Chapter 7 Elza
ELZA
The clang of the forge hammer is the heartbeat of Haven.
It is a steady, rhythmic beat that speaks of purpose, of rebuilding.
From my position on the western battlement, I can see it all.
Tarek, my second-in-command, drills new recruits in the main courtyard, their wooden swords clacking in the crisp morning air.
The scent of baking bread and savory stew wafts up from the communal kitchens, a warm, comforting promise of the midday meal.
Children chase each other through the pathways, their laughter echoing off the ancient, grey stone.
This is what I built from the ashes of my past. A sanctuary. A home. A fortress made not just of stone and iron, but of the shared vow that none of us would ever be powerless again.
My hand rests on the worn leather grip of the dagger at my hip. The habit is so ingrained I no longer notice it, the cool weight of the pommel a familiar pressure against my palm. A queen’s scepter is a symbol. A dagger is a tool. I have always had more use for tools.
“Mama!”
I turn, a smile breaking through my stern composure. Lyren barrels towards me, his small face flushed with cold and exertion, a wooden sword clutched in his fist. His silver hair, a stark inheritance from a man he does not know, whips around his face in the wind.
He stops just before me, puffing out his chest. “Tarek says I have the eye of a hawk and the speed of a viper.”
I kneel down, brushing a stray strand of silver from his forehead.
“He is right. But you have the heart of a lion, and that is what matters most.” My gaze softens as I look at him.
He is the sun in my world, the impossible, beautiful thing that makes the fight worthwhile.
Most days, I can almost forget where he came from.
Almost.
He looks past me, down at the sparring recruits. “Mina is not holding her shield correctly. She leaves her whole left side open. Tarek should correct her.”
Ice, thin and sharp, trickles down my spine.
It is not what he says, but how he says it.
The tone is not that of a five-year-old child.
It is a cold, analytical assessment, spoken with an unnerving, adult-like authority.
For a fleeting instant, his dark eyes—so like my own—flash with a faint, silver light. A Vrakken trait.
I pull him into a hug, burying my face in his hair, trying to chase away the sudden chill. These moments are becoming more frequent. Flashes of an intensity, a possessiveness, that do not belong in a child. Flashes of him.
“Perhaps you can show her after your lesson,” I murmur, my voice tight.
Before he can answer, the pounding of feet on the stone stairs makes us both look up. It is Kael, one of my lead scouts, his face pale and his breathing ragged. He skids to a halt before me, forgoing any formal greeting.
“My lady,” he gasps, leaning on his knees. “A rider from the eastern watchtower. They spotted something.”
My hand, which had fallen from my dagger, finds its way back to the hilt. “Report.”
“A single being, approaching from the north. Moving… impossibly fast. Not on horseback. On the wing.”
The air leaves my body. The sounds of the fortress—the forge, the sparring, the laughter—fade to a dull roar. The world narrows until it is only Kael’s pale, frightened face.
And then I feel it.
The psychic scar, a wound that has lain dormant for five years, erupts in a sickening jolt of ice and fire.
It is a phantom pain, a searing agony that rips through my mind with an intimate, soul-deep familiarity.
A low, powerful hum vibrates against my skin, a thrum of immense power that I would know anywhere.
The monster from my past. He has found me.
Lyren feels my sudden tension and clutches at my leg. “Mama? What is it?”
I cannot answer him. I am back in that lightless cell, chained to the wall, the void in his eyes promising nothing but a cold, empty eternity. My stomach plummets, a sickening lurch that leaves me hollow.
No.
I force the memory down, crushing it with the discipline of a queen who has faced down starvation, slavers, and the endless despair of her people. The terrified slave is a ghost. She does not rule here.
I rise to my full height, my voice cutting through the air, sharp and clear and utterly calm. The terror is a storm inside me, but my words are the eye of that storm.
“Kael, sound the alarm. Protocol Scythe.”
His eyes widen in understanding, a flicker of fear quickly replaced by grim resolve. Scythe. Not Shield Wall, our defense against a conventional army. Scythe was designed for a single, overwhelmingly powerful threat. It was designed for him.
“Tarek!” I roar, my voice carrying across the courtyard. He freezes mid-spar, his head snapping in my direction. “Scythe! Get the civilians to the undercroft. Now!”
My people move. There is no panic, no hesitation.
They have drilled this. They trust me. The courtyard becomes a whirlwind of organized, purposeful activity.
Recruits become escorts, herding women and children towards the reinforced entrances to the tunnels beneath Haven.
Archers appear on the battlements, their bows drawn, their faces set.
Heavy, iron-bound gates slam shut, and the sound of massive, weighted nets being winched into place groans from the gatehouse towers.
We are not preparing for a battle. I know we cannot win a battle. We are preparing for a capture.
I lead Lyren to Tarek’s wife, herding them towards the safety of the undercroft.
“Stay with Elara,” I command, my voice softer but no less firm. “Be brave for me, my little lion.”
He looks up at me, his eyes wide with a fear that mirrors my own. “A monster is coming, isn’t it?”
I kiss his forehead, a desperate, loving gesture. “Monsters are only scary until you face them.” I pray to the gods I do not believe in that I am right.
I watch him go, my heart a leaden weight in my chest. Then I turn and stride back to the main battlement, my bow in hand, an arrow nocked.
My personal guard falls into formation around me.
Below, the courtyard is clear. The nets are in place.
The traps are set. Haven is silent. A fortress holding its breath.
And then I see him.
He descends from the sky, a dark shape against the pale sun.
His massive, leathery wings beat a slow, powerful rhythm, carrying him with an unnerving, predatory grace.
The silver hair I see in my son every day streams behind him.
He is just as I remember: a beautiful, terrifying god of death carved from ice and starlight.
He does not attack. He simply lands, a soft thud of leather and bone, on the frozen earth just outside Haven’s main gate.
He stands there, his sheer presence an act of aggression, and his massive wings cast a long, dark shadow that stretches across the courtyard, over the walls, and falls directly upon me.
He raises his head. Across the distance, through the swirling snow, his abyss-black eyes find mine. I see no fire, no chaos. Only the same cold, calculating focus I saw right before he woke up in that cell five years ago. He has not come for me. He has come for something I have.