Daggers of Ice

Chapter 9

1010.

The Tenth Year of the Golden Age.

Arianna.

The wind bit at her face, sharp as glass, tearing strands of dark hair from the braid that whipped against her cheek. Nox's wings cleaved the sky, the rush of air screaming in her ears as they soared above the frost-wrapped forest. From such a height, the world below was all ice and shadow: black pines piercing a sea of white.

Winter was breaking in the southern lands, but in the north, the cold still ruled. The cold always ruled. The rivers were frozen veins; the mountains glimmered like the bones of gods.

She'd come south to check the border – to find Myria and her scouts, who were overdue from their patrols near the passes. She'd expected nothing but silence and snow. Yet something below had caught her eye: a flicker of movement, a glint of steel where no northern patrol should be.

"Down," she whispered.

The gryphon banked sharply, its cry echoing through the valley – a sound both majestic and terrible. They descended in a rush of wings, snow swirling in their wake, until the creature's talons touched down with a crunch. Arianna swung smoothly from its back, boots sinking into the snow.

The forest was still. Too still.

She walked a few paces forward – and then she saw him.

The Just King.

Cloaked in shadow and winter's grey, sword drawn, the faintest ghost of breath misting from his lips.

Then, softly, she laughed.

"Your Majesty," she said, her voice lilting with mockery as she circled him slowly. "You are far from home. Surely the south's velvet halls are more to your liking than these woods?"

He didn't answer. His eyes were wary, dark and deliberate – that same sharp intelligence she remembered from Cair Paravel.

Finally, he had come.

Behind him, the faun raised his sword. Loyal, sturdy, and painfully out of his depth.

"Stay where you are, witch," he snapped.

Arianna smiled, the expression curving slow and dangerous. "If I were a witch, little faun, you'd already be on your knees."

His face flushed with anger, and he charged. The sword came down in a wide arc. Arianna didn't even flinch. With a flick of her wrist, her dagger – Morana, its blade glimmering like captured starlight – met his weapon. Metal rang against magic-forged ice.

The faun's sword flew from his grasp, spinning into a drift of snow.

She stepped forward, pressing the edge of the dagger just under his chin; she did not even need to draw its twin. "You shouldn't bare steel you don't know how to wield," she murmured.

A rush of movement: Edmund lunged, his blade slicing through the air. She met him, the clash of their weapons breaking the silence like thunder. His strength was undeniable, his focus deadly – but she could feel the stiffness in his shoulders, the way the cold had begun to dull his reflexes.

"You're ill-equipped for the north, King Edmund," she taunted, the title twisting like a blade on her tongue. "This land doesn't yield to lions."

He didn't answer, only pressed harder, forcing her back through the snow. For a moment, she let him – just long enough to watch the flicker of frustration in his eyes. Then she twisted her wrist, forcing his blade aside.