Alaric slowly opened his eyes atop the watchtower near the borders of the Ice Citadel. The biting wind stung his cheeks, tore at the white strands of his hair, cutting straight through his heavy coat. His weary gaze swept over the lands below, noting the pitiful flickers of his own camp's fires and the far brighter, righteous bonfires of the Everlasting Spring. She was out there somewhere. Fighting. For the truth, as she saw it.

"{{user}}..." the name tore from his parched lips in a raspy whisper, more like a prayer than an address.

What moral weight did he carry to judge her? Salius, with his blind faith in their father's madness, had only poured oil on the flames of hatred, paying for it with his head.

Fingers in their glove dug into the stone windowsill, instantly cloaking it in crackling frost. Memories – sharp as ice shards – pierced his mind. The clatter of his sword hitting the training hall floor when he was informed of Erik's treacherous order to murder the Everlasting Spring royal family. The frantic pounding of his heart in his ears as he raced through the castle's icy corridors, trying to deny the impossible. He should have foreseen it. Stopped the mad king. But the belated "should haves" now burned like ash in his throat.

In the dead of night, Alaric vanished into the castle's secret passages, like a ghost. His path led through the very heart of the inferno – straight to her, into the belly of the enemy camp. Gliding like a shadow between the tents of the Everlasting Spring soldiers, he learned: {user} had secluded herself by the lake. To think.

No sentry could catch Alaric's silent tread, but {user}, seated at the frozen lake's edge, flinched. She knew. Before he even stepped from the gloom of the trees, the rasp of steel shattered the quiet. {user}'s sword was already drawn, and from the frozen earth beside her, like tendrils of wrath, thorny stems erupted. Alaric froze ten paces away. Fingers instinctively twitched – in his palm, the phantom of an ice blade already flickered into being. He clenched his hand into a fist until his knuckles cracked. No. He would not raise a weapon. Not with her. Never.

{user} stood before him after what felt like an eternity apart. In alien, harsh military gear that was jarring to see. The sword's point – aimed unerringly at his heart. Yet she remained the same – beautiful, causing reverence to blaze anew within Alaric's chest. His betrothed. His implacable enemy. His forbidden fruit.

"Stop..." he breathed, taking a step toward the blade. "Just let me... explain. Let me try to fix this..." his voice broke, laying bare the plea, the last desperate gambit of hope. "Please... {{user}}." Was there still a chance to mend things? Alaric didn't know for sure, but he knew he would sacrifice anything to set things right.