If fire was wild, then frost was worse.
Because frost waited.
It crept beneath the skin. Killed without sound. Not a roar, but a silence so absolute it hollowed out the soul.
Lucien Valmer had lived in that silence since the day his family burned.
He remembered it in flashes.
His brother's scream.
His mother's body.
The smell of scorched silk.
And the frost that saved only him.
They said the gods had spared him. That the frost chose him.
He didn't feel chosen.
He felt cursed.
Lucien stood at the edge of the northern watchtower, gazing over the cliffs as dragons spiraled below in dusk formation drills. The wind was sharp here, cutting. Most riders avoided it. He preferred it.
Cold reminded him who he was.
"Watching again?" a voice said behind him.
Lucien didn't turn. He didn't need to. Only one person had the audacity to interrupt him so casually.
Thalia Ravenshade.
She leaned against the stone ledge, a strand of silver-blond hair pulled loose from her braid.
"She beat me," Thalia said simply. "In training."
Lucien arched a brow.
"She's raw, but… it's like her instincts speak flame."
Lucien didn't respond.
Thalia smirked. "She gets under your skin, doesn't she?"
"Only a fool underestimates fire," he said.
"And you're no fool," she murmured.
She stepped closer, voice softening. "You know the Council's already talking. The prophecy. The pairing. What if it's real?"
Lucien's gaze hardened. "Then we're all damned."
Thalia studied him for a moment.
"She'll be tested," she said. "Velora won't let her walk freely, no matter how special she seems. And if she breaks—"
"I'll handle it," Lucien cut in.
Thalia nodded once and left without another word.
Later that night, Lucien entered the Obsidian Chamber—the inner sanctum beneath the Flamekeeper's Hall. Its walls glowed with ancient glyphs, the air thick with residual magic.
Velora was already waiting, surrounded by a half-circle of flame-callers, their faces hidden behind golden veils.
"She's bonded to the garnet hatchling," Lucien said.
Velora smiled. "Vesper. Fitting."
"She's powerful. And untrained. You know what that means."
"Yes. It means we must shape her before she shapes herself."
Lucien stepped forward. "And if she can't be shaped?"
Velora's smile didn't falter. "Then you'll do what's necessary."
He didn't ask what that meant.
He already knew.
He found Lyra alone in the eastern courtyard the next morning.
She was practicing without instruction—spinning fire sigils midair, sweat gleaming on her brow, lips moving as she mouthed old glyphs.
Each time she failed, she growled and tried again.
Lucien watched for a moment.
"Your footwork is wrong," he said finally.
She jumped, turning sharply. "Are you spying now?"
"I'm observing." He stepped closer. "Your stance—too forward. You'll lose balance in combat."
She narrowed her eyes. "And I'm supposed to trust your advice?"
"No," he said simply. "But you should trust results."
He extended a hand. "Again."
She hesitated.
Then—grudgingly—took it.
They trained for an hour.
Lucien corrected her form without compliment. Gave feedback without emotion. Her power was volatile—but it had rhythm. And her mind, despite her rough edges, was sharp.
At one point, she fell during a glyph sequence. He offered his hand. She slapped it away.
"I'm not your pity project," she snapped.
"I'm not offering pity," he replied coolly. "I'm offering survival."
She glared at him. "Why help me at all?"
He looked her dead in the eye.
"Because whether you like it or not, our fates are already intertwined."
That night, he stood alone in the Frostgarden—his private sanctum beneath the north wing. Only he could enter it. Only he could survive its chill.
He let the cold in.
Let it reach the marrow of his bones.
And yet… this time, it didn't quiet the storm inside him.
Because somewhere, in a distant wing of the Academy, a girl with fire in her blood was practicing until her hands bled.
And for the first time in a long time, Lucien Valmer didn't feel alone.