The window rattled softly in its frame.
Not violently. Not enough to demand alarm.
Just enough to remind her that even stone could fail.
Frost had already claimed the edges of the glass, creeping inward in thin, branching veins. Each pattern spread slowly, patiently—as if the North itself were testing the fortress, searching for another weakness.
Inside, ink dragged across parchment.
Measured.
Controlled.
Unwasted.
Saskia Nivia did not look up.
She sat straight-backed at a narrow desk carved from old, dark wood, its surface worn smooth by generations who had long since turned to dust. Papers lay spread before her in careful disorder—supply counts, patrol rotations, casualty reports, requests that would never be answered.
Her gray coat dress was simple, structured, and severe. It fit her frame with deliberate modesty, its lines clean, its fabric thick enough to hold warmth but not comfort. Function before all else. Always.
Her golden hair fell heavy over one side of her shoulder, stirred slightly by the cold air slipping through the room.
Ink pressed harder.
The window rattled again.
She paused.
Only for a breath.
Then—
Breeze of winter scatter all lightweight in the room.
"Wha—" Her voice broke the silence, sharp and immediate. "That's supposed to be...closed."
The quill lifted.
She stood.
No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Crossing the room, her boots made soft, even contact against the stone floor. The cold bit through regardless. It always did.
She reached the window and pressed her hand against the frame.
It shifted.
Slightly.
Enough.
Her eyes narrowed.
The lock—once iron, once firm—had been eaten through. Time, rot, neglect. The metal had thinned into something brittle, something unreliable. One push, and it would give.
"…Of course," she murmured.
A breath left her, quieter this time.
"You couldn't even wait until I finished."
Her fingers lingered a moment longer
against the wood, feeling the cold seep into her skin. Then she straightened.
One hand moved to her hair.
A small, precise motion—tucking the loose strands back, restoring order where the wind had dared interfere. When she turned, her face was composed once more.
Calm.
Measured.
Her eyes—sharp, red, and unyielding—moved across the fortress beyond the glass.
Frozen Gate.
From here, she could see its truth.
The walls bore scars no mason had come to mend. Timber reinforcements stood where stone had failed. Torches burned low—not by design, but by necessity. Men moved below in patterns she knew by memory alone—too few, too tired, too accustomed to enduring.
It had fallen once in five thousand years.
Once.
And it had never truly recovered.
Her gaze did not soften.
Her posture did not shift.
Only her voice betrayed her.
"…Father," she whispered, so quietly the wind nearly stole the word, "why have you left me alone…"
Her fingers curled slightly at her side.
"I'm yet to be—"
Knock. Knock.
The sound cut cleanly through the room.
Saskia's expression stilled.
The moment—
Gone.
"My lady…" came a voice from the other side of the door.
A pause.
Measured.
Controlled.
"You may enter."
The door opened just enough to admit a maid, bundled in layered cloth, her hands red from cold and work. Her eyes flickered immediately to the scattered papers, then back to Saskia, careful, deferential.
"My lady."
Saskia had already returned to her desk.
"Is it time?" she asked, not looking up.
"Yes, your lady," the maid replied. "The escort has been sighted beyond the outer ridge. They will arrive before full dark."
Saskia's quill resumed its motion.
Scratch. Pause. Stroke.
"My lady, should I—"
"Yes," Saskia cut in, calm but absolute. "Collect those. Separate the supply reports from the patrol logs. The rest can be burned."
A brief hesitation.
Burned meant final.
Unanswered.
"Yes, my lady."
"And call for someone to attend me," Saskia continued. "The prince will arrive soon."
The maid bowed her head. "At once."
She moved quickly, gathering the papers with careful hands, though her eyes lingered—just briefly—on the contents. Numbers too low. Losses too high.
When the door closed again, the room returned to silence.
Saskia did not.
She reached for another document.
"Rations," she murmured under her breath.
"Reduce evening portions by one fifth. Prioritize the outer watch.".
Her quill moved again.
"Rotate the south tower. No one stands more than four hours tonight."
Another stroke.
"Ser Jared," Saskia called, her voice steady, carrying just enough to reach the corridor beyond. "Are you there?"
The door opened almost at once.
"Yes, my lady."
He entered without flourish. No armor polished for show, no sigil worn for pride—only a thick Leather armor with chainmain inner dulled by years, a cloak lined with fur gone thin at the edges. Time had not spared him, but it had not taken him either.
Ser Jared stopped a respectful distance
away.
Waiting.
"Send word to the lower barracks—no fires after midnight," Saskia said.
"Yes."
No hesitation. No question.
"And tell the city guard captain: rotate the south tower. No one stands more than four hours tonight."
A pause—barely there, but present. He understood what that meant. Fewer men, more rotations, thinner lines stretched tighter.
"Yes."
"And the cooks," she continued, her tone unchanged, "reduce evening portions by one fifth. Prioritize the outer watch."
This time, the silence lingered a fraction longer.
Not defiance.
Not disagreement.
Only the weight of it.
"…Yes, my lady."
Saskia said nothing more.
For a moment, neither did he.
Then—
A small bow of the head.
He turned and left.
The door closed with a soft, final sound.
—
Only then did Saskia's posture shift.
Not visibly.
Not enough for anyone to name.
But enough.
Her gaze lowered, no longer fixed on the paper she wrote , but on the faint reflection in the frost-bitten glass.
"…I'm sorry, Ser," she thought, the words forming without sound.
Her fingers tightened slightly at her side.
"I know the soldiers have been complaining to you for days."
She could almost hear it—low murmurs in the barracks, frustration carried in quiet voices, never loud enough to be called disloyal. Hunger did that. Cold did worse.
And he would have stood there.
Listening.
Enduring it for her.
As he always had.
Her eyes softened—just barely.
"But I am thankful," she continued inwardly, more carefully now, as if the thought itself required discipline. "For your loyalty."
A breath.
Measured.
"The last knight of Nivia…"
Her gaze lifted again, steadier now.
"For sixty years."
Longer than she had lived.
Longer than most of the men still standing
on those walls.
He had served her father.
And his father before him.
And now—
Her.
The fortress creaked faintly, as if in answer.
Saskia straightened.
The softness vanished as quickly as it came.
Duty remained.
It always did.
The wind howled faintly in agreement.
Time passed.
—
When they came for her, she did not resist.
Two attendants this time—one older, one younger—both quiet, both efficient. They carried with them something out of place in Frozen Gate.
Color.
They laid it carefully across the bed.
Red.
Deep, rich, deliberate.
A dress gifted from the nobles of the Tri-City—stitched with intricate floral designs that spoke of warmth, of abundance, of a world that did not freeze. Fine fabric. Soft to the touch. Useless in a place like this.
Saskia stood before it.
Still.
"It will suffice," she said.
The attendants exchanged the smallest glance but said nothing.
Her gray coat dress was removed with care, folded, set aside. In its place, the red garment was fitted to her form. It shaped itself along her frame in ways armor never could—subtle, deliberate, emphasizing what she neither hid nor acknowledged.
Gloves followed.
Long boots beneath.
Layers adjusted not for warmth—
But for presentation.
Saskia watched herself in the mirror.
Not long.
Just enough.
"This is unnecessary," she said.
"Yes, my lady."
A pause.
"…Ensure the west gate is reinforced before nightfall," she added.
"Yes, my lady."
"And the broken window in this room."
A beat.
"…Of course, my lady."
Her gaze lingered on her reflection just a fraction longer.
The red.
The detail.
The effort.
"…It is only proper," she said,a small smile escape her as fast as it returns to her calm and noble face,quieter now. "To receive a royal guest with something… presentable."
Neither attendant spoke.
They did not need to.
Saskia turned away first.
—
By the time she reached the main hall, the fortress had shifted.
Not into grandeur.
Never that.
But into readiness.
Guards stood straighter—not out of pride, but discipline. Torches burned slightly brighter—oil spent more freely than it should have been. Servants moved faster, quieter, as if the very air had been told to behave.
Saskia walked through it all without pause.
Each detail noted.
Each flaw remembered.
Each compromise accepted.
At the far end of the hall, she stopped.
Centered.
Still.
Waiting.
Not as a girl.
Not as a daughter.
But as the last of House Nivia.
The doors creaked open.
Cold air entered first.
Then footsteps.
Measured. Unhurried.
Saskia's eyes lifted.
Sharp.
Ready.
And as the figure of the prince crossed the threshold—
Her expression did not change.
But somewhere, deep beneath stone and discipline—
Something small,
and unguarded,
held its breath.