“I can’t let you do that!” she snapped. Her voice trembled, but her eyes—those stayed locked and focused.

  “I know what he’s done, but he’s still my father. All I want is to leave this city. Can’t you just… scare him?” Her voice pleaded, but the fire behind her words refused to die.

  “It’s not up to you,” I said coldly, my tone flat as ice.

  “No,” she shot back. “I could barely stomach the thought of you killing him—but this? This is worse. A trial? Charges? Why?” Her voice cracked with disbelief, with anger.

  “Because they’re charging me too,” I said evenly. “That’s the first reason—my ticket to freedom. The second?” I looked her in the eyes. “The Cold dictates it.”

  “The Cold?” she nearly spat the words. “Can’t you just not listen to it for once?”

  “If I did that,” I hissed back, jaw clenched, “I’d be a traitor.”

  That word silenced her.

  She shivered. Her shoulders stiffened, then slowly sagged as though the fight drained from her bones. She wasn’t sobbing, wasn’t even whimpering—but the tears began to slip down her cheeks anyway. Quiet. Defiant.

  “But… can’t… is there…” Her voice faded. No more resistance.

  She knew. Somewhere deep inside, she understood how deep The Cold runs in us. She knew what it meant to betray it.

  And yet, I didn’t feel as bound to it as I once had. Not fully. Something inside me had changed. A splinter in the code. But that didn’t mean I’d turn my back on it. I still hated traitors.

  “Listen,” I said, calmer now, but still firm. “I didn’t kill anyone unnecessary at the mansion. I didn’t want any of this. All I care about is getting Manach back on his feet and getting the hell out of this forsaken place.”

  I stepped closer.

  “You said you’d come with me. You said you wouldn’t question my decisions. I’m sorry if this one disappoints you, but it’s final. Now tell me—do you still want to leave with me?”

  Her eyes met mine, wet and wounded. And though her mouth couldn’t shape the word, she nodded. Just once. A hard, trembling nod. Her heart and mind were at war, and her soul bore the wounds. I could see it all written across her face.

  She was choosing her future over her past. But I didn’t blame her for the pain that came with it.

  I gave it a thought—brief, but enough. Liam. The man was a coward. A traitor. Working with enemies of the Empire for his own ambitions. He surrounded himself with thugs and alchemists, dabbling in shadows, hiding behind power and politics. But even that man… seemed to care for Leliana. At least in the only way he knew how.

  “Leliana,” I said, softening my voice just slightly. “Do you have any other family?”

  “What?” she blinked, startled. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s not a hard question.”

  She stared at me. “Yes. My father, myself… and my brother. Zachary. Why are you asking me this? Are you trying to drag him into this too?”

  Her fear was raw again. Understandable.

  “No,” I said simply. “I just wondered where he was in all this. Maybe… you should seek him out. For comfort.”

  I wasn’t sure why I said it. Maybe I did care.

  “He’s not here,” she said quietly, her face falling into something lost. “He’s somewhere out there in the world.”

  “I see.” I nodded, letting the silence linger a moment.

  Then I stepped back, let the steel return to my voice.

  “If you still want to travel with me… Manach has to wake first. He needs to agree. But until then—I have a task for you.”

  She looked stunned. After all this… I was giving her orders?

  “Really?” she said, brushing the tears from her cheeks. “A task? Now?”

  “Yes,” I said without hesitation. “While I prepare for trial… I need someone to save Manach.”

  I knew the weight I was placing on her shoulders. I saw the pain still fresh in her eyes. But I needed to know if she was strong enough. Loyal enough. Not just to me—but to the Empire. To what comes next.

  Because if she still wanted to walk beside me… there was no more room for divided loyalties.

  “Okay,” she said at last, her voice low, steadying itself. “Tell me what I need to do.”

  I gave her a moment before answering. “Go back to the ruined mansion,” I said, my voice calm, firm. “There’s a study where the old library used to be. In the floor, there’s a trapdoor that leads underground. Use this key.”

  I handed it to her. She took it without hesitation.

  “The first door on the right,” I continued. “It’s an alchemist’s chamber. If there’s a potion that can undo the effects of Eternal Slumber, it’ll be there.”

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  She didn’t ask questions. No protests. No sighs. Just turned, key in hand, and walked away.

  I exhaled, finally, and watched her go—then caught sight of Leon approaching across the terrace.

  I waited.

  “Koch! I’m glad you’re alive and well!” His face split into a broad smile, unburdened and full of warmth.

  I nodded once. “It’s good you’re not dead,” I replied, tone flat as ever.

  “I won’t keep you long,” he said, stepping closer. “Jorguh and I… we’re leaving.”

  I’d expected that. They’d repaid the debt they owed us. The scales were balanced.

  “I understand. Where to?” I asked.

  “Gronfind City. Jorguh needs… spiritual help.” His voice carried a note of sorrow—soft, thoughtful.

  Gronfind. In the heart of the Embrace Mountains. A city of dwarven zealots, reclusive and rigid, their lives wrapped around tradition, faith, and distrust of all outsiders. No one entered without blood ties or belief.

  And Jorguh was from Deeporb. Royal Dwarven Kingdom. So why…?

  “Why Gronfind? Why not Deeporb?” I asked, narrowing my eyes. “You’re human. They won’t let you in.”

  “Jorguh’s choice,” Leon said. “He won’t tell me why. Just that he needs to go.”

  I’d seen it in Jorguh. The change. The silence. Something inside him had cracked open.

  “I’m glad we met,” Leon added. “Truly. It’s been a strange road.”

  “And how will you go? Jorguh’s still in custody, isn’t he?”

  “No longer.” Leon shook his head. “The paladins ruled him psychologically traumatized. They’ve released him. Said they can’t charge a broken man.”

  “I see.” I nodded slowly. “Well. Good luck.”

  He offered his hand. I took it. A firm grip.

  “May your fate be a kind one, Koch.”

  And then he was gone.

  Just like that, it was quieter again. Somehow, even in the heat of the Light-filled terrace, I felt colder than ever. Not that I minded. Solitude had always been my companion.

  Still, I had things to do. I’d hidden the alchemist’s key and the book—the one with evidence against Leon. The key was gone now, in Leliana’s hands. The book I still had. I’d need to read it.

  But first—I needed to know the date of my trial.

  I turned and started walking. No one stopped me.

  The barracks of the paladins lay just past the upper halls. A massive structure, tall and broad like a great cathedral, filled with rows of rooms, each lined with gold plates and ceremonial carvings. The scent of incense and steel lingered in the air.

  At the far end of the main corridor stood a heavy door with a burnished plaque: Knight-Commander.

  The Shining Order’s central command.

  They were one half of the twin doctrines of the Dawn—the militant, armored branch. Their mirror image, The Rising Dawn, was made up of priest-sorcerers—same religion, same crusade, but different structure. It was said the two hated each other more than they hated heretics.

  The Shining Order’s hierarchy I knew: the Divine-Knight at the top, then Knight-Commanders ruling territories like this one, beneath them the Knight-Captains, then Lieutenants, then the rank and file. Their leadership bowed to the Divine Guardian—the ultimate head of the faith. Crusaders of Dawn led campaigns, blessed champions said to be touched by the light itself.

  But I didn’t know much about The Rising Dawn. I never cared to.

  I stepped into the Knight-Commander’s room.

  He was there—Graveth. Fully armored, even at rest. A wall of steel and discipline. Human. Calm-eyed. Known for his fair rule and an unwavering sense of order.

  “Knight-Commander,” I greeted him.

  He didn’t look up at first. Just continued reading over scrolls and ledgers. Then he spoke, his voice low and deep, like thunder wrapped in cloth.

  “Colidian. I hope your stay here is… tolerable.”

  “It is.” I stepped forward. “I came to ask—when is my trial?”

  “Quannin,” he said without pause.

  Fifth day of the week. Two days from now.

  “Thank you,” I replied, turning to leave.

  “Wait,” he said.

  I stopped in the doorway.

  “I have a letter for you,” Graveth said, voice as steady as stone.

  “A letter?” I asked, blinking. “From who?”

  He didn’t answer immediately—just raised a gauntleted hand and motioned toward a sealed parchment on his desk. “It bears the mark of the Citadel. It’s addressed in your name.”

  That stopped me cold.

  The Citadel?

  I stepped forward and took the letter, nodding silently in thanks. I left with a small wave, the heavy silence between us thick with unspoken curiosity.

  Back in my room, I shut the door behind me with a dull thud. Dropped the book on the table. Sat.

  The letter was wax-sealed with the black and silver crest of the Citadel—a spire wrapped in flame and ice. I broke it open.

  The parchment inside read:

  “The item you found. It has chosen you. I have seen it. I am coming to you for examination of the item—and the final decision regarding its future… and yours.”

  –Houra

  I stared at the signature like it might catch fire in my hands.

  Houra.

  Fuck me.

  Houra, The Frostbite. A name that rang through arcane halls like a death toll. A legend, a scholar, a monster depending on who you asked. One of the few mortals who bent the magic of Frost Nova to her will and lived to tell about it. Head of the Frostbite School. And worse—Domino’s Left Hand. That meant she sat on the Council of the Sheer Cold. One of the highest-ranking members of the Sheer Cold alive.

  She wasn’t just powerful. She was power. The kind of person entire cities bent the knee to if she looked their way.

  I set the letter down slowly. My fingers trembled despite myself.

  How the hell did she know? How fast had this reached her? Was I being watched?

  If she was already en route, she’d be here in hours. Days, at most. If she was already here… well, I wouldn’t even know. She could be standing behind me.

  I exhaled slowly. No panic. Just the weight of inevitability.

  This was my doing. I chose to keep the item. I chose not to turn back.

  And if things spiraled? At the very least, Houra could be the only one capable of helping Manach—if Leliana failed. That, at least, gave me one bitter thread of comfort.

  I set the letter aside and turned to the book. My other problem.

  I cracked the cover, leaned over the pages, and began reading.

  Two days passed.

  I ate. I walked. I kept to myself. I read.

  And what I found confirmed everything—and raised far worse questions.

  The first segment: The Canu mercenary group. Their payments were meticulously recorded—bribes, payouts, contracts. Liam had sold intel to them and funneled their agents into the city. For what? For artifacts.

  The second segment: The artifacts themselves. Notes, trades, transactions. Liam had acquired several and bartered them to someone marked only as “SP.” In return, he received rare alchemical ingredients. Eastern goods. Stuff that could only be found on the other side of the world. The handwriting grew tense, hurried, like he didn’t want to linger on SP.

  I stared at the name—SP. Two letters. No explanation. Who the hell was that? A person? A group? A title?

  The third segment… was different.

  Not evidence. Just bile.

  A page full of handwritten rambling. A manifesto of hatred toward Coldians and the Citadel. It accused them—accused us—of killing people, wiping their memories, and converting them into perfect soldiers. Coldians molded like clay into tools of war and doctrine.

  I almost laughed. It was about me.

  I recognized the tone. Paranoia and prejudice, dressed up as philosophy.

  I turned the page, disinterested. But the unease didn’t leave me.

  Still, the book was enough. Enough to bury Liam under the weight of treason, espionage, and consorting with foreign powers. A long, hard fall awaited him—and it would start tomorrow.

  By the time the sun vanished behind the temple towers, I was already undressing, letting my body hit the bed like a hammer dropped on cloth.

  Tomorrow, politics would tighten its claws. Webs would unravel. Names would be named.

  And Me?

  I would simply play my part.