Two years had passed since I first spoke.
The silence that once wrapped around me like a cloak had begun to fade—not fully, but enough. I didn't speak often. Still preferred to observe. Still kept most words for when they mattered.
But those who watched me closely had learned something: When I did speak—people listened.
At six, I was taller. Sharper. The staff said I moved more like my father every day, though my mother's keen perception lived behind my eyes. The servants whispered that I carried myself with a gravity that belonged to someone thrice my age. I pretended not to hear such things.
Lord Thalric had grown more protective since my studies with Master Helwyn began. My father would watch from the edges of the training yard, his brow furrowed as I practiced the Seven Forms. Perhaps he worried I was learning too much, too quickly. Perhaps he simply worried—the natural state of fathers, I was beginning to understand.
The Wall had become more than stone to me now. Through Master Helwyn's tutelage, I had learned to sense the energies that moved through it—invisible currents that waxed and waned with the phases of the moon. On certain nights, standing at my window, I could almost see them—ribbons of pale light that didn't belong to our world, weaving through the ancient battlements.
I walked with purpose now, often beside Mistress Fenya or Gavyn when he was bored enough to humor me. But my favorite place had become the knights' training yard—where steel met steel, and warriors carved stories into the earth with each swing.
That morning, it was different.
The spring air carried the scent of salt from the southern sea, along with something electric—a storm brewing on the horizon, still distant but promising. The courtyard stones gleamed damp from an early shower, catching light in ways that transformed the familiar training grounds into something almost otherworldly.
Gavyn was sparring.
Not instructing. Not correcting. Sparring.
No training swords. No padding. He moved like the wind—two curved blades flashing in rhythm, one fluid motion after another. His opponent was one of the Shadowwalkers—the hooded figure I had glimpsed before, now revealed as a woman with skin the color of burnished copper and eyes that held no white at all, just endless depths of amber.
"Lady Kira," Bran had whispered to me earlier that week when I had asked about her. "Daughter of the Wind Tribes beyond the Eastern Wastes. They say she can speak to storms."
Whether the rumor was true, I couldn't say, but watching her match Gavyn's speed—move for move, strike for strike—I believed she could probably accomplish whatever she set her mind to.
It wasn't just skill. It was instinct.
The way Gavyn's feet adjusted to shifting gravel. The way his blades sang—not with violence, but with intent. The way Lady Kira's body seemed to flow like water around each strike, never quite where the blade expected her to be.
I stood there, hands curled at my sides, chest tight with something I didn't have a name for yet.
Want.
Not for glory. Not for applause.
I want to swing like that. So I can protect everything. So I can cut through anything that dares to take it away.
The training yard had fallen quiet. Other knights and squires had stopped their own practice to watch the display—a dance of death performed with such grace it transcended mere combat. Even Sir Kerran, who typically disdained what he called Gavyn's "theatrical flourishes," stood with arms crossed, a reluctant appreciation in his stern features.
Gavyn paused mid-swing, glancing my way.
He tilted his head, smirked, and gave a single whistle.
"Well well... cub's still a wolf, after all."
He laughed and turned back to his opponent, but I didn't miss the glint in his eyes.
He'd seen it.
Lady Kira followed his gaze, those amber eyes settling on me with an intensity that felt like being touched by flame. She nodded once—acknowledgment, assessment, perhaps something more—before returning to her stance.
"Again," she said, her accent making the word sound like music.
Their dance resumed, blades catching morning light, creating constellations of sparks when they met. I remained rooted, absorbing every movement, cataloging the minute adjustments of weight, the subtle shifts in balance that separated mastery from mere competence.
"They are quite something to behold, aren't they?"
The voice beside me belonged to a stranger—a man I had never seen before in House Valefen. Tall and slender, with silver-streaked black hair pulled back in a long braid, he wore the simple gray robes of a scholar, but something in his posture suggested he was more accustomed to armor.
I said nothing, waiting.
"Forgive my intrusion," he continued, his accent marking him as from the Western Provinces. "I am Thorne. An old... associate of your father's."
Still, I remained silent, watching him from the corner of my eye while keeping most of my attention on the sparring match. Thorne seemed untroubled by my lack of response.
"You study them carefully," he observed. "Most children your age would be entranced by the spectacle—the speed, the danger. But you're watching their feet, aren't you? The way they distribute their weight."
That earned him a glance. His eyes were an unusual shade of gray—almost silver in the morning light.
"Balance precedes power," I said finally, quoting one of Sir Kerran's favorite maxims.
Thorne's eyebrows rose slightly, surprise giving way to something that might have been respect.
"Indeed it does, young Valefen. Indeed it does."
We stood in companionable silence after that, both of us absorbed in the display before us. When the match finally concluded—with neither combatant claiming definitive victory—the gathered crowd dispersed, returning to their duties with renewed vigor, as though inspired by what they had witnessed.
Gavyn approached, chest heaving slightly, a fine sheen of sweat making his bronzed skin gleam in the sunlight.
"Enjoying the show, little wolf?" he asked, ruffling my hair with a familiarity few in the household would dare.
I nodded, then gestured toward Lady Kira, who was conferring with Sir Kerran near the weapon racks.
"She fights like water," I observed.
Gavyn's grin widened. "Sharp eyes as always. The Wind Tribes believe in becoming the elements they worship. Kira chose water as her spirit guide. I've never seen anyone adapt to an opponent's style as quickly as she can."
"A valuable ally in troubled times," Thorne commented quietly.
Something passed between the two men then—a look laden with meaning I couldn't fully decipher.
"Speaking of troubled times," Gavyn said, his voice dropping to ensure only we could hear, "word from the capital?"
Thorne's expression remained neutral, but a muscle tightened in his jaw.
"Prince Edric grows bolder in his father's absence. The old treaties are being... reinterpreted."
"And the Wall allocation?"
"Reduced. Again."
Gavyn cursed under his breath, then seemed to remember my presence. "Apologies, cub. Adult concerns."
But I had already filed the information away, connecting it to conversations overheard between my parents, to the increased patrols along the Wall, to the tension that sometimes filled the great hall during council meetings.
Something was coming. Something that made even Gavyn—who laughed in the face of danger—grow solemn.
"Young master," Thorne said, offering a formal bow, "it was an honor to make your acquaintance. I suspect we'll speak again before long."
With that, he departed, moving with the efficient grace of someone accustomed to slipping in and out of places unnoticed.
Gavyn watched him go, then knelt before me, bringing his face level with mine.
"Listen, cub. You have good instincts—better than most grown warriors I know. Trust them. If something feels wrong, it probably is."
I nodded, recognizing the gravity in his tone.
"And Thorne? Is he trustworthy?"
A complicated expression crossed Gavyn's features—fondness mixed with exasperation and tempered with grudging respect.
"Thorne is... complicated. But he's been loyal to your father longer than I've been alive. And he's never wrong about the things that matter most."
That would have to be enough for now. I stored the assessment alongside my growing catalog of House Valefen's alliances and power structures—a mental map that grew more complex with each passing day.
Gavyn rose, stretching his shoulders. "Now, I believe Master Helwyn is expecting you in his tower. Best not keep the old crow waiting."
As I turned to go, he called after me: "And Asher—" I looked back. "I saw your eyes during the match. When you're ready... really ready... I'll teach you."
My heart leapt at the promise, but I maintained my composure, acknowledging the offer with what I hoped was a dignified nod before setting off across the courtyard toward the east tower.
Master Helwyn's domain was a place of organized chaos—shelves overflowing with ancient tomes, tables cluttered with strange instruments and crystalline fragments, walls covered in maps that seemed to shift slightly when viewed from different angles. The air always smelled of dust, ink, and something else—something older, like the memory of lightning.
"You're late," the old scholar grumbled as I entered, though he didn't look up from the massive volume spread before him.
"I was observing Sir Gavyn's training," I replied, taking my usual seat across from him.
"Hmph. Bladework. Important, yes, but crude compared to the energies we study here."
Master Helwyn finally raised his eyes to mine, his gaze sharp despite his advanced years. His face was a map of wrinkles, his beard a cascade of white that reached nearly to his waist, but there was nothing frail about his mind or presence.
"And yet," he continued, studying me with that penetrating gaze, "even the crudest tool has its place. The body must be strong to channel the energies we work with."
He closed the massive book with surprising gentleness, then reached for a smaller volume bound in faded blue leather.
"Today, we continue our study of the Veil's tidal patterns. The spring equinox approaches, and with it, the first of the year's Thin Times."
I nodded, already familiar with the concept. Four times each year, the boundary between worlds—what House Valefen called the Veil—grew naturally thinner, requiring additional vigilance and special rituals to maintain.
"The equinox falls in nine days," Master Helwyn explained, opening the blue volume to a page marked with a silver ribbon. "Preparations have already begun. This year, with your studies advancing as they have, your father believes you should participate in the Reinforcement Ritual."
My eyes widened slightly—the only outward sign of my surprise. The Reinforcement Ritual was traditionally performed only by full members of the Guardian Circle—the innermost council of House Valefen, those entrusted with the most sacred duties of Veil protection. Even pages older than myself were typically excluded.
"I see your surprise," Master Helwyn noted with a hint of satisfaction. "But it is not unprecedented. Your grandmother participated in her first ritual at five—a year younger than you are now. The Valefen blood runs particularly strong in your generation."
He tapped the open page, drawing my attention to an intricate diagram that depicted a circle of standing stones surrounding a central altar.
"We will begin with theory, and then move to practical applications. By the equinox, you must understand not only the words and movements of the ritual but the intent behind them. The Veil responds to will as much as to action."
For the next several hours, Master Helwyn guided me through the ancient text, translating passages from Old Valefian—a language spoken nowhere else in the Five Kingdoms for centuries—and explaining the subtle correspondences between celestial alignments and Veil energies.
By midday, my head was swimming with new knowledge, but Master Helwyn seemed pleased with my progress.
"Enough for today," he announced, carefully returning the blue volume to its place on a shelf behind his desk. "Remember what we've discussed about intent. Practice focusing your will on a single point until our next session."
I nodded, gathering my own notes—sparse but precise, as Master Helwyn preferred.
As I turned to leave, he called after me, much as Gavyn had earlier.
"Asher." I paused at the door. "Your sister's birth approaches. Be mindful of your mother in the coming days. Childbirth is... its own kind of threshold crossing."
Something in his tone gave me pause. "Is there danger?"
The old scholar's expression softened slightly—a rare occurrence.
"There is always danger in liminal spaces, young Valefen. But your mother is strong, and the midwives are skilled. Still... keep your pendant close. The energies of birth and death stir the Veil in ways we cannot always predict."
I touched the stone pendant that hung beneath my tunic—the one Lady Ysolde had given me two years prior. It had become a constant companion, its subtle warmth a comfort during my studies of entities and energies that defied ordinary understanding.
With a respectful bow, I departed the tower, my mind divided between ritual preparations and concern for my mother. I had been too young when I arrived at House Valefen to remember much about Lady Ysolde's pregnancy with me, but servants' whispers had painted it as difficult.
Lost in these thoughts, I nearly collided with Sir Kerran as I rounded a corner in the eastern corridor.
"Mind your surroundings, young master," he chided, though without real sternness. "A distracted guardian is a failed guardian."
"Apologies, Sir Kerran," I replied, straightening my posture automatically under his evaluating gaze.
The knight studied me for a moment, then nodded toward the central courtyard, where afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen.
"Join me for your forms practice? Your father mentioned your morning session was postponed."
I nodded, grateful for the distraction. Physical training would help clear my mind of the morning's dense theoreticals.
The central courtyard was quieter than the training yard, designed more for contemplation than combat. A single ancient oak tree provided shade at its center, surrounded by carefully raked gravel patterns that changed with the seasons. Currently, the patterns formed concentric circles rippling outward—representing, I knew from Lady Ysolde's teachings, the spreading influence of House Valefen's protection beyond its immediate boundaries.
Sir Kerran led me to a clear space near the eastern edge, where flat stones provided stable footing for practice. Without preamble, he assumed the opening stance of the First Form: feet shoulder-width apart, hands open at his sides, gaze directed forward but unfocused—seeing everything and nothing.
I mirrored his position, feeling the familiar calm settle over me as my body aligned itself. This was different from the raw desire I had felt watching Gavyn's combat display—this was foundation, centering, the ground from which all other movements would emerge.
We moved through the forms in perfect synchronicity, our breaths matching, our transitions flowing one into another with practiced precision. From Wolf Greets Dawn to Sentinel Returns to Mountain, each movement connected me more deeply to the traditions that had shaped House Valefen for generations.
As we concluded the Seventh Form, Sir Kerran surprised me by continuing into the Eighth—Boundary Holds Against Storm—a sequence I had observed but had not yet been formally taught. Without hesitation, I followed, adapting to the new pattern as we moved through increasingly complex transitions.
When we finally came to rest, returning to the neutral stance where we had begun, Sir Kerran's typically stern expression held a hint of approval.
"You adapt quickly," he noted, reaching for a cloth to wipe perspiration from his brow. "The Eighth Form is traditionally taught in a warrior's eighth year. Your father believes in challenging convention."
I accepted the compliment with a slight bow. "The movements feel... natural."
"As they should. The forms are not invented but discovered—patterns that exist in the world whether we acknowledge them or not." Sir Kerran gestured toward the oak tree at the courtyard's center. "Observe the branches. They grow in response to sun, wind, rain—forces beyond their control. Yet in that response, they find balance. Strength. The forms teach us to do the same."
It was a longer speech than Sir Kerran typically offered, and I recognized it for the gift it was—wisdom earned through decades of dedication.
"Thank you," I said simply.
He acknowledged my gratitude with a nod, then reached into a pouch at his belt, withdrawing a small wooden token carved with the Valefen wolf.
"For your sister," he explained, placing it in my palm. "A traditional blessing from the knights to a newborn of the house. I thought you might wish to present it on our behalf."
The gesture touched me more deeply than I could express. Sir Kerran was not given to sentimentality or symbolic gestures. That he would entrust me with this duty spoke volumes about how my standing had evolved within House Valefen.
"I would be honored," I replied, carefully tucking the token into my own pocket.
As the afternoon waned, I found myself drawn toward the western wing of the house, where Lady Ysolde had taken up residence in spacious chambers prepared for the birth. For weeks, these rooms had been the domain of midwives, healers, and the special attendants who arrived from neighboring villages when a Valefen birth approached—women with knowledge passed down through generations, some of them descendants of those who had attended my own birth and those of ancestors long before.
I hesitated at the corridor's entrance, uncertain of my welcome in this feminine sphere. My hesitation was noted by Mistress Fenya, who appeared from a side passage with a basket of fresh linens.
"She's been asking for you," the older woman said with a knowing smile. "Your mother grows restless as the time approaches. A visit from you might settle her spirit."
Encouraged, I followed Mistress Fenya through the west wing, noting the changes that had transformed these normally austere chambers. Fresh flowers adorned every available surface, their sweet scent mingling with herbs hung in bunches from rafters. Candles burned in special holders of blue glass—a tradition for birthing chambers in the southern territories, Mistress Fenya had once explained, believed to ensure easy passage for new life.
Lady Ysolde reclined on a wide couch near west-facing windows that captured the golden afternoon light. Her hand rested on the pronounced curve of her belly, her expression serene despite the discomfort I knew she must be feeling. She wore a loose gown of pale silver silk, her golden hair braided and coiled atop her head in an elaborate style I had never seen before.
"Asher," she said, her face brightening as I entered. "Come sit with me."
I approached, suddenly aware of my dusty training clothes and the lingering scent of the training yard that clung to me.
"I should have bathed before—"
"Nonsense," she interrupted, patting the space beside her. "I've been surrounded by nothing but lavender water and rose oil for weeks. The honest smell of honest work is refreshing."
Reassured, I took the offered seat, noticing how the light caught in her blue-violet eyes, making them seem to glow from within.
"Master Helwyn says I may participate in the equinox ritual," I told her, seeking neutral ground to begin our conversation.
She smiled, though something flickered behind her eyes—concern, perhaps, or simple maternal protectiveness.
"Your father and I discussed it. You've advanced quickly in your studies—more quickly than either of us anticipated." She reached out to smooth a lock of hair from my forehead. "But then, you've always had an old soul, haven't you, my little wolf?"
The phrase sent an uncomfortable chill down my spine—too close to truths I kept hidden, memories of another life that sometimes surfaced in dreams.
Lady Ysolde's expression grew thoughtful. "Your sister will arrive soon. Perhaps even tonight, according to Mistress Alwyn."
I glanced toward a doorway where an elderly woman with iron-gray hair was grinding something in a mortar, her movements precise despite gnarled fingers. Mistress Alwyn was the most senior of the midwives, her reputation extending far beyond House Valefen's territories.
"Will it... hurt?" I asked, the question escaping before I could consider its propriety.
My mother's laugh was gentle, without mockery. "Yes, little wolf. But pain with purpose is different from suffering. This pain brings life—your sister's life. I would endure far worse to meet her."
She guided my hand to her belly, where I felt a sudden, sharp movement beneath my palm. My eyes widened in wonder.
"She's strong," Lady Ysolde said, pride evident in her voice. "Restless, like your father. She kicks more at night—especially when the moon is bright."
"The moon affects the Veil," I noted, recalling Master Helwyn's teachings. "Thins it during specific phases."
My mother's expression shifted—surprise, then a deeper consideration. "Yes, that's true. I hadn't considered... but perhaps she already feels the rhythm of it. The Valefen blood runs strongly in both my children."
A comfortable silence fell between us, broken only by the distant sounds of household activity and the rhythmic grinding of Mistress Alwyn's mortar and pestle.
"Are you afraid?" I asked finally, voicing the question that had been forming within me since Master Helwyn's cryptic warning.
Lady Ysolde studied me for a long moment, her gaze penetrating in that way that sometimes made me wonder how much she truly saw.
"Not of birth," she answered truthfully. "But of the world into which your sister will be born? Sometimes."
She gestured toward a nearby table where maps and correspondence lay scattered—evidence of her continued involvement in House Valefen's affairs despite her confinement.
"The kingdom changes, Asher. The old ways—the old knowledge—it fades a little more with each generation. Prince Edric sees the Wall as a relic, our rituals as superstition."
Her hand tightened slightly on mine. "But you and your sister—you are born of the old blood. You will remember what others forget."
There was weight to her words, a prophetic quality that resonated with something deep within me. Before I could respond, however, Mistress Alwyn approached, a steaming cup in her weathered hands.
"Time for your tonic, my lady," she announced, her accent marking her as from the northern highlands. "And time for the young master to take his leave. You need rest before nightfall."
I stood, recognizing the dismissal for what it was, but Lady Ysolde caught my hand once more.
"Return after supper," she said. "I would have you nearby when your sister decides to join us."
The request filled me with unexpected warmth. I nodded, pressing a kiss to her cheek before departing.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of routine activities—lessons with Bran on the history of the Five Kingdoms, a light meal taken in the kitchen rather than the formal dining hall, then time in my chambers reviewing the ritual texts Master Helwyn had assigned.
As twilight gathered, House Valefen's atmosphere shifted. Servants moved with greater urgency, messengers darted between wings, and Lord Thalric was nowhere to be seen—a rarity, as he typically presided over the evening meal with formal precision.
"Her time approaches," Bran explained when I encountered him in the eastern corridor, his arms laden with fresh towels. "Your father is with her now."
A strange mix of excitement and anxiety settled in my chest. I returned to my chamber only long enough to change into fresh clothing—a simple tunic of Valefen blue and trousers of dark wool—before making my way back to the western wing.
The corridor outside Lady Ysolde's chambers had filled with people—attendants rushing in and out, knights standing guard at respectful distances, even Master Helwyn hovering near a window alcove, his expression distant as though listening to voices no one else could hear.
Sir Gavyn materialized beside me, his usual irreverent demeanor subdued.
"Quite the commotion for such a small person, isn't it?" he observed, though his attempt at humor fell flat. I sensed genuine concern beneath his casual tone.
"Will she be all right?" I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.
Gavyn's expression softened. "Your mother is the strongest woman I've ever known—and I've known many formidable women." He nodded toward the closed door. "Lady Alwyn has delivered royal heirs and beggar's babes alike for forty years. She won't let anything happen to either of them."
His reassurance helped, but the knot of worry in my stomach remained. I clutched the wooden wolf token Sir Kerran had given me, running my thumb over its carved surface.
Hours passed. The corridor emptied and filled again as shifts changed, as attendants came and went. Lord Thalric emerged briefly, his face drawn with concern but his eyes clear.
"Still waiting," he told me, resting a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Your mother asks that you wait with me in the antechamber. Her time grows close."
I followed him into a small room adjacent to the birthing chamber, where a fire burned low in the hearth and a table held untouched refreshments. My father paced—three steps one way, three steps back—his massive frame seeming somehow diminished by worry.
"I forget how fragile it all is," he said after a long silence. "Life. Beginning. Ending. The span between."
He paused, looking down at me with eyes that held shadows I had never seen before.
"When you were born, there was a storm. Did you know that? The worst in fifty years. Waves crashed over the Lower Wall, lightning split the oak in the east courtyard." A faint smile touched his lips. "The midwives said it was a sign of strength—that you entered the world fighting."
I listened, absorbing this new fragment of my own history.
"Your mother nearly died bringing you into this world," he continued, his voice dropping to near a whisper. "She lost so much blood... the healers worked through the night to save her. And now—"
He broke off as a cry sounded from the next room—pain given voice, raw and primal.
My father's face went pale. He moved toward the door, then stopped, visibly restraining himself.
"It's not our place," he said, though whether to me or himself remained unclear. "Not yet."
More cries followed, each seeming to physically pain Lord Thalric. I found myself moving closer to him, offering what comfort I could with my presence. He placed a hand on my head, the weight of it grounding both of us amid the storm of emotion.
And then—silence.
A different kind of silence than the absence of sound. A breathless pause, as though the world itself waited.
A new sound broke it—higher, angrier, full of indignation at being thrust into cold air and bright light after the warm darkness of the womb.
My sister had arrived.
The door opened, and Mistress Alwyn appeared, her lined face weary but triumphant.
"A daughter, my lord," she announced. "Strong lungs, all fingers and toes accounted for."
Lord Thalric's shoulders sagged with relief. "And my wife?"
"Tired but well. She asks for you both."
We entered the birthing chamber—transformed now, the air heavy with scents both metallic and sweet. Lady Ysolde reclined against pillows, her hair damp with sweat, her face flushed but radiant. In her arms, wrapped in crimson-and-silver cloth—the traditional colors for a Valefen daughter—was something small. Fragile.
My sister.
My breath caught.
I approached slowly, step by step, until I was close enough to see her face.
She was crying.
Her tiny fists flailed, her voice high and sharp—and then...
She turned to me.
And stopped.
Eyes—stormy green, just like Father's—locked onto mine. Her hands stilled.
Then she reached out.
I extended a single finger.
She grabbed it.
Tightly.
I didn't speak right away. I just knelt there, staring at this tiny creature who had no idea how much of my heart she already held.
Then, I leaned in.
"Welcome, my little sister," I whispered. "This brother... will protect you. Always."
My mother closed her eyes, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
The baby blinked up at me, wide-eyed.
Then... she smiled.
"She recognizes you," Lady Ysolde said softly. "Blood calls to blood."
Lord Thalric moved to his wife's side, one large hand gently stroking the downy head of his newborn daughter.
"What shall we call her?" he asked.
My mother's gaze remained on me, something like wonder in her expression as she watched the connection forming between her children.
"Lyra," she said after a moment. "For the constellation that guides travelers home."
"Lyra Valefen," Lord Thalric tested the name, his deep voice warming it like sunlight on stone. "May she shine as brightly as her namesake."
I remembered the token in my pocket and withdrew it carefully.
"From the knights," I explained, holding up the carved wolf. "A blessing for House Valefen's daughter."
Lady Ysolde smiled and gestured for me to place it beside the baby, who immediately reached for it with surprising determination.
"Strong grip," Lord Thalric observed with paternal pride. "She'll wield a blade well someday."
"Let her be a child first, my love," Lady Ysolde chided gently. "There will be time enough for swords and duty."
The room had emptied of all but family now, the midwives and attendants withdrawing to give us these precious first moments together. Through the windows, I could see that night had fallen completely—stars wheeling above in patterns older than House Valefen itself.
Something caught my attention—a subtle shift in the air, a whisper of energy that prickled across my skin. I touched my pendant instinctively and found it warmer than usual.
Master Helwyn's words came back to me: Childbirth is its own kind of threshold crossing.
I gazed at my sister—tiny, perfect, already clinging to the wolf token as though she understood its significance—and felt a surge of protective love so fierce it nearly overwhelmed me.
In my previous life, I had never known family like this. Never experienced the bone-deep certainty that I belonged, that my existence mattered to others in ways that transcended mere utility or fleeting affection.
Here, in this moment, I was not just Asher, the reincarnated soul with memories of another world. I was Asher Valefen, heir to ancient responsibilities, guardian of boundaries both seen and unseen.
And now, brother to Lyra.
Later that night, Father placed a hand on my shoulder as we looked out over the sea from the western balcony, stars reflected in the dark waters below.
"You felt it today, didn't you?" he asked. "When you were watching Gavyn."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to.
He nodded.
"One day, the blades will be yours. But your will... that's already stronger than steel."
I looked back toward the chambers, where the soft sounds of my sister's breath echoed in the candlelight.
And for the first time in this life... I felt complete.
Beyond the Wall, something stirred again—that formless entity that had retreated two years prior. It sensed the new arrival, the fresh Valefen blood, untested but potent with possibility.
But it also sensed something else—a change in the heir. A deepening of resolve, a strengthening of purpose that radiated outward like ripples in still water.
Two guardians now, where before there had been one.
The entity withdrew once more, sinking back into the spaces between worlds. The game had become more complex, the stakes higher.
But it was patient.
It could wait.
The wolf watches. The walls endure.
For now.