The snow didn’t melt that year.

  Even in late spring, when the rivers should’ve broken their ice and the pine needles begun to thaw, the frost clung to the ground like memory.

  It never left.

  But neither did we.

  Seven months.

  In those months, the North had changed.

  We held more territory now — not officially, not by royal decree, but by blade and banner. Small hamlets swore loyalty. Outlying clans sent emissaries. Patrol lines reached into lands long forgotten by Empire and merchant map alike.

  The keep had doubled its fighting strength. Two new forges were built. Training drills ran through snow and blood.

  We fought off eight incursions.

  Six of them were minor.

  Two were not.

  We lost good people. Buried them with steel in hand and fire in the ground.

  And still, we endured.

  The barracks bell rang in the distance — once, twice, thrice.

  I turned from the balcony overlooking the keep.

  Behind me, the hall glowed with firelight. The floor was swept clean. The banners of the Northern Watch — white tree on gray — hung along the walls. Tables lined with roast meat, root stew, dried fruits. Jugs of wine, barrels of bitter ale.

  Tonight wasn’t about war.

  Tonight, we honored the ones who held the line.

  Merren sat to my left at the high table, hands folded, jaw set in stone. Across from him, Captain Jonas leaned forward slightly, eyes alert, always half-prepared for battle even when drunk. Ellia scribbled quietly in the corner, a goblet untouched beside her.

  They didn’t know why I called this feast.

  Not fully.

  But they’d guess soon enough.

  I stood. The room fell quiet.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “I’ve asked you all here,” I said, voice steady, “to mark the time.”

  “There is no ceremony. No grand speech. Just this: seven months ago, we didn’t know if we’d survive the winter. Now, we guard more land than the Empire claims to care about. And that’s because of you.”

  Eyes met mine. Soldiers, commanders, blacksmiths, scouts.

  Hard eyes. Weathered. Loyal.

  I reached into the chest behind me.

  One by one, I pulled them free.

  Treasure.

  Not gold bars or noble jewels — but things that mattered.

  Magic blades we’d salvaged from deep frost ruins.

  Enchanted armor plates, half-forged from scavenged aethersteel.

  Even a few mana-infused stones, glimmering faintly in their iron casings.

  “Rewards,” I said. “

  I called their names.

  Captain Jonas received the Aegis Wolf Cloak — heat-preserving, impact-dispersing, scavenged from the corpse of a northern warbeast.

  Sergeant Kanna — the youngest of the outer patrol — received the Horn of Pale Watch, a relic that could echo across miles in the snowfields.

  And when I placed the twin-bladed silver short swords into the hands of scout twins Elen and Roan, I saw something in their eyes I hadn’t seen in months.

  Pride.

  Later, Merren pulled me aside.

  “You’re buying loyalty,” he said plainly.

  “I’m honoring it.”

  He frowned. “You know how this looks. The outer commanders already grumble. Say you favor your inner ring. Your village-borns.”

  “I favor the ones who don’t die,” I said.

  “That line won’t work when the politics come north.”

  “They’re already here.”

  He looked away, jaw tight.

  “You’re about to send your only son south under the name of a ducal heir. And if Darian Voss fails to protect him—”

  “I’ll kill him,” I said calmly.

  Merren stared at me.

  I didn’t blink.

  And then he nodded.

  We understood each other.

  Ryel found me in the stables just before dawn.

  Lancelot stirred softly in his stall as I brushed down his winter coat. The horse had aged, but the fire in him hadn’t dimmed. He’d carried me to the edge of the world once.

  Now, he’d carry my son south.

  Ryel approached slowly, cloak wrapped tight, sword at his side.

  “You sure I’m ready?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He laughed. A dry, nervous sound.

  “I didn’t pack everything,” he admitted.

  “You won’t need everything.”

  He watched me for a while.

  Then: “I’m going to follow Darian.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m not doing it to be under him.”

  “I know that too.”

  He hesitated.

  “Will you write?”

  I smiled faintly. “Do you want me to?”

  “No,” he said. Then added, “Yes. Maybe.”

  I nodded.

  Then I opened the satchel and pulled out a small, cloth-wrapped bundle.

  “Open it.”

  He did.

  Inside: a pendant.

  Simple. Bronze. A rune engraved at the center — the symbol for "endure."

  “Not flashy,” I said. “Won’t block a spell. Won’t summon fire.”

  “But?”

  “But it’s the one I wore during my last campaign in the east. Before I came here. It kept me breathing.”

  He gripped it tightly.

  “I’ll make you proud,” he said.

  “You already have.”

  He looked up.

  Eyes bright. But steady.

  “Say it again.”

  “You already have,” I said. Slower.

  Truer.

  He rode out an hour later.

  Darian’s men flanked him.

  I stood there, arms folded, Durendal on my back.

  They disappeared into the gray horizon.

  Toward the south.

  Toward the Academy.

  Toward the future.

  Behind me, the keep stirred.

  More patrols.

  More snow.

  More whispers of movement in the woods that shouldn’t move.

  I turned back toward the gate.