UTHRED: HEIR OF ASH AND STEEL

Eldhaven felt quiet the night before the duel. Too quiet.

The sky was pale with frost and memory. The walls glowed with torchlight, but the people did not sing. No feasts. No drunken chants. Only the silence that comes before judgment.

Uthred returned from the Broken Ridge without a word.

He washed the blood from his father's blade in the old basin near the war room, and when Maera asked what had happened, he simply said:

"I agreed to end it. One way or another."

That night, Vale found him in the garden courtyard—the place where his mother had once planted flamebloom trees before the fall.

He stood in the cold, breath fogging in the moonlight, arms bare despite the chill.

Vale approached, wrapping her cloak around him from behind.

"You're shaking," she whispered.

"I'm not afraid of dying," he said.

She leaned her head against his back. "I know. But I am."

He turned, eyes meeting hers, and for the first time in weeks, the silence between them wasn't heavy—it was sacred.

"I don't know what's waiting tomorrow," Uthred said. "But if it's my last night, I want it to be with you. Only you."

She touched his face. "Then come inside."

The royal chamber was dark save for the hearth, where flames flickered low and golden.

Uthred entered first, removing his armor, his tunic, until only the scarred skin and silent weight of war clung to him.

Vale followed, unpinning her braids, shedding the silk and velvet of her crown. What remained was not a queen—but the woman who had stood beside him at the rebel altar, who had kissed him beneath the burned banners of Caelwyn.

They stood before each other, bare and quiet.

No throne.

No crown.

No future promised.

Only this.

He touched her shoulder. "You've carried so much."

"So have you."

They kissed—slow, aching, grateful.

Their hands found each other with reverence. Fingers tracing old wounds. Lips finding familiar places. The way their bodies moved was not rushed. It was memory rekindled.

When they lay together, it was not lust but need. The need to remember they were still alive. That they still belonged to something not built on war or prophecy or blood.

The fire crackled beside them.

"I dreamed of this," Vale whispered. "When we were in exile."

"So did I."

Outside, the wind howled.

Inside, they did not let go.

Before dawn, Uthred rose and sat beside the window, watching the stars fade over the high towers.

Vale stirred. "You're not gone yet."

He looked back. "I won't be. Not unless fate tears me from you."

She sat up, wrapping the fur around her. "Fate answers to no crown."

He nodded. "But maybe it listens to fire."

She rose and crossed to him, placing her hand over his chest.

"Then burn bright, my king."

Later that morning, Uthred entered the royal nursery alone.

Elion slept soundly, curled against a woolen lion stitched by Vale herself. His tiny hands were balled into fists.

Uthred knelt, watching his son breathe.

"I never knew mine," he whispered. "But I remember the stories. The way his voice sounded when he swore the Oath. The way his blade rang off steel in the night."

He placed his hand over Elion's.

"You'll know me. Whatever happens out there... you'll know I fought for this."

He rose slowly, touched the child's brow, and turned.

In the hallway, Maera stood waiting. She handed him his cloak and swordbelt.

"The guards are ready. The path is clear."

"Then let's end it."

As they left the palace, a light snow began to fall. The city held its breath.

Uthred walked without ceremony. No parade. No escort but the wind and Maera's silent steps beside him.

At the city gates, Theron waited.

"You're sure about this?" he asked.

"No."

"But you're going anyway."

Uthred nodded.

Theron smiled grimly. "Then make sure your flame burns longer than his."

They clasped arms.

Then Uthred stepped into the snow-covered road, the duel ground waiting beyond the hills.