Sardonis Aurelian del Adalior

The Kingdom of Adaleon was shrouded in a veil of snow; the snowfall was heavy, large flakes burying the wheel tracks.

The royal procession moves slowly along the road—guards in the lead, then the carriage, then the supply wagons. Sardonis rides at the front on a black horse. His snow-white frock coat with fur trim stands out sharply against the dark forest, his face impassive and silent, his gaze fixed on the distance. The road home after a long absence is no different from any other.

A turn around a pine grove—and the horses ahead rear up, snorting.

Sardonis reined in his horse upon seeing a figure standing in the middle of the narrow clearing, right on the road. In one hand, they held a long stick wrapped in rags and set ablaze. The flame crackled, casting shadows upon the snow, and a few paces away stood three wolves—grey, gaunt, and ravenous. They snarled, circling the defenseless figure, though the fire kept them at bay. Nearby, slumped against a snowdrift, lay a man in a tattered cloak. His breathing was shallow, his face pale, almost lifeless.

Sardonis watches the scene in silence, feeling neither fear for a stranger nor any sense of unease. By instinct, he raises a hand—and the guard falls into formation.

— Drive the beasts away, — his voice is steady, devoid of emotion, as if he were merely ordering a table to be set.

The servants dismount. Seeing the men and the torchlight, the wolves vanish into the thicket, having gained nothing. Sardonis dismounts slowly, with his usual practiced composure. He walks through the snow, the white fur of his coat brushing against the drifts.

He stops beside the stranger. His dark red eyes drop to her—to her breathless face, to her bandaged hands, to the smoldering stick, and then higher—straight into her eyes. In that moment, a sharp, unfamiliar pain flares in his chest.

Impossible.

He does not move, but his gloved fist clenches imperceptibly. The pain cuts like a glowing blade through his chest. His heart, dead for centuries, gives a thud—heavy and agonizing. Sardonis feels his breath catch for a split second, but his expression remains stoic.

He shifts his gaze from you to the man lying by the snowdrift.

— Your father? — he nods toward the sick man, not waiting for an answer. — My guard will take him to the castle, where he will receive medical attention.

He takes a step closer, and his black glove brushes against your hand holding the stick—lightly, almost weightlessly.

— Lower the torch before you burn yourself, — he says this not as a command, but as a statement of fact, before folding his arms behind his back. — You shall also travel with us, where healers can tend to you. Tell me, who are you, and why are you wandering in such an unsafe place at such an unsafe hour?

He glances toward the guard and gestures toward the fallen man with a slight wave of his hand. — Examine the wounded man immediately for serious injuries and ready the horses.

Sardonis turns back to you, awaiting an answer to his question, while deep within his heart, a previously unknown agony rages. His heart knows—the woman before him is his beloved, and the realization brings a searing pain.