Chapter 2 — Chapter 2

Thalen

Thalen rubbed his temples, the dull ache sharpening with each passing moment. A faint frost crept across the desk beneath his fingertips, an unconscious flicker of his fading magic sparked by stress. The news was grim and growing graver. Grain stores dwindled to dangerous lows, threatening famine across Thalvarin if the inland skirmishes at the borders didn’t cease. He pushed his dark hair from his forehead, the weight of his responsibilities heavier than the polished mahogany chair creaking beneath him. The room itself mirrored the kingdom’s decline—a chill lingered despite the fire, and a faded tapestry of past kings hung threadbare on the wall. Mernas, his advisor, pressed on, undeterred.

“The nights stretch on, Thalen. Surely you’ve felt the shift?” Mernas’s voice carried a quiet urgency, his pressed cream tunic pristine as his logic.

Thalen clenched his jaw, a memory of his parents’ struggles flashing through his mind—his father’s weary eyes during the last fade, his mother’s trembling hands as she sketched fading runes. “I’m aware,” he said tightly. “But I’ve told you before, Mernas, I’ll not bind us to shadows. Not after what we’ve endured.” His voice lowered, carrying the weight of unspoken betrayals. “A marriage to Virelya would end Thalvarin and the peace my parents died for. I won’t see their legacy shattered—not with her envoy due in mere days to press the issue.”

Mernas exhaled, a flicker of exasperation crossing his weathered face as he restrained a gesture of frustration. “And the rumors from the outer edges? Stirrings of magic? Surely this is just magistrates spinning tales to spark hope in villages gutted by the fade.”

Thalen’s gaze hardened. “Perhaps. But the air feels… different. Ice Flowers, once symbols of our magic’s strength, are said to bloom again. Elkten graze on them as they did in my father’s time. If there’s truth to it, we must know.” He straightened, decision firm. “Send a trusted scout to investigate. And bolster provisions to the outer edges—along with soldiers to keep the peace. We can’t afford more unrest.”

Mernas gave a curt nod, sensing the dismissal, and bowed slightly before leaving the chamber. Thalen turned from the desk, his boots echoing on the cold stone floor as he moved to the window of his inner bedchamber. Already, the sun dipped low, a sickly orange glow fading though it was barely past midafternoon—a stark reminder of the unnatural nights lengthening under the Shadow Queen’s growing power. His own magic dimmed with each shortening day, a mirror to his waning hope. He feared the moment shadow would swallow Thalvarin whole, yet a union with Virelya would only fuel her hunger for war, her thirst to rule all Fae lands. Duty bound him to refuse her, though a fleeting ache stirred in his chest—a longing for a fated bond like his parents’, a love that might lighten his burden. He pushed the thought aside, a luxury he couldn’t afford.

His gaze drifted downward to the garden, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the weight on his shoulders. Caelira, her red hair whipping in the wind, scooped a snowball from the thinning, graying drifts and launched it at Jurel, her private guard. Silver flakes danced off her burgundy cape as the snow struck Jurel’s broad chest. He feigned surprise, though his watchful eyes never left her. For a moment, her laughter—melodious and bright—cut through the glass, warming Thalen’s heart. Yet as she turned, a fleeting shadow crossed her face, a silent echo of guilt over the fire she’d caused years ago, the loss of her snowy songbird. The garden itself bore scars of decay—wilting Ice Flowers clung to frostbitten stems, a poignant contrast to her fleeting joy.

Caelira’s birth had been a beacon of hope, a sign many believed heralded magic’s return, though time proved otherwise. Her unpredictable power, strong but wild, had been locked away by her own will after that tragic blaze. Still, the castle staff adored her, often conspiring in her pranks—none more infamous than the time she’d smuggled live hares into Thalen’s chambers. The Snowden siblings shared a fierce loyalty, forged through shared loss and sacrifice, like the winter they’d spent rationing their own meals to feed the starving villages after their parents’ death. Teasing was their language of love, but beneath it lay an unbreakable bond.

Thalen’s thoughts darkened as he watched her run after Jurel, snowball raised. The border troubles would reach their gates soon. He needed to secure Thalvarin, to restore the magic before it vanished into shadow forever. A miracle, perhaps—but where to find it? His mind circled back to the outer edges, to whispers of Ice Flowers and elkten. If magic stirred there, it could be their salvation.

His parents’ story, a tale of hope amidst struggle, flickered in his mind. Young King Efferon, riding through the river folk’s lands, had felt Elowyn’s presence before seeing her—a bond so instant, so true, he’d raced to her home and knelt before the farmer’s daughter, proposing without a shared word. Their love, blessed by ancient Thalvarin rites that tied magic to matrimony, bore three children—a rarity in fading times. Thalen’s older brother, Phillippe, born without magic, led soldiers at the borders now, securing peace where he could. A recent missive from him reported growing tensions, a reminder of his absence and shared burden. Though eldest, Phillippe’s lack of power meant Thalvarin’s magical lineage—and thus its true rulership—fell to Thalen, a tradition rooted in their people’s belief that only magic could guard the realm’s heart. Thalen refused the title of king, remaining Prince Thalen of Thalvarin, ruling alongside his brother with respect and fairness. Their spars, whether in debate or on the battlefield, were evenly matched—Thalen never wielding magic against Phillippe, a testament to their bond.

Moments later, as Thalen lingered by the window, a sharp knock broke his reverie. A guard slipped in, parchment in hand. “Urgent, my lord. From the outer edges—a sighting confirmed. Ice Flowers, in full bloom.” Thalen’s heart quickened, fingers brushing against his father’s old sigil ring on the desk, a relic of brighter days. Could this be the spark of hope they so desperately needed? Or merely another fleeting illusion before the fade consumed them all?