Through Flame and Time

Three days later, the west gate of the royal palace opened quietly, and a closed black carriage slipped soundlessly out of the capital. Wrapped in a traveling robe, Aveline sat inside, gazing through the curtain slit at the receding palace walls, her fingertips clenched around the fire seal.

Lucian accompanied her, deploying a small escort team composed only of trusted men. He had shed his royal finery and donned traveling armor, his posture tall and alert. He knew this journey was more than an escort—it was a partnership, an adventure, a gamble.

The road to the Eastern Border was long, the snowline already creeping toward the frontier towns. At night, the wind howled bitterly, coating even the tree branches in a thin layer of frost.

On the third evening, they arrived at Seran Monastery, a border outpost where Aveline's father had often stayed in life and his last stop before his final campaign. The monastery stood in solemn silence, its walls blanketed in deep snow, the bell tower a mute witness standing in the night. The elderly abbot led them to the back hall, lit a fire in the hearth, and served bitter tea brewed with snowmelt.

"Your father left a record book before he departed," the abbot said in a low voice. "He ordered that no one read it, but commanded me to give it to his blood kin."

Aveline took the thick leather-bound journal, her heart racing involuntarily. Late at night, she sat alone before the hearth, poring over her father's handwriting. The script remained neat, yet carried an undercurrent of strained tension:

"The fire mark is not just punishment, but a testament to loyalty."

"The Regent plans to invoke ancient laws to purge those who hold the seal."

"I must leave evidence, but cannot reveal my stance."

Her fingers trembled, a profound question rising in her heart. Was her father a traitor, or a double agent?

"You shouldn't bear this alone."

Lucian's voice came from behind her. He came to sit beside her, pulling her into his arms. The firelight played over his austere profile, and for a moment, she felt a long-lost sense of support.

"I fear what I see isn't the truth," she whispered, "but an illusion I want to believe."

"Then we'll face it together." He leaned down to kiss her, at first soothing, then deepening. His kiss carried the chill of the snowy night and the warmth of the fire, lingering and tangling between her lips and teeth.

Aveline rested on his knees, her traveling robe slipping to bare her snow-white shoulders and collarbone. His palm pressed against her back, sliding slowly and firmly to her waist. He gently laid her on the animal fur rug, his lips and tongue wandering along her neck, feeling her increasingly unsteady breaths.

By the firelight, leather, lips, and gasps wove together into a release pressed by the approaching truth. They sought warmth and strength in each other—even if reality was cruel, even if faith had crumbled, in this moment, they existed only for each other.

Afterward, Aveline leaned against his chest and whispered, "What if my father truly betrayed the royal family?"

"Then we will rebuild from the ashes," Lucian said softly, his palm brushing through her hair. "But you will never be alone."

Outside, the snow continued to fall, the monastery sleeping like a dream, only their breaths blending steadily in the night.