The north did not announce itself with trumpets or banners.
It breathed frost.
It watched.
Three days after the tug first tightened beneath Aria's skin, snow began falling along the outer ridges of the territory. Not a blizzard. Not a storm.
A quiet, steady whitening.
Like the world being erased and redrawn.
Aria stood on the Citadel's highest balcony, watching the horizon fade into pale silver. The mark on her wrist was still. Calm.
Too calm.
Damien approached without sound, a folded parchment in his hand. His expression carried the restrained edge of someone who already disliked what he was about to confirm.
"The first envoy never reached the Frostline pass," he said.
Aria did not turn. "Delayed?"
"Diverted."
She exhaled slowly. "Alive?"
"For now."
The north had made its first move.
Not claws.
Chess.
"Who intercepted them?" she asked.
Damien handed her the parchment. "Seal of the Winter Court."
Aria's gaze sharpened.
