The voyage from the Isle of Serpents back to the imperial capital of Sol-Vaelen had been a triumphant procession across calm, sapphire seas. Sixty war-galleys, their holds laden with captured southern silver and arcane relics from the Sunken Spire, had anchored beneath the colossal white marble cliffs of the capital’s lower bay.
Now, high atop the Lion Gate’s ramparts, the autumn winds had turned bitter, carrying the razor-sharp bite of early winter down from the jagged peaks of the northern Dragon’s Teeth mountains.
Aurelia stood clad in a long mantle of charcoal wool lined with silver fox, her hands resting upon the cold granite crenellations. Below, the sprawling outer courtyards of Sol-Vaelen resembled a vast forest of iron and steel. Ten thousand heavy infantry of the Imperial Cohorts, five thousand Val-Roc spearmen, and two thousand armored blood-riders moved in disciplined unison, their black-and-silver dragon banners snapping against a pale, leaden sky.
Beside her, Malakor surveyed the host with the cold, measured eye of an apex predator preparing for the hunt.
He was clad in newly forged war-plate of blackened star-iron, the pauldrons shaped into roaring abyssal dragons whose eyes burned with smoldering rubies. His great sword, freshly etched with runes harmonized to the three captured shards, rested in a heavy leather scabbard across his broad back.
"The northern passes are already choked with snow," General Kaelen reported, mounting the rampart steps and offering a crisp salute. "The scouts report that Duke Vane—the late High Inquisitor’s brother—has rallied the remnants of the Solar Concord in Frost-Spire. He has crowned himself the Pale King of the North."
"A king of corpses," Malakor rumbled, his deep voice carrying over the whistling wind like rolling thunder. "He cowers behind three leagues of permafrost and glacier walls, hoping the winter will do what his brother’s legions could not."
"He holds the Fifth Shard, Malakor," Aurelia said, turning her azure-and-starlit gaze to him. Her eyes flashed with ethereal silver fire that made Kaelen instinctively lower his eyes. "The Crown of the Void. It feeds on the cold, drawing strength from the northern ley lines. In his hands, Frost-Spire is not merely a mountain fortress—it is a living blizzard that freezes the blood of any army that approaches its gates."
Malakor turned to face her, stepping close enough that the radiating abyssal warmth of his armor chased away the mountain chill. He reached out, his heavy gauntleted hand gently framing her cheek, his thumb brushing over the soft skin of her jaw with an intimacy that held no regard for the watching guards.
"He does not understand what true cold is, Aurelia," Malakor murmured, his crimson-flecked eyes smoldering with fierce, possessive pride. "He has an artifact. You are the winter itself. When we breach his valley, his blizzards will bend their knee to you."
A slow, lethal smile curved Aurelia’s lips. She placed her hand over his forearm, feeling the unyielding muscle beneath the steel.
"And his walls will burn under your fire," she whispered.
"Kaelen," Malakor commanded, not taking his eyes from Aurelia. "Sound the assembly. The Vanguard marches at dawn. We take the Great Northern Road through the Iron Pass. Let Duke Vane know that the High Throne has come to claim its final crown."
"It shall be done, my lord," Kaelen answered, turning to signal the horn-blowers.
Three long, booming blasts echoed across the marble towers of Sol-Vaelen, answered by the unified roar of seventeen thousand soldiers below.
Malakor leaned down, his mouth catching Aurelia’s in a hard, bruising kiss that tasted of wind, iron, and imminent slaughter. He pulled her flush against his armored frame, claiming her lips with an intensity that sent heat coursing through her veins, driving away the mountain cold before he slowly released her.
"To the north, my queen," he growled softly, his hand lingering on her hip.
"To Frost-Spire," Aurelia replied, her eyes burning with starlight. "And the completion of the core."