Chapter 1: Union of fire and frost 

I come to slowly, eyes opening to pitch darkness, a damp chill seeping through my bones. I try to lift my arms, but they won’t move—iron digs into my wrists, and it takes a few agonising seconds to realise why. Shackles. Cold, heavy, and biting into my skin with every movement.

My head throbs, and when I turn to look around, the world spins. Blinking hard, I make out the rough texture of stone walls, slick with some kind of moss. There’s a faint, sickly smell, a mix of rot and iron that makes my stomach churn. Somewhere nearby, water drips, the sound bouncing off the walls in mocking rhythm.

Panic kicks in as I strain against the restraints. Every rattle of the chains echoes in the silence, and I freeze, listening. Silence—then footsteps, slow and deliberate, heading toward me. I can’t see anything but shadows, but I know they’re coming for me. My heart pounds harder, and the pain in my wrists becomes a distant ache compared to the sick dread settling in my chest.

I rack my brain for how I got here, but it’s all just fragments. A key scrapes in the lock, followed by the low creak of the door opening. A figure stands in the doorway, their face obscured but eyes sharp, reflecting firelight. 

“Do you know why you’re here?” the figure asks, voice flat and cold.

My mouth is dry, but the words come anyway, unsteady and hoarse. “It's over, Albion has fallen.”

The great kingdom of Albion, once the rulers of the seas, had fallen. For centuries, Albion's banners had flown high, casting shadows over continents and drawing borders with the blade. We had ruled with unyielding pride and iron command, our navy unchallenged, our pockets overflowing with the spoils of conquered lands. But now, the mighty walls of Harlech Castle lay in ruin, its cerulean banners tarnished and torn.

And who had brou

ght this empire to its knees?

Not a force of nature nor an army of thousands, but a single woman—a woman from a land Albion had once crushed under its heel, a land Albion's generals had dismissed as a mere footnote of history. Yet she had returned from the ashes of her homeland, with flames in her eyes and a vengeance that had turned Albion's might against itself.

With calculated precision and relentless ambition, she had shattered Albion's defences, stripped us of our power, and claimed the throne as her own. The very empire that had once subjugated her people now answered to her command.

Silence stretches between us, tense as the chains holding me. In that moment, I know I have two choices: I can beg, plead for mercy... or I can fight, whatever that might mean in this pit. The figure shifts, waiting for me to speak.

The figure steps closer, and I instinctively pull back, but there’s nowhere to go, nothing but stone at my back. The torchlight catches their face just enough for me to make out the hard lines, the cold, assessing look in their eyes. Without a word, they grip my chains and—impossibly—snap them free as if they’re no more than twine.

I fall forward, my arms suddenly weightless, pins and needles prickling painfully up my wrists as blood rushes back. I try to steady myself, but the world spins. The figure reaches out to hold me upright, their grip firm, almost impatient.

“On your feet,” they say, voice low and edged with something that could be disdain or amusement. “You have an audience with the queen.”

The words hang in the air, and I stare at them, uncomprehending. The queen? My mind races, fighting through the haze of hunger and exhaustion. Its not yet been a week since the fall of albions crown and this harlot has declared herself queen.

"Are you deaf?" they snap, and I force myself to focus, nodding as I stumble to my feet. 

"Clean yourself up,” they continue, thrusting a bucket of water and a rag at me. I glance down, catching sight of my reflection in the murky surface of the water. A face I barely recognize stares back—dirty, hollow-cheeked, bruised. I don’t know whether to laugh or scream. 

“Hurry,” they say, watching as I splash water on my face, scrubbing away the grime as best I can. The rag comes away blackened, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. A spark of something flickers in my chest. Anger. 

I can barely keep the tremor out of my step as I follow the guard up a winding stairwell, the stones cold and damp beneath my feet. Anger burns beneath my skin, radiating outward, sharper than the pain in my wrists, hotter than the stale air of the dungeon I’ve been breathing for—how long? Days? Weeks? I lost count after the first cold, brutal night. The queen. My throne. 

I was thrown into that cell with nothing but betrayal for company, stripped of everything—my crown, my title, my freedom. And yet she had the audacity to summon me now, as if I were a commoner she could call to heel. Rage surges in me, wild and consuming. If she thinks I’ll kneel before her, then she’s mistaken. If anything, I’d die on my feet before lowering myself to the woman who stole what was mine.

We reach the top of the stairs, and I blink against the sudden onslaught of light. The guard’s hand clamps down on my shoulder, steadying me—or more likely reminding me that I’m still a prisoner here. We walk through a wide archway, the air noticeably warmer, carrying the faint scent of incense and oil. Torches line the walls, casting a golden glow that’s almost foreign after so long in the dark.

The corridor stretches before us, filled with whispers from nobles and courtiers who’ve gathered in fine silks and furs to witness my humiliation. Some of whom I recognise from my fathers court, traitors. They’ve forsaken their favour to my father and sided with this usurper.  I straighten, fixing them with a hard stare. Let them see me like this. Let them see what she’s reduced me to. None of them dared raise a voice when she took the throne—either because they were too afraid or too eager to serve her lies. I take satisfaction in the way their smiles falter, their gazes flicking away like cowards. My eyes skip across the room noticing new faces, some from her homeland and some lesser gentry who were not favoured by the late king.

At the end of the hall, the doors to the throne room stand open. And there she is, seated upon the throne, my throne. Draped in crimson, her gaze cold and calculating as it meets mine. The torchlight catches the stolen crown on her brow, my father’s crown— my crown. I feel my fists clench, fingernails digging into my palms, but I force myself to keep moving. 

“Welcome,” she says, her voice a smooth, dangerous purr that fills the hall. She sits back, as if this is all some game to her, as if I’m nothing more than an amusement to pass the time. “I trust you found our accommodations… suitable?”

I stare at her, feeling the heat of every eye in the room as the silence stretches. My voice comes out low, every word laced with the hatred I’ve nursed in the darkness of that cell.

“Suits a traitor, doesn’t it?”

A ripple of murmurs spreads through the room, but her smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it grows sharper. Her grip on the armrests tightens ever so slightly, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. Good. Let her know I haven’t broken.

“You forget yourself,” she says, with a chilling calm that almost conceals the venom beneath. She leans forward, her gaze narrowing, daring me to challenge her. “After all, you are only here at my mercy.”

“If it were up to my advisors they would have discarded you by now’’

My mind races, every nerve tense with the urge to lunge, to reclaim what’s mine by force. But I take a breath. I have to play this carefully. There will be a time to strike, to set things right—but that moment isn’t here, not yet. So I bow my head, only just, enough to let her think I’m yielding. 

But inside, my heart is still a fire, burning, waiting for the day I can tear her from the throne that’s rightfully mine.

The queen lifts her hand, a languid wave that commands absolute silence, and I watch as the courtiers fall still, their muttered whispers dying on their lips. Her gaze sweeps over the room, sharp and decisive, and then she speaks, her voice low but carrying, a command as unyielding as iron.

“Leave us,” she says, glancing at each face in turn, letting no one mistake her intent. “All of you.”

There’s a ripple of hesitation, a flicker of surprised glances among the nobles, but no one dares question her. One by one, they bow and file out, trailing silks and muttered words. I don’t bother hiding my smirk as I watch them slink away, though my heart races beneath the surface. The tension thickens as they retreat, leaving me alone in the lion’s den with the woman who stole everything from me.

Only one person lingers—a woman in dark armour, standing silently at the queen’s side, her face hidden beneath the shadow of her helm. I recognize her now, the same cold gaze, the same iron strength in her grip as the one who yanked me from the dungeon and freed me from my shackles. She stands a step behind the queen, her hands clasped at her back, watchful.

“Even you, Captain,” the queen says softly, not even sparing her a look. It’s clear the queen expects obedience without question.

The woman’s jaw clenches, but she nods, casting a final, scrutinising look in my direction before turning on her heel and striding toward the door. Our eyes meet as she passes, and something unreadable flits across her face—a warning, perhaps, or a threat. I can’t tell which, and then she’s gone, the heavy doors shutting behind her with a reverberating thud that echoes through the now-empty hall.

And then it’s just the two of us.