Chapter 9 - The Melting Frost
The celebrations in the capital lasted for seven days and seven nights.
Bonfires blazed in the grand courtyards, casting a warm, flickering orange glow over stone walls that had known only cold suspicion for a generation. Southern wine flowed freely alongside northern mead, and nobles who had once spat at the very mention of a northerner now shared stories around the great feast tables, swapping tales of old battles and lost winters.
On the evening of the seventh day, Rowan stood alone on the high stone balcony overlooking the royal gardens.
The heavy stone balustrade was cool to the touch, but the air carried the sweet, unmistakable scent of budding green leaves and damp earth. Spring had finally come to the southern valleys, softening the harsh edges of the winter that had gripped the kingdom for so long.
Heavy footfalls echoed behind him on the polished flagstones.
Marcus Hale stepped out onto the balcony, holding two silver goblets filled with spiced wine. He handed one to Rowan, leaning his forearms against the stone wall beside him.
"The southern lords are still arguing over grain tariffs," Marcus said with a tired, amused smile, taking a sip from his cup. "Some habits die harder than treason."
"Let them argue," Rowan replied, looking out over the twinkling lights of the city below. "As long as they do it with words across a table instead of swords in the court, I call that progress."
"And the northern chieftains?" Marcus asked. "They leave for the Reach at dawn tomorrow. Are you sure you don't want to ride back north with them?"
Rowan shook his head slowly. "My place is here now, Marcus. The bridge between the two worlds has to be guarded from both sides. If I leave the capital to the politicians alone, it won't take ten years for the old rot to return."
Marcus nodded thoughtfully. "You've grown into the role faster than any of us expected, Rowan. Even the old guard respects you now—especially after they saw you face down Helena without flinching."
"I didn't do it alone," Rowan said softly.
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Just inside the arched doorway of the bedchamber, half-shrouded in the deep shadows of the stone pillars, a pair of amber eyes glowed with a soft, comforting warmth.
The ice-lion lay stretched out across the warm flagstones, its massive chest rising and falling in a slow, peaceful rhythm. The fierce, biting frost that had once surrounded it like a protective storm had faded into a gentle, glittering mist that clung harmlessly to its white fur, melting slowly under the gentle warmth of the southern spring evening.
