Chapter 17: Through Storm and Silence

The wind was colder now.

It wasn’t just the shift in the air as she travelled northwest. It was the weight in her chest — the silence that came when you had nothing but your own thoughts for company. The vast, unbroken wilds between Aeldenmarch and the northern reaches of Velaria stretched out before her like a forgotten path. The distant peaks of her homeland glimmered on the horizon, pale and sharp as teeth.

Aurette rode alone, her figure cloaked in layers to ward off the wind, her hood drawn low. Snow flurries hadn’t begun yet, but the chill gnawed at her bones. The only sounds were her horse’s hooves crunching against loose gravel and the rustling of distant trees swaying in the breeze.

The map Caelan had given her was tucked safely into her satchel. She had studied it carefully — Aeldenmarch rested at the western edge of Velaria, nestled slightly below the Ice Kingdom. Southeast in direction, but almost diagonal if you followed the highlands. She would have to pass through the Mournwood Trails, then skirt the Grimhollow Vale before reaching the border watch of the Ice Kingdom.

Aeldenmarch now lay far behind — its safety and relative warmth replaced by the biting uncertainty of the northern wilderness. She didn’t look back.

But that didn’t stop the thoughts from returning.

She had never grown close to Caelan or Lysena. Their kindness had been unexpected — a warmth she hadn’t known she needed until it was offered. Now, alone on this path, she found herself recalling small moments: Lysena's careful hands changing her bandages, Caelan's quiet but steady voice as he handed her a map and said, “Please return safely.”

It wasn’t affection. It was... the ache of something once human.

She wasn’t sure why she missed it.

Her hands gripped the reins tighter as her horse trotted along a narrow pass between pine-cloaked hills. The air felt heavier here. More watchful.

And the silence was no longer comforting.

Her thoughts shifted again — this time, darker.

Were they still alive?

Her people. Her kingdom. Caelrhime.

So much time had passed. So much ruin. She had no letters. No messengers. No signs.

She feared they might all be gone — taken, erased, like so much else in this war.

And even if they lived… would they even accept her?

A ghost of a ruler. A burden from the past.

Aurette exhaled, breath misting.

She was still riding when her horse suddenly stopped, ears perking up.

It snorted, uneasy.

Aurette narrowed her eyes. The road ahead curved along a ridge — and something shifted in the treeline to her left.

She reached for the hilt of her dagger, sliding it free just as a shadow lunged out.

A figure — clad in leather and fur, face painted with jagged charcoal lines, eyes sharp as glass. A war cry ripped from his throat as he rushed her, blade raised.

Aurette reacted on instinct. She kicked her horse sideways, barely avoiding the blow, and slashed downward — her dagger grazing the attacker’s arm. He staggered, and that’s when she saw the sigil burned into his shoulder strap: a jagged wolf’s jaw.

The Varkari.

Tribesmen of the northern lands — hardened raiders, once neutral, now turned to Vaerond’s cause. Known for their ambush tactics and brutal skirmishes. This one had been hunting. And she was the prey.

But he wasn’t alone.

Two more emerged from the trees, axes and spears glinting. Aurette backed her horse away, heart racing. She had no sword — only the dagger and her wit.

I can’t outrun them… not through this terrain.

A trap.

They’d seen her for what she was — not a soldier, but a lone rider. An easy target.

She breathed slowly, centering herself.

If this was a test — then she’d meet it like her blood demanded.

She would not die here. Not before reaching Caelrhime.

The moment stretched — like a held breath before a storm.

Aurette swung off her horse, her boots crunching into the frostbitten soil. She kept her dagger forward, posture steady. Her breath was slow, controlled — but her heart thudded violently beneath her ribs.

The three Varkari warriors circled her like wolves.

The first attacker charged again, roaring as he slashed wide with his axe. She ducked low, letting the swing pass over her shoulder, then surged upward and rammed the dagger into his side. He grunted — staggered back — and she twisted the blade free with cold precision.

The second came fast. Taller, broader, his spear aimed straight for her chest.

Aurette pivoted sideways, the tip grazing her cloak. She seized his wrist, pulled him forward using his momentum, and stabbed twice — once at the neck, then again at the gut.

He dropped, blood pooling beneath him.

The third hesitated now. He hadn’t expected resistance like this — not from a lone rider, not from a woman they assumed to be weak.

His eyes darted to the others — one dead, the other writhing in agony — then narrowed back at her. He approached more carefully, sword drawn. His expression changed, confusion flickering in his eyes. He muttered something in his harsh native tongue.

Then he asked, “Who are you?”

Aurette didn’t answer.

But her silence was loud. Her stance, her confidence, the sharp gleam in her eyes — it told a story. A royal one.

And then his eyes widened.

“…Rhimehart.”

Recognition hit him like a blow.

He staggered a step back. “You’re her. You’re the Ice Queen’s daughter—”

Aurette moved.

She dashed forward before he could react, striking low and fast — a shallow cut across his leg. But he turned, retreating quickly, faster than she expected.

He fled into the trees, crashing through the underbrush, yelling something in his tongue.

She gave chase for a few paces before stopping, knowing it was no use. He was gone.

She exhaled, breath ragged. Her hand trembled — just slightly — from the tension and cold. Her dagger dripped red.

Two dead. One escaped.

She knelt briefly beside the fallen, wiping her blade clean on one of their cloaks. Her jaw clenched as she looked toward the horizon.

The wind howled like a chorus of spirits.

Before her loomed a wall of white — the storm that had swallowed Caelrhime for three relentless days. Towering clouds and a swirling tempest of snow blurred the horizon, hiding the kingdom beneath a veil of nature’s wrath.

Aurette stared into it, her cloak snapping behind her, frost biting her cheeks. The very air carried a warning.

Turn back.

You won’t survive.

But she didn’t flinch.

She urged her horse forward, gripping the reins with a calm resolve. Step by step, they entered the blizzard.

Immediately, the world transformed. Visibility vanished. Snowflakes danced like daggered phantoms in the air, the cold seeping into her bones. Her breath came in heavy puffs, instantly lost to the wind.

But amidst the chaos, there was something… familiar.

A sensation — faint but unmistakable.

That same feeling she’d had in the dream.

The one where she stood before Eluria within a storm just like this. Her voice like a whisper. Her presence like a memory half-remembered.

Now, in the real world, Aurette could feel her.

The storm raged all around her, but it didn’t bury her. It wrapped around her — like an ancient, protective force.

Her horse moved steadily, almost unnaturally so, as if guided by unseen paths beneath the snow. Despite the thick flurries, she could see ahead. The road did not vanish. The path did not blur.

It was as if the storm bent for her.

She could almost make out vague shapes in the blizzard. Silhouettes like dancers in the fog. Shadows gliding beside her. Watching. Guarding.

Aurette said nothing.

She simply pressed forward.

And then — hours later — the storm began to break.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Home.

Her kingdom. Her people.

She had crossed the storm.

And finally… the gates of Caelrhime stood before her.