Within the fortified walls of Marquis Hayden’s stronghold—more barracks than manor—a rare hush blanketed the night. The quiet was unnatural, oppressive. This place, perched on the nation’s volatile western border, was known for many things, but peace was not one of them.

Normally, the fortress rang with the cadence of marching boots, the clatter of weapon drills, and the bark of sergeants drilling fresh recruits. Barracks lined the courtyard like ribs around a beating heart, and the scent of oiled steel hung in the air like incense.

But not this night.

Tonight, officers were replaced by midwives. The only sound was the low crackling of the hearth fire and the deliberate pacing of a worried man.

Marquis Hayden’s steps were those of a soldier inspecting his lines—controlled, efficient. But every so often, his rhythm broke. A slight stutter. A clenched jaw. The battlefield was familiar to him. This was not.

A woman’s scream tore through the silence, and Hayden’s fists clenched on reflex—the same way they had before countless charges. His instincts screamed to act, to intervene. But this was a battle he could not command.

He moved toward the stairs, but before he could set a foot on the first step, a wall of a woman blocked his path. Her skin was darker than most in the manor, and her voice carried a thick, foreign accent.

“Th’ mistress told ye to wait ‘ere, Marquis, ‘n’ I’ll see to it ye do as ye’re told.”

He grunted but relented. Behind him, a firm hand landed on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry, baby cousin!” came the voice of his elder kin, hearty and familiar. “Dalila is strong—stronger than both of us, if we’re honest.”

Hayden nodded, lips tight. He had crossed blades and broken vows to have her—he wouldn’t lose her as she risked her life to bring new life into his.

The screaming came and went for several hours before finally culminating into what Hayden could only take as a dying cry for help.

He stepped forward instinctively, ready to defy orders—but then her voice fell silent.

Then came the wail of a child.

Hayden froze. Time stopped.

“Congratulations, cousin!” the older man beamed, pulling him into a rare, joyous hug. “To think—my baby cousin, a father!”

For a moment, all was warmth. Hope. A future imagined.

But Hayden’s smile faltered.

Why hadn’t the nurse called him up?

He didn’t wait. He brushed past the large woman, ignoring her scolding, and bounded up the stairs two steps at a time. The moment he reached the landing, he saw the look on the nurse’s face.

Not joy. Not relief.

Grave. Cautious.

Something was wrong.

Inside, the fire still burned low, and his wife sat propped against the pillows—exhausted, but alive. A bundle rested in her arms.

His child.

He approached slowly, breath held.

The baby peered up at him with squinted eyes, impossibly small, impossibly perfect. Love flooded his chest like a wave breaking a dam. He reached forward, one callused finger brushing the child’s downy cheek.

Then he saw it.

A faint, pale-blue mark against the newborn’s chest. Shaped like a teardrop. Or a shard of ice.

“An ice-bender?” he asked, barely above a whisper. A mix of awe and pride trembled in his voice.

But Dalila’s gaze did not meet his. Her arms pulled the child tighter. Her lips trembled. And her tears flowed freely.

“What is it, my love?” he asked, though his voice had gone hollow.

Her voice broke as she answered: “It’s a boy…”

The room went still.

Hayden didn’t ask more. He didn’t breathe. Ice surged though his veins, as if the prophecy itself had reached through the child and taken hold, the dreaded phrase rising unbidden—like frost forming on steel:

When a man is born with winter’s core, the world shall split and the end begin.

It was only part of the verse—the fragment that survived temples burned and wars forgotten. But it was enough.

Enough to make generals tremble and mothers weep.

Enough to turn a child’s birth into an omen of war.

He stared at his son again.

So small. So silent.

And yet…

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