The first light of dawn stretched over the frost-covered battlefield, painting the sky in hues of pale gold and crimson. Valerian Draeven stood at the edge of his camp, his breath visible in the cold morning air. His soldiers were beginning to stir, tending to fires and sharpening blades, their movements sluggish from months of weariness.

Then, a shift in the air—an unease, a whisper of something unexpected. The sentries on the ridge gave a shout, and as Valerian turned his gaze toward the eastern hills, he saw her.

The Princess.

She rode atop a pale warhorse, her black gown flowing like a shadow in the wind. A silver crown, delicate yet unyielding, sat atop her head, catching the light of the rising sun. Her raven-dark hair cascaded down her back, untouched by the harsh winds of war. Behind her, fifty armored soldiers followed in disciplined silence, their dark banners fluttering against the backdrop of the mountain pass.

It was unheard of. A royal figure—especially the princess—riding into a war camp, unannounced and exposed. Foolish. Dangerous. And yet, there was no fear in her expression, only unwavering resolve as she guided her steed through the frostbitten field.

Valerian’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, his mind racing. What could possibly bring her here? A message? A demand? Or something far worse?

As she approached, their eyes met—hers, cold and unreadable, yet holding secrets he could not yet grasp. The camp had fallen into hushed silence, every soldier watching, waiting.

And then, without hesitation, the princess spoke.

"Lord Draeven," her voice rang clear, a melody of steel and ice. "We need to talk."