Chapter 12: The Storm and the Name

Everything was white.

Not peaceful white. Not the soft stillness of snow gently falling.

This was a storm—howling, biting, endless.

Aurette stood alone in it, the wind like knives against her skin, her breath freezing mid-air. Her clothes whipped around her, soaked in cold, but she didn’t shiver.

She couldn’t shiver.

She wasn’t sure if she was standing, floating, or simply being. All around her was blinding snow and a sky swallowed by grey. No trees. No ground. No horizon.

Just... white.

But deep within her, something pulsed. A distant, rhythmic thrum. Like a heartbeat—but older. Colder. Calling her.

She turned.

There—through the veil of snow—stood a figure.

A woman, unmoving, unbothered by the storm. Her presence alone parted the chaos around her like the calm eye of a tempest. Her long silver hair flowed without wind. Her eyes… ice blue, but not cold. They were endless.

Aurette tried to speak, but her voice vanished into the gale.

The woman stepped forward.

“I’ve waited a long time for you,” she said. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it echoed all around, like it belonged to the storm itself.

Aurette’s eyes widened. Her limbs felt heavy, but something within stirred. The storm didn’t touch this woman—no, it obeyed her.

“Who... are you?” Aurette whispered, barely hearing herself.

The woman smiled faintly. “You carry the blood of Caelrhime. You carry my gift. And now, you are ready to awaken it.”

The wind suddenly calmed. The snow softened, falling like delicate feathers.

“You may call me Eluria,” she said, placing a hand over her chest. “I am the Keeper of Winter’s Veil… the one your ancestors swore their bond to.”

Eluria stepped closer. The closer she came, the warmer the cold felt. Not painful—powerful.

“You are not just Aurette. You are heir to the frozen pact, the child of frost and steel.”

Aurette stared, breathless. “I… I don’t understand.”

“You will. In time.” Eluria touched her forehead gently. “But now, wake.”

Everything shimmered—then shattered into light.

Everything was white.

Not peaceful white. Not gentle snowflakes or the soft hush of winter.

This was a storm—howling, endless, alive.

Aurette stood at the center of it, though she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there. The cold didn’t pierce her skin—it sank deeper, into her bones, into her thoughts. Her heartbeat echoed in the silence between the winds, slow and distant.

There was no ground beneath her. No sky above. Only storm.

Then—movement.

A silhouette appeared within the whirling frost. Distant, dark against the pale. A woman, cloaked in flowing robes of shadowed frost, her form flickering with the storm around her. The snow twisted around her, like it moved because of her.

She stood still, yet the storm tightened with every second. The closer she came, the heavier the air grew. The wind screamed louder. Aurette’s breath came shorter.

The silhouette tilted its head slightly, watching her through the gale.

A voice, calm and ancient, broke through the wind—carried on it like a whisper of destiny.

“Aurette Rhimehart of Caelrhime... so you are the chosen one.”

Aurette’s heart stumbled in her chest. The snow stung her cheeks. Her eyes narrowed.

“Who… are you?” she managed to ask, her voice nearly stolen by the cold.

The figure didn’t step closer. Instead, the wind parted just enough for a glimpse of long hair that shimmered like fresh snow under moonlight. Then her voice, distant but clear, answered:

“Eluria.”

Eluria stepped closer. The closer she came, the stronger the storm and the warmer the cold felt. Not painful—powerful.

“You are heir to the Frozen Pact—the one born to wield the Veilglace.”

Aurette stared, breathless. “I… I don’t understand.”

“You will. In time.” Eluria touched her forehead gently. “But now, wake.”

Everything shimmered—then shattered into light.

A ceiling. Wooden beams. A soft canopy above her. The scent of lavender and medicine in the air.

She was in a bed. Warm, soft sheets tucked around her. A thick blanket rested over her legs. The contrast to the cold she’d just felt made her blink, confused.

The light in the room was soft—morning, maybe? Afternoon?

A figure leaned over her, adjusting a pillow beneath her head.

“Easy now,” a voice said gently. “You’re safe.”

Aurette turned her head. The woman had kind, clever eyes and wore robes of pale blue and white—a healer’s attire. Her dark hair was tied back neatly, her sleeves rolled to her elbows.

“You’ve been out for two days,” the woman said, smiling gently. “We weren’t sure when you’d wake. But I’m glad you did.”

Aurette parted her lips to speak, but the healer raised a hand.

“Save your strength. I’m Lysena—court healer of Aeldenmarch.” She stood and moved to a nearby counter, pouring hot water into a ceramic cup. Her movements were graceful and practiced.

“I thought you might need something light,” Lysena continued, steeping herbs into the water with a delicate twist of her fingers. “Just chamomile and a little snowleaf—it’ll help ease your body’s tension.”

She walked back and set the tea on the table beside the bed.

“There,” she said softly. “Sip slowly when you’re ready. No rush.”

Aurette looked at her, still trying to shake off the fading sensation of snow and wind from the dream—or vision.

Lysena didn’t seem to notice her distant gaze. She was already wiping her hands with a cloth, then straightening her robes.

“I’ll inform His Majesty that you’ve awakened. He’ll want to see you.” She gave a reassuring smile. “Rest here, and enjoy your tea. I’ll return shortly.”

With that, Lysena turned and walked gracefully out of the room, the door closing with a soft click behind her.

Aurette sat back, eyes drifting to the steam rising from the teacup.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the blanket.

Eluria.

The name echoed in her chest, colder than the drink beside her.

The door opened once more, and Lysena stepped inside with a warm smile, followed by a tall man clad in regal white and gold robes, embroidered with a phoenix motif at the shoulder. His posture spoke of nobility, but not arrogance—calm, deliberate steps, hands clasped behind his back, his golden-blonde hair brushed neatly behind his ears.

Aurette instinctively tried to rise.

Her legs trembled slightly, but she pushed through it, one hand gripping the edge of the bed, the other holding the blanket aside as she stood, head gently bowed.

“I greet you with respect, Your Majesty,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “though I admit I do not yet know your name.”

Caelan raised a hand, almost startled by the gesture. “Please—no need to stand in your condition.”

But Aurette remained upright, composed despite the lingering fatigue. She meant her respect.

Caelan’s lips curved slightly at the sight. In that moment, a memory stirred—Raye, who just that morning had refused to remain seated when greeting him, despite his injuries. He had done the same. Stubborn pride and unwavering respect.

Two peas of the same pot, he thought with faint amusement.

“I am Caelan V. Eirwyn, King of Aeldenmarch,” he said formally, dipping his head slightly in return. “And you are Aurette Rhimehart of Caelrhime, if I am not mistaken.”

Aurette gave a small nod. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Please, sit,” Caelan repeated, this time with a warm chuckle. “You’ve stood enough for today.”

Aurette allowed herself to lower back onto the bed, her hands resting gently in her lap. Lysena handed her the tea once again, then moved to stand quietly near the window.

Caelan regarded Aurette for a moment. “It’s good to see you awake. The healers said your injuries were extensive, and your body had taken a severe toll from the storm.”

“It could’ve been worse,” Aurette replied quietly. “But I am grateful to be here.”

There was a brief pause. Aurette took a slow sip of her tea before glancing back up.

“…Is Raye here as well?” she asked, her voice neutral but not without meaning. “Is he well?”

Caelan smiled. “He is. He woke this morning, in fact.”

Aurette nodded once. She didn’t press further. There was something faintly unreadable in her expression—not detached, but composed, as though she had quietly chosen to lock her worry away for later.

Instead, she changed the subject.

“…What of Caelrhime? Of my people?”

Caelan’s smile faded into something more serious.

“The storm still howls across the highlands,” he said solemnly. “It has not settled. From what our scouts report, it appears your people have retreated into hiding. Pockets of resistance remain, but no coordinated force has reemerged yet.”

Aurette lowered her gaze. Her fingers wrapped tighter around the cup in her hands.

“I was hoping you might know something we don’t,” Caelan added gently. “But I understand if not.”

She shook her head lightly. “I remember the blizzard. And then… nothing.”

Caelan nodded. “It’s alright. Answers will come with time.”

He turned toward Lysena, giving her a quiet look. “Continue her care. She may recover faster than expected, but don’t let her push herself.”

Then, his gaze returned to Aurette. “You’ve endured much. But you're still standing. That alone speaks volumes of who you are.”

Aurette looked up again, meeting his eyes.

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Caelan offered a small smile and gave her a respectful nod before stepping toward the door.

“I’ll let you rest for now. When you're ready, I believe there are many who will want to hear your voice again.”

And with that, he turned and exited the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.

Aurette sat still, cup in hand, the fading warmth of the tea seeping into her fingers.

The snowstorm still echoed faintly in her mind.

And one name lingered with it—Eluria.