hush fell over the hall.
The clatter of knives on trenchers stilled, the murmur of morning talk died in throats. It was only then that they noticed her.
Amelia sat frozen, her fork poised in midair, a bite of meat forgotten.
Eleanoure's cup lingered at her lips, the cider within rippling from her hesitation.
Eliot and Jaycen, their cheeks stuffed with bread and honey, halted for the span of a breath - then they resumed chewing, unbothered.
Elara kept her face smooth, her back straight. She had to remind herself that this was not their fault.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked, her tone even, her gaze sweeping across them.
"Well enough," Eleanoure said at once.
Amelia shot her a sharp look, sharp as a knife's edge.
"What?" Eleanoure's brow creased. "Would you rather we all stare at our plates and hold our tongues?"
Elara exhaled, weary already. "Has anyone seen your father and brother?"
The moment stretched, the room settling once more into quiet, as forks stabbed into meat, hands tore at bread, and the morning returned to its rhythm.
A handmaiden approached, setting a plate before her with a bow of the head. The meal was light but elegant, different from the children's: a small portion of spiced fish, crisped on the edges, alongside a medallion of soft cheese drizzled with honey.
Beside it, a scattering of figs, sliced open to reveal their glistening red hearts. A woman's breakfast - refined, delicate, though still enough to stave off hunger until midday.
Elara picked up her knife and fork, poised to cut into her spiced fish, but paused. "Well?" Her voice was calm, almost careless. "Have you?"
Amelia did not look up. She tore a piece of bread, dipping it into honey. "They left before first light," she said. "To Highmere. By order of the King."
Elara went still. It was as if a blade had been found in her ribs, slipping between bone, twisting deep. She swallowed hard, but the ache did not pass.
Tears blurred her sight. For a heartbeat, she hated them - her own blood, her own children. Hated their stillness, their empty words, their unreadable faces.
But then she saw it. The sorrow in Amelia's eyes, the way Eleanoure would not meet her gaze, the stiffness in Eliot and Jaycen's shoulders. Grief sat heavy on them all.
She drew a breath, sharp and unsteady. This wound was not hers alone.
The chair scraped against stone as she rose, fists clenched at her skirts. She turned from the table without a word.
Two handmaidens hurried after her.
"Stay," she snapped, her voice like a lash. They shrank back, cowed.
Elara strode through the halls once more, her steps swift, unyielding. She pushed open the heavy doors and stepped into the courtyard.
Snow drifted from a grey sky, the air sharp and cold against her flushed skin. The braziers smoldered, their embers barely clinging to life.
A hush fell. The stablehands and blacksmiths ceased their work, watching her with wary eyes - some puzzled, some uneasy.
Elara did not slow. A man stood near the gate, holding a horse by the reins. She seized them by the hands, swinging into the saddle before he could protest.
"Open the gates," she commanded.
The guards hesitated.
"Now."
The great doors groaned as they parted. Elara set her heels to the horse's flanks, and it leapt forward, hooves kicking up the fresh snow. She rode hard, fast as the wind, leaving the cold fortress, and her children, behind.
The snow-covered hills of Frostholm blurred beneath her. The wind howled through the pines, lashing against her face, cold as a lover's betrayal. Tears streaked her cheeks, hot against the frostbitten air.
"They'll be alright," she whispered, though no one could hear it. Not the trees. Not the wind. Not the gods, if they even cared to listen.
The words were stolen, carried away by the gale.
She passed frozen ponds, their surfaces cracked like shattered glass, and pressed on beneath the shadow of mountains.
When the forest rose before her, thick and dark, she did not falter.
The trees closed around her lke grasping hands, but she urged her steed forward. Twigs snapped beneath pounding hooves, branches tore at her skirts.
The world blurred past her in streaks of white and brown, until suddenly, the trees fell away and the ground sloped steeply downward.
Elara pulled hard on the reins. The horse reared, hooves flailing over the void, and for a moment, she thought they would topple over the edge.
But the beast found its footing, snorting, trembling beneath her.
The cliff stretched before her, jagged and cruel. Beyond it, the sea raged. The waters churned, black as spilled ink beneath the iron sky, waves crashing against the rocks below.
Overhead, storm clouds gathered, thick and angry, blotting out the sun. She swung down from the saddle, boots sinking into the wet earth.
A field lay to her right, empty and windswept, but she ignored it. Elara stepped toward the cliff's edge.
The wind roared in her ears, tore at her skirts, sent her hair whipping wildy about her face.
Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her chest ached, her limbs felt weightless, and still, the tears would not fall.
Then, the sky broke.
Rain came in a sudden torrent, hammering against her, soaking her through in an instant. Elara swayed, staring down at the churning abyss below.
For a fleeting moment, she thought of stepping forward. Of letting the wind take her.
But then, her knees buckled. She fell to the ground, hands sinking into the mud, and screamed.
A raw broken sound, carried away by the storm.
She thought of her husband. Of her son.
They could be gone for years.
And they had not even said goodbye.