Chapter 85: Journey

The imperial procession wound its way through the heart of Pyrhold, Solmire’s blazing capital.

The streets were wide and sun-drenched, lined with banners that rippled in hues of deep scarlet and gold. Citizens gathered on the marble steps of the Grand Temple of Pyronox, the god of flame himself carved into the temple’s high façade, eyes of molten glass seeming to watch the Fire Queen’s final passage.

The Winter Knights, in silver armor trimmed with pale blue, gleamed beneath the light like shards of frost in a furnace. Their steady rhythm of hooves against stone echoed through the square, a steady counterpoint to the murmurs of the crowd.

In the noble districts, reaction fractured. Some bowed low, eyes lowered in respect; others turned away, faces tight with a blend of awe and fear. At the elite academies, students pressed against iron railings, whispering her name in tones caught between reverence and legend.

And above it all, the palace towers receded behind them, pale against the rising sun, disappearing beneath a sky that shimmered with heat.

At the city’s outer gate, carved with the sigil of Pyronox’s flame, the carriages slowed. The soldiers of Pyrhold saluted, fire banners dipping low as the wheels crossed the threshold.

Beyond that gate, the air changed as they traveled further away from the palace.

The road unfurled toward the merchant city of Ashenfell, where trade cries rose like song, and the air was rich with spice and smoke. Crowds lined the streets, craning to glimpse the departing monarchs. Children ran beside the horses, waving, laughing; merchants paused mid-bargain to watch the carriages glide past.

In the midst of that color and noise, the northern banners of silver and blue cut through like moonlight on molten ground. The Winter Knights moved in formation, disciplined, radiant, almost unreal frost against flame, balance against chaos.

And within the main carriage, the Fire Queen began to fade.

Around the tenth hour, exhaustion claimed her. The steady rocking of the wheels, the golden blur of fields beyond the glass, the warmth of the sun pooling across her lap, it all became too much to resist.

Her head, traitorous and heavy, tilted sideways until it found Soren’s shoulder again.

He didn’t move.

His hand, resting beside hers, shifted slightly, until his fingers found hers, their touch light but deliberate.

The carriage continued its journey through the afternoon. The bells of Crimson Port chimed faintly in the distance when they stopped for the midday rest and a change of horses.

When Eris woke, the world outside had changed color.

The light had turned molten, spilling through the window in slanted rays that caught dust motes midair. The scent of river salt reached her, faint but distinct , and somewhere close by, gulls cried over the water.

She blinked, adjusting to the stillness.

Soren was beside her, head bowed slightly, eyes closed. His fingers were still around hers, his hold light but certain.

For a moment, she didn’t move.

The quiet between them felt sacred, almost fragile.

Then she lifted her head, and his moved with it, the motion so natural it startled her. His head fell gently onto her shoulder, his hair brushing against her neck.

A flush crept up her throat.

So she had fallen asleep. On him. Like a child.

Her gaze flickered back to Soren. He looked younger like this, softer, though even in rest he carried that innate regality, the aura of someone used to command.

She exhaled, trying not to let embarrassment unravel her calm. But as she looked at his face, at the stillness he carried even in rest, guilt threaded through her chest.

He hardly ever slept. She had noticed that back in Solmire , how often he would watch over her when she was unwell, never blinking, never yielding to fatigue. Perhaps that habit had followed him here too.

And if he was truly asleep now, it was her fault.

Her thoughts drifted despite herself.

To Caelen.

The look in his eyes that morning.

The ache she’d tried so hard not to feel.

She shut her eyes for a heartbeat, exhaling sharply, forcing his name from her mind like smoke through an open window.

No. Not now.

When she looked again, something strange shimmered in the air.

Tiny white flakes, delicate as lace, drifted lazily between them. They sparkled for a second before dissolving into nothing — cold kissing warmth and vanishing.

Snow.

Or rather, the echo of it.

It burst from Soren’s skin in faint waves, instinctive and unconscious, a manifestation of what he was. His power never truly slept.

A quiet laugh escaped her. “You never stop being the Ice Emperor, even in your sleep do you?”

As if he’d heard her, he stirred.

The next moment, his breath brushed against her neck, a cool ghost of sensation that made her pulse skip. His head shifted closer, too close, his cheek grazing the curve of her shoulder.

She froze, the heat of her own blood warring with the chill of his nearness.

It tickled , gods, it tickled, but it also made her skin tingle, the temperature difference sparking something strangely pleasant along her collarbone.

He didn’t stop there. His face tilted further, seeking warmth like instinct, the tip of his nose brushing her throat.

Her composure snapped.

Without thinking, she pressed her hand against his cheek and pushed, her voice low and sharp.

“I know you’re already awake.”

The corner of his mouth curved against her palm.

And then came the sound, a laugh, deep and soft, rich enough to fill the space between them.

Soren leaned back, eyes open now, glittering with amusement.

“Caught me,” he said.

She frowned, equal parts annoyance and disbelief. “How long?”

“Long enough to know you talk in your sleep,” he teased.

Her jaw tightened. “I do not—”

He laughed again, quietly, the sound melting into the hum of the wheels. “You should rest more often,” he said, gentler this time. “You look… so innocent when you do.”

Eris rolled her eyes and turned toward the window again, but the faint curve at her lips betrayed her.

The carriage slowed. A sharp rap came against the door.

A knock broke the rhythm of the wheels.

“Your Majesty,” came a soldier’s voice from beyond the door, muffled but precise, “we’ve reached the Crimson Port. The horses need changing, and the men require rest and refreshment. Estimated stop, one to two hours.”

Eris stirred, blinking herself fully awake. Soren, already aware, tilted his head toward her with a small, unreadable smile.

The memory of his nearness lingered, the faint cold still clinging to her collar, the echo of his laughter. She straightened in her seat, fingers rising instinctively to smooth her hair, to fix what intimacy had rumpled.

He watched her with the kind of restraint that only made him look more dangerous. A smirk ghosted at the corner of his mouth, half amusement, half admiration.

The air between them still hummed.

Then the carriage door opened, and sunlight poured in.

Soren stepped out first, boots meeting the red cobblestone with a solid, assured sound. When he turned back and offered his hand, his expression was polite, imperial, practiced but his eyes carried the same quiet teasing she’d grown wary of.

She hesitated, only for a breath, before placing her hand in his.

The heat hit them instantly.

Crimson Port was alive with light and noise. The Ember River, wide and glimmering like molten gold, stretched along the city’s edge. Merchant ships swayed gently on their moorings, their sails catching the sunlight in sheets of flame. The air was thick with scent, spices, river salt, iron from the forges, and the faint sweetness of roasted fruit.

Crowds had gathered beyond the stationed guards, curious but cautious. Their whispers rose like mist.

“Is that her?”

“The Fire Queen…?”

“With him?”

Eris didn’t have to listen closely; she knew that tone anywhere.

Awe tangled with fear. Reverence diluted by rumor.

Soren offered his arm. She ignored it.

Together, they crossed the sunlit street toward the inn that had been chosen for them, a stately, three-storied structure of red brick and carved wood. Its sign, shaped like a coiled flame, swung lazily in the wind.

The Scarlet Anchor.

As they approached, a rotund man in a wine-colored waistcoat came tumbling out the front door, nearly tripping over himself.

“Your Majesties! Oh, blessed Pyronox above, this is an honor! A sacred honor!”

The man, Torven by the stitched tag at his chest, bowed so low it looked as if gravity itself would claim him. Sweat beaded at his temples, and his voice trembled with effort as he continued.

“Welcome to the Scarlet Anchor! You grace our humble port with your presence! We’ve prepared—ah—anything you wish, everything you need, by the flames, I—”

Soren raised a hand, the gesture smooth and easy. “That won’t be necessary, Torven. We require only a private dining room, refreshments, and suitable care for the horses. Your men may rest after that.”

Torven nodded so fast he nearly lost balance again. “Of course, of course, Your Majesty! Right away, Your Majesty! At once!”

Eris observed the exchange silently.

It was almost strange, how different the air felt around Soren. People bowed to him not out of terror, but out of faith. Even in a city devoted to flame, the frost-born emperor commanded respect as though the world itself bent to his temperature.

No one trembled. No one flinched.

When people bowed to her, it was to avoid her gaze. When they bowed to him, it was because they wanted to.

She wasn’t sure which cut deeper.

Torven, still trembling from excitement, gestured toward the open street. “If Your Majesties would like, the famous Crimson Market is just beyond the river bend. Finest goods from across the realm, jewels from the East, silks from the Isles, flameglass from the southern mines! Perhaps, while the horses are being tended…”

Soren turned slightly toward Eris, his expression unreadable but his tone light. “What do you think? Care for a walk?”

It startled her, the question. Her opinion, sought like it mattered.

Her first instinct was to refuse, to stay hidden, to avoid the stares and whispers that always followed her like shadows. But as she looked toward the market, at the color and life spilling through the streets, something old and fragile stirred in her chest.

Curiosity.

The kind she hadn’t felt in years.

“…I suppose,” she said slowly, “a brief walk wouldn’t hurt.”

Soren smiled, faint, victorious. “Then a walk it is.”

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