Frost and Fire
The cold woke him before the bells did.
Duke Aelric lay still a moment, staring at the vaulted ceiling of his chamber, where pale light already crept along the carved ribs of frost-pine and stone. Somewhere beyond the thick walls of the Ice Citadel, wind combed through the high passes, carrying with it the particular hush that came only in the hour before dawn, when even the mountains seemed to hold their breath. He had lived in this fortress his whole life, had learned its language of creaks and drafts the way other men learned scripture, and he knew without looking at the water-clock beside his bed that it was too early for any sane man to rise.
He rose anyway.
The floor was frigid beneath his bare feet, but he had long since stopped minding such things. Cold was simply the accent of home, the way the Southern Kingdom's people complained of dust and glare, the way Westerners spoke of endless rain. He dressed quickly in a fur-lined tunic, not bothering with the heavier ceremonial robes his steward would insist upon later, and made his way out of his chambers into the spiraling stairwell that climbed toward the citadel's highest tower.
His breath fogged before him as he…
