Echoes of Ice and Iron Chapter 45: Through Sealed Borders

Athax — Late Evening

Killan was roused by the sound of boots.

Frantic and purposeful. The kind of sound that ant soone had already decided this could not wait.

He opened his eyes to lamplight and the shadow of Harlan standing near the door, armor half-fastened, hair loose from sleep.

"There’s a rider at the inner gate," Harlan said quietly. "Frost Fire."

Killan was already sitting up.

"Through sealed borders?" he asked.

"Yes, Your Grace."

That was all the confirmation he needed as he stood up and all but ran to the war room, where Harlan told him the ssenger was.

The war room of Athax was lit like a wound kept open—lamps burning low and steady, maps spread across the long oak table, weights holding down curled corners. Red and black markers stood where armies might move. Nothing yet showed where Aya was.

That changed when the doors opened.

The man walked in, his deanor firm and resolute, followed closely by Santi who received him at the gates. Frost Fire colors were dulled beneath blood and gri—dark leather cut and scored, one shoulder torn where a blade had glanced too close. But he appeared to be none the worse for wear.

He bowed as Killan approached.

Killan eyes him carefully, the way one watched the weather.

"You rode hard," he said.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Across sealed roads?"

"Yes."

He nodded once. "And the Lady Aya?"

The ssenger crossed the chamber and held out the ssage with both hands.

Killan looked down, saw Aya’s seal and, with steady hands, broke it himself to read her ssage.

He read standing.

Once.

Then again, slower.

The room held its breath.

He folded the parchnt neatly and set it on the table without comnt, then slid it toward Vignir and Harlan. "Read."

Vignir did, face hardening with each line.

"Harlan."

Harlan stepped in, took the parchnt, and read in silence. His jaw clenched.

Santi was the first to speak.

"That bad?" he asked quietly.

Killan did not answer.

Instead, he turned back to the ssenger.

"How is she?"

The question landed with weight.

The courier straightened despite his exhaustion. "Unhurt, Your Grace."

A pause.

"She was mostly calm," he added. "Focused. She fought like—" He stopped herself, then continued more carefully. "Like soone who knew she would walk out alive."

Killan’s mouth tightened—not in relief.

"Are any of you hurt?"

"One of her guards is injured. Badly. We did all we could to help him, but in the end, it’s his injury that made the Lady decide we have to break through the guarded passes."

Admiration crept into the man’s voice despite himself. "She carried the assault to escape the Western territories really well, Your Grace."

Silence stretched.

Killan’s gaze dropped briefly to the table, to the marker where Ceadel sat untouched.

"How far out is your camp?"

"Three towns, maybe four. They won’t be staying long. I suspect they will be on the move again."

Of course she’ll do that.

Killan turned away from the table.

"Ready my horse."

Harlan’s head snapped up. "Your Grace—"

"I am riding to et her," Killan said calmly.

He looked back at the n in the room.

"Shift the southern patrols north by half a day’s march. Aya and her group are already inside our territory. Let’s not make their journey back here more painful than it already is."

Vignir nodded imdiately. Santi swore under his breath at the sudden turn of events. And Harlan watched Killan closely as he followed him out of the war room.

***

Later—alone in the antechamber—Killan fastened his cloak himself.

The red of Valmird caught the lamplight, dark as old wine.

The lamps hissed softly, oil settling. The maps lay undisturbed now, as if nothing had changed—though everything had.

He rested his hands on the table’s edge and leaned forward, head bowed just enough that no one would ever see it.

Three towns. Four. Still too far for comfort.

He pictured her as he always did when he allowed himself this indulgence—not crowned, not commanding—but riding at night, cloak pulled tight, breath fogging in the cold, eyes fixed forward. Aya had always moved like she could not afford to look back.

Hold, he thought again.

Not because she was weak. But because she never stopped once she’s set on a goal.

Killan straightened and adjusted his cloak, smoothing the red of Valmird back into order. Whatever lived in his chest was sealed behind discipline, where it belonged.

When he spoke again, it was to the corridor beyond the door—asured, calm, and unquestionable.

"Tell the stables I’m riding out now."

And only after the words left him did he allow himself one final, silent admission: From what I heard, from stories, you always survive. I never doubted you would. Just don’t make learn how close it was this ti.

At the stable, a squire was already waiting, hands shaking slightly as he presented Killan’s gauntlets. Killan took them without comnt and fitted the leather straps himself, movents precise and practiced. Steel followed—sword belted, cloak clasped. Familiarity steadied the hand when the mind refused to.

Harlan appeared at his side, quiet as ever.

"You’re not riding alone," he observed. "We’ll co with you," he continued, gesturing to Santi, who was already holding his saddled horse behind him.

"Let’s go then," Killan said.

Killan flexed his fingers once, testing the fit of the gauntlet.

Outside, the night air was sharp and clean, carrying the scent of iron and earth. Horses stamped and snorted as grooms worked quickly, lantern light flashing across polished tack. Killan’s mount—dark-coated, restless—was brought forward at once.

As Killan swung into the saddle, Santi looked at him, brows drawn.

"You’re not worried," he said—not a question.

Killan gathered the reins. "No, I’m not."

Santi huffed softly, unconvinced but loyal. "Of course, you’re not."

The gates began to open—not fully, not ceremonially. Just enough.

Killan urged the horse forward, cloak snapping once as he passed beneath the arch.

He did not pray. He had never been good at it.

Instead, he leaned low in the saddle and rode hard into the dark, carrying with him a truth he would never give voice to:

The war had already touched his people. It had hard his Queen. It had co too far, too fast.

And Killan Valmird intended to answer that insult personally.

***

Outpost — Sa Evening

The pain hit without warning.

Elex staggered mid-step, one hand slamming against the stone table hard enough to rattle the pieces laid across it. Ink spilled. A carved marker toppled and rolled.

For a breath—only one—he could not see.

Not darkness. A kind of pressure. Like sothing reaching through him.

"Commander?" a lieutenant started.

"Out," Elex snapped, teeth clenched.

The room cleared at once.

He stayed where he was, shoulders locked, breath controlled by sheer will alone. The pain receded as quickly as it had co, leaving behind a hollow ache beneath the ribs—familiar in the way old wounds are familiar.

Summoner blood. Active. Too active.

Slowly, Elex straightened.

"Aya," he said under his breath.

The word carried no softness. It never had. Not when it mattered.

A knock ca at the door, sharp and urgent. Before he could answer, it opened.

A Frost Fire ssenger stepped inside, along with Asta—mud crusted into his boots, armor scratched and darkened with dried blood that was not all his own. He bowed his head in respect imdiately, fist to chest.

"Commander," the man said. "From Lady Aya."

Elex crossed the room in three strides and took the sealed missive from the man’s hand. The wax bore Aya’s seal.

He broke it open and read quickly. His jaw tightened—not at the ambush, not at the injuries, not even at the confirmation of King Therin’s death.

They tried to kill her.

As I said, they would.

His fingers curled slowly around the parchnt until it crumpled.

The ache flared again—fainter this ti, but sharper, like a warning pressed directly into bone.

Elex exhaled through his nose and forced his hand to unclench. He smoothed the missive flat again, as though the paper itself mattered more than the words on it.

"She’s safe then?" he murmured.

The ssenger nodded. "Yes. She’s safe and traveling back. The Lady sent ahead three ssengers. One to her husband, the King. One to you, Commander. And another to the Warden, your brother Juno."

Elex nodded, thinking back to the missive.

The ssage clearly said they were forced to fight their way out of Ceadel and the West. Aya did not unleash without reason. Which ant they had given her one.

The ssenger shifted, clearly uncomfortable beneath Elex’s silence.

"And Shin?" he asked.

"Injured, but alive, Commander."

Good.

That mattered more than the rest to his sister, so he cared enough to ask.

Elex turned back to the map table, eyes already recalculating. Lines moved in his mind—routes, timings, choke points. Western arrogance always bred predictability.

He reached for fresh parchnt.

"Sit," he told the courier. "Eat and rest. Then you’ll ride again."

"Yes, Commander."

As the man obeyed, Elex wrote swiftly, decisively.

Orders to be passed to the Northern armies. Warnings.

A single, private line added at the end—short enough to be missed by any other reader.

Send Princess Silene back to Peduviel for the anti. We’ll have her return once the North is secured again.

He sealed the ssage with his own mark.

When he finally leaned back, the ache in his chest had dulled—but it had not vanished.

Blood-siblings as they are, distance did not matter. Whatever his sister feels, he would feel, even if it’s only a fraction.

And for the first ti since the war began moving in earnest, Elex allowed himself a dangerous thought:

If circumstances push Aya to the brink, she might lose control of herself again.