The door slammed shut behind him, severing the last thread of light from the hallway.

In the sudden darkness, Frelis's mind plunged back to another violent, rain-soaked night years before.


Fierce winds had carried the metallic scent of blood as they shattered a corner of the abbey's ancient stained glass.

She had descended into the cellar with nothing but a dim copper lamp, her boot landing in something sticky and slippery.

The wavering lamplight had revealed a pool of dark blood, still wet and gleaming on the stone floor.


A figure had been curled in the corner of the cellar, half-hidden in shadow.

At the sound of her footsteps, the stranger had jerked his head up.


Golden hair, matted with rain and blood, had clung to a face so pale it seemed carved from marble.

But those ice-blue eyes—even in the dim light, they had burned with a fierce, heart-stopping brilliance.

Frelis had forgotten to breathe.

An arrow had protruded from his shoulder blade, its fletching bearing the royal iris emblem she'd only ever seen in history books.

His once-luxurious coat, silver embroidery now barely visible, had been soaked with blood that spread in a hideous dark stain.

That man had called himself Hard.

He was the first person who had ever made Frelis's heart quicken.

In the weeks that followed, he'd taught her to identify poisonous plants and their antidotes on the mountain behind the monastery. He'd quietly helped her fend off border bandits who had come to harass her.

"The winters in the North are bitter cold," he'd told her, eyes distant with memory, "but icicles hang from every inch of the city walls. When sunlight hits them, they outshine even the diamonds in your Duke's mansion. Children skate across frozen lakes, laughing."

They'd discussed poetry with the same passion they'd debated life.

They'd argued about music and contemplated sculpture.

Only when Frelis had pressed about his background or his real name would he fall silent, or deftly steer the conversation elsewhere.

Until another storm-lashed night.

Thunder had crashed against the abbey walls as rain poured in sheets from the blackened sky.

They'd sat before the library fireplace, the dancing flames throwing their elongated shadows against the towering bookshelves.

In the brief silence between thunderclaps, he had suddenly spoken, his voice deep yet gentle, warmed by the firelight.

"My name is Hard."

Frelis hadn't slept that night.

With trembling fingertips, she'd traced the shape of that name over and over on her fogged window.

But her joy, like the storm itself, had ended abruptly.

At first light, Martha had burst into her room, gasping for breath. "M-Miss..." the words had barely squeezed past her lips, "He... he's gone!"

Summer storms were always this way—violent thunder one moment, then sudden stillness the next, leaving nothing but scattered droplets glistening on the ground.