Let the world tremble as freedom calls,

  Let the tyrants cower beneath our rising courage,

  While preparations kindle hope in every heart,

  The ship sets sail toward a new dawn.

  They will hear our echoes of thunder.

  Alia hears a scream as she watches her dragon fall from the sky.

  Alia barely registers the gentle arms wrapping around her. Her mother. Holding her, rocking her, whispering something—but the words don’t reach her.

  Oh—I’m screaming.

  She’d been so close—so close to happiness.

  She saved her mother. She hid the rebellion. She kept her people safe.

  Now all Alia feels is numb.

  Torren.

  She can’t tear her eyes away—even as her vision blurs.

  She can only watch as Torren’s beautiful draconic form fall and fall.

  Alia’s hand is outstretched before she realizes she moved. Reaching, aching. But there are more arms holding her back.

  But Alia doesn’t care.

  Not when she’s lost her other half.

  Alia boards the ship.

  Her steps are diligent and measured, as always.

  Her mind is drafting and planning, as always.

  Her heart is in shambles, like never before.

  Promise me that you will keep fighting. Until Blizzardhaven is free again. Even if I am not by your side.

  Even if I am not by your side.

  Her promise haunts her. Alia wants nothing more than to stop. To ignore Blizzardhaven and her purpose and search for her dragon.

  She’d have gone and done it if it weren’t for that damn promise.

  What was she to do now? Without Torren’s grounding presence by her side? Without her other half?

  Alia takes a deep, steadying breathe. No. She will do what she has always done. What she promised.

  She will keep fighting. She will be strong. She will persevere.

  For Torren.

  She lifts her head and comes face to face with Lady Yelwyin. Her sharp eyes are knowing and sympathetic. Alia wants to avert her eyes and hide away, but she won’t. She is the picture of composed.

  Besides, she’s currently quite indebted to Lady Yelwin.

  The advisor had been keeping the Queen away from Alia as she returned to herself.

  I will not grieve until I know, for certain, that Torren is gone.

  If Alia had been nervous about meeting the Queen before, she’s dreading it now.

  She’d had a speech planned. She wanted to introduce her mother to Torren. She’d expected a tearful, happy reunion. Instead, her tears were distressed and grief-stricken.

  Alia straightens her shoulders. She cannot be distracted. She cannot be regretful. She must make this work.

  She nods to Lady Yelwin. The woman hadn’t seemed all that surprised with her identity. If she had the propensity to feel, she’d have been irritated by that.

  Instead, she sighs quietly as she steps onto the swaying wood of the ship. The Veilrunner, her mind supplies.

  The merchant vessel they’ve smuggled themselves onto was large and luxurious. Alia had arranged for the ship herself. She’d been so worried for her mother’s health that she’d pulled out all the stops.

  She hadn’t considered that she’d be on this ship with her.

  Lady Yelwin tilts her head, “Her Majesty is waiting for you, Princess”.

  Alia sucks in a breath. She’s not ready. She can’t.

  She shakes her head, desperately ignoring the spymaster’s keen gaze.

  Thankfully, Lady Yelwin doesn’t pry (though she looks like she’s looking straight into Alia’s soul).

  “Her Majesty is far too weak. She must rest and heal,” Lady Yelwin looks expectantly at Alia, “Regardless, we follow your lead, as always.”

  A crowd has gathered on the deck. Sailors, traders, and members of the rebellion cluster together, eyes fixed on her. They murmur softly, shifting on their feet, shoulders drawn tight with worry. The storm overhead has passed, but the weight of what they’ve seen still lingers in the air.

  Alia brings her energy up to her chest, steadying herself. She gazes at them, unblinking. They meet her eyes, searching her face for a sign—of strength, of hope, of anything to hold on to.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Then, she cracks a smile. Small. Confident.

  From somewhere in the crowd, a quiet huff of laughter breaks through. Another smile answers hers, then another. The tension loosens, just slightly. It’s a good reminder of who she’s fighting for.

  She might not be able to speak to her mother yet. But she knows how to speak to her people.

  She steps onto the guard rail of the ship, her cloak trailing behind her. The massive vessel rocks gently beneath her, but her balance is pristine, effortless. She turns so she can face both the crowd aboard the ship and those gathering on the dock. Twilheim Harbor belongs to Blizzardhaven. These are her citizens. Her kin.

  “My people! My kin!” she begins. Her voice is soft—but sure, cutting through the hush like a blade.

  Heads lift.

  “We have walked through fire. We have tasted ash and sorrow — but we are not broken. We do not bow.”

  She paces across the railing, each step a declaration. The murmurs fade. The people grow still, watching her with something deeper now—intent.

  “For ten long years, I’ve held my tongue, waiting. Watching. But no more. Today, I raise my voice — not as a royal behind stone walls, but as one of you. A fighter. A sister. A flame that will not be snuffed out.”

  The crowd stirs—subtle, but growing. Someone lets out a cheer. Another echoes it.

  “The cursed Purplecloaks think they’ve won. They laid siege to our homes, trampled our soil, tried to drown our spirit. But they’ve mistaken silence for surrender. They forget who we are.”

  The murmurs swell into a hum of agreement, rising with every word she speaks.

  Alia thinks of Torren.

  “We are stormborn. We are wildfire. We are the last breath of the mountains and the first scream of freedom.”

  The crowd erupts.

  Cheering. Crying. Chanting. The harbor shudders with the sound of them.

  “And I swear this — as your princess, as your rebel, as your blade in the dark — I will fight until the last star falls from the sky if it means you will be free.”

  Behind her, the sailors raise the masts. Flags whip in the wind. The people on the docks begin to whisper—no, chant. Hope stirs in their eyes.

  Alia places her fist over her heart.

  A rush of motion answers her. The crowd joins her in salute—hundreds of fists rising as one. The posture shifts—no more hunched shoulders or shifting feet. Now they stand firm, tall, eyes shining with resolve.

  “It has been a decade — a long, wearied decade — since I last called upon you with the full force of our salute. But now, as the tides turn and tyranny claws at our soil, I say: no more retreat. No more silence.”

  They lean forward, drawn to her every word, breath held as if the world has narrowed to her voice and nothing else.

  “So let the world tremble. Let the tyrants cower. Because they will hear our echoes of thunder!”

  And in the moment that follows, the harbor roars.

  “They will hear our echoes of thunder!”

  Alia clicks her tongue under her breath and she brings her candle closer to the tome. The constant lurch and sway of the ship and the dim light of her small cabin only add to her pains. Ancient runes were hard enough.

  She thought she could take advantage of the week-long voyage to gain a better understanding of the typhoon wizard’s runes—and certainly not to avoid speaking with her mother. Perish the thought.

  The tome was from the Conquered Palace. Torren—Alia’s heart twinges—had stolen it months ago. It showed enough promise that Alia has arranged for it to be on the escape ship.

  But this book of archaic symbols and notes has escaped all translation. Alia runs a hand through her hair.

  She brush her fingers over a set of sigils. The writing is scratchy and troublesome—like the writer was in a hurry. It only makes Alia’s plight more difficult.

  Her candle goes dark as the ship lurches. If only she had consistent light. It would be much easier to—.

  Alia chuckles wetly to herself.

  Her eyes flair a bright, crackling blue. Immediately, the small cabin is alight. Much better.

  When Alia turns to the tome, she blinks. The runes begin to glow and rearrange. The writing turns more legible and Alia begins to recognize the ancient dialect.

  Now this is promising.

  Alia leaned against the wooden rails, the wind tangling her hair as she drew in a deep breath of sea air—sharp, salty, and alive with the scent of sun-warmed waves. It filled her chest like a promise, fresh and fierce and full of freedom.

  She’d been holed up in her cabin for far too long.

  Thankfully, they were nearing the archipelago.

  The Prafulla Archipelago—the Isle of Dragons. Her best hope. Allies with ancient power, training that might unlock her own. And maybe, just maybe… a place to wait. To hope. For Torren.

  But even now, with her hands braced tightly on the ship’s railing, trepidation curls in her stomach like smoke.

  She can’t remember the last time she left Blizzardhaven. Has she ever? Not truly. Not since she was a child. And now she’s left it in the midst of chaos—her people still caged in the grip of tyranny.

  It wasn’t abandonment, she tells herself. Over and over again.

  No. She’s doing this for them. Because there was no other choice. Because if she’s come this far, she will see it through. Her people need more than lightning and willpower now. They need allies. They need her stronger. Smarter. Sharper.

  They need a queen.

  The sails snap in the wind as they cut through the sea. They’re heading for Port Ventis—The Sun City. Alia is already dreading the suffocating heat, the thick, salty air that clings to skin like a curse.

  She prays for rain, though she knows the sailors would curse her for it.

  Voices murmur behind her—greetings exchanged, gentle footsteps approaching.

  Her grip on the railing tightens.

  She doesn’t have to look. She knows who it is.

  She’s been avoiding her mother for an entire week.

  Excusing herself to study the texts Lady Yelwyin smuggled out of the city. Joining the rowdy sailors in the rigging just to stay busy, stay anywhere else.

  Shame gnaws in her gut.

  She should want to see her mother.

  Alia, who threw herself into war and flame, who never flinched in the face of her enemies—can’t even meet her mother’s eyes.

  She runs a hand through her white hair, long and wind-tangled. It’s been getting in the way lately—caught on weapons, snagged by the wind, impossible to keep neat.

  Torren used to brush it for her. Every morning.

  It was part of the rhythm of their lives. Small, quiet moments—Torren’s fingers working gently through her hair, braiding it back with care while Alia recited her plans for the day. She didn’t realize how much she depended on those moments.

  Now, the routine is gone. And the world feels less steady without it.

  She doesn’t register the silence beside her until she feels it.

  Her mother’s presence is unmistakable. Powerful, even now—though her body is frail, recovering. Alia stiffens instinctively, keeping her expression composed, proper. Or trying to. She isn’t sure she succeeds.

  But Queen Soraya Snowreign, Sovereign of the Frost-Kissed Throne, says nothing.

  She only gazes out across the horizon, standing at her daughter’s side.

  Her long white hair whips alongside Alia’s in the wind. It’s unmistakable—the resemblance. She’s stunning and magnetic. Some of the sailors steal glances their way, only to be put back in place with a single raised brow from the Alia.

  Alia meets Lady Yelwin’s eyes from across the deck. The older woman only smirks knowingly. Alia grumbles under her breath.

  Queen Soraya smiles.

  She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t push. She just reaches out, gently prying Alia’s fingers from the rail. Alia winces as her joints release, her hands aching from how tightly she’d been holding on.

  The Queen takes them in hers—weathered, soft, strong.

  She rubs slow, soothing circles into Alia’s knuckles. Her eyes glisten, but she says nothing.

  Alia stares for a moment. Then, tentatively she smiles back.

  Her vision blurs.

  And when her mother opens her arms, Alia doesn’t hesitate.

  She leans into the embrace, spine straight but heart breaking, and finally lets herself breathe.

  The tears fall silently, her face buried against the shoulder of the person she has missed for so long.

  Relief washes through her in one trembling exhale.

  She needed this.