“You’ve destroyed the wrong woman.” Tavron seized the crumpled parchment from Raldien’s grasp. His aide’s hand trembled, cold and slick with sweat. The celebratory din of the Aerium’s main hall, once a distant echo, now seemed to press in, a suffocating blanket of false cheer. Tavron’s vision blurred at the edges as he unfolded the paper, his fingers clumsy, almost tearing the fragile vellum. It was a letter. The script, fine and spidery, was instantly recognizable. His sister, Lyraea. A dead kin's handwriting stared up at him. For twelve months he had blamed Freyris for the tragedy, yet these jagged lines carried no surrender. *My dearest Tavron, if you ever read this, know that I did not take this path willingly. Jorvia wove a snare around me. She seized my confessions proving an alliance with the Whisperwind Rebellion. If exposed, our lineage will turn to ash. Freyris heard Jorvia’s extortion; she offered to bear the guilt so I might live. Yet to allow her ruin for my treason... I refuse. Better to spare her and shield you. Forgive me, brother. Do not strike Freyris. She is a shield, not a blade.* The parchment trembled in his grip. The dead had perished shielding the house from blackmail, while Freyris had stepped forward to absorb the venom. “How… where did you find this?” Tavron’s voice was a low growl, barely audible above the revelry. “Jorvia’s private vault, My Lord,” Raldien rasped, still breathless, his eyes darting around the lavish hall. “I suspected her. She always possessed a malicious streak. I used the chaos of the gala to slip away. There were other documents, My Lord. Proof of Jorvia’s network of informants, the precise blackmail she held over Lysandra, even records of the falsified evidence she planted to implicate Freyris.” “Forged evidence...” Tavron whispered. He had embraced every lie because vengeance tasted simpler than grief. Worse than the public humiliation tonight, a recent recollection bit into him: the roadside trap. Four nights ago, intent on stripping her defenses, he had hired sellswords to intercept her conveyance on the Skyway of Whispers. He had surveyed the overturned wagon, the scattered retainers, the trunks split across the shimmering glass floor. Amid the splintered crates, amber fluid had soaked the crystal bridge—dozens of broken medicinal vials, crushed under iron heels. *Her final supply of pain-relieving elixirs… destroyed.* The words from her physician’s leaked reports, the ones he’d dismissed as an attempt to garner sympathy, echoed in his mind. *The Frost-Bloom Rot is relentlessly painful in its advanced stages. Her elixirs are all that provide her respite.* He had not just destroyed her reputation; he had stolen her last comfort, her shield against agony. He had robbed a dying woman of her only reprieve. Sickness churned his stomach, acrid and foul. Just then, a saccharine voice cut through the clamor, pulling Tavron from his spiraling horror. “My dearest Tavron! What a magnificent display you made! The proud recluse finally broke tonight.” Jorvia glided towards them, her gown a shimmering cascade of twilight-hued gossamer, her smile wide and predatory. Her eyes, like polished obsidian, held a smug satisfaction that made Tavron’s stomach clench. He forced his features into a mask of polite triumph, a Herculean effort that left his jaw aching. Raldien subtly shifted, placing himself slightly behind Tavron, his hand hovering near the hidden dagger at his belt. “Jorvia,” Tavron said, his voice smooth, betraying none of the murderous rage simmering beneath his composure. “A remarkable evening indeed. Freyris departed with… her usual grace.” He watched her, every nerve alive, searching for the confirmation he now desperately needed. Jorvia’s laugh tinkled, a hollow, brittle sound. “Grace? Or merely a practiced mask. Her kind always seeks to escape the consequences of their actions. The disgrace brought upon your house... Freyris thought she could simply absorb the blame and wither in isolation. But debts require public settling, don’t they, my love?” Her gaze flickered to Raldien, then back to Tavron, a knowing glint in her eyes. Her words, delivered with such casual cruelty, were the final, damning piece of the puzzle. She had confirmed it. She had orchestrated the entire charade, and Freyris, with her quiet strength, had protected them all, even him. The woman he had publicly shamed, stripped of dignity, and condemned to pain, was the one who had sacrificed everything. “Indeed, my dear,” Tavron said, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace. He placed a hand on Jorvia’s back, the touch almost burning him. “A most satisfying conclusion. If you’ll excuse us, Raldien and I have a few details to finalize for our… future.” He steered Jorvia gently away, murmuring pleasantries, until they were a safe distance from Raldien. As soon as Jorvia turned to greet another acquaintance, Tavron spun on his heel, his face a mask of cold fury. “Raldien. Immediately. Dispatch the fastest Wind-riders. Find Freyris. Do not return until you have her location. Inform them of extreme urgency. Emphasize it is a matter of life and death.” Raldien bowed, his face grim. “At once, My Lord.” He vanished into the throng, a shadow swallowed by the light. The next few hours stretched into an eternity. Tavron maintained his facade, smiling, nodding, accepting congratulations, all while his mind raced, picturing Freyris, alone, in pain, her final days marked by his cruel hand. He pictured the overturned coach, the ruined vials, and the chilling mark upon her skin he had dismissed as fiction. The Frost-Bloom Rot. Incurable. One year. The last petal. The scouts, members of his elite Talon Guard, returned hours later, their faces etched with exhaustion, their flight-leathers dusted with frost. They moved with a hurried, somber efficiency that tightened the knot in Tavron’s stomach. “My Lord,” the lead scout, Commander Aerion, reported, his voice low, his breath clouding the air. “We tracked her wagon. It bypassed her estate, My Lord, pressing straight toward the Howling Drifts. We lost the ruts near the northern spires. She rode into the frozen wastes. Alone.”

Ashes of Vengeance