The letter arrived at dawn, sealed in black wax with the crest of the Royal Court.
Zareena broke it open at her desk, hands steady despite the weight of the parchment. Doren stood nearby, arms crossed, watching her face carefully as her eyes scanned the words.
A summons.
Formal.
She was to appear at the capital in a fortnight's time—by order of the Crown Council. The justification was cloaked in diplomacy: a "strategic call" regarding the Vireloch region, and an "invitation" to advise on border defense. But the meaning was clear.
They knew.
The noble houses had heard of her victory. Of the creature slain in the woods. Of the old ore veins revived and the garrison reborn. And now, they wanted to see her with their own eyes.
Or control her.
Zareena exhaled slowly. "They're testing me."
"They're trying to cage you," Doren replied. "Wrap you in silks and smiles until you forget where the real war is."
She folded the letter. "That's why I can't refuse. We'll prepare to leave."
"But the town—"
"Will survive." Her gaze swept the fortress outside her window. "We've made it strong. Now we need to make sure it stays that way—because this summons is not just a call."
She met Doren's eyes.
Next morning,The sky over Vireloch was grey, but not storming. Just heavy, as if the clouds themselves didn't want her to go.
Zareena stood at the gates, her coat buttoned to the collar, her satchel light but carefully packed. Beside her were four guards—not the youngest, not the most eager, but the ones who had survived the worst. Hardened, loyal, and quiet.
Behind them stood Arven, the young mage chosen to accompany her. He was still green, still unsure—but his spellwork had steadied over the last weeks, and he knew the risks.
"I trust you," she'd told him simply. And that had been enough.
The people gathered to see them off. No fanfare. Just quiet nods and warm eyes. These were not citizens and soldiers anymore. They were hers.
Zareena turned to the courtyard once more, where Captain Brielle waited—armor shined, command scroll in hand. The woman bowed stiffly.
"You hold Vireloch now," Zareena said. "Not as a seat of war. As a home. Keep it that way."
"I will, my lady," Brielle answered. "No one gets through without bleeding for it."
Zareena mounted her horse last. Her gaze swept the snow-lined roofs, the repaired walls, the watchtowers that had once nearly collapsed under winter's rage.
It had taken months to build this out of fear.
Now she had to leave it behind.
But only for now.
The gates opened with a groan. The group rode out slowly—down the mountain road, toward the capital.
Behind them, Vireloch stood tall