Pelzyq dashed forth, axe readied, roaring like the brave imbecile he was. Zyryxa and Lexyn screamed for him to stop, but he was deaf to their pleas. Zyryxa felt powerless as if she was frozen, watching Pelzyq’s mighty swing aimed at Matyxal’s head.

Matyxal sidestepped his attack with ease, slammed the pommel of her sword into his gut, and swept his legs with a swift kick. He collided with the ground, wind rushing out of him. She pinned him with a boot to his groin, making him cry out in pain, and lowered the flaming tip of her sword to his throat.

“Enough!” she barked, her freckled face aglow in the firelight.

Lexyn, shouting Pelzyq’s name, loosed an arrow.

Matyxal caught it mid-flight. “Darling,” she said with a heavy sigh, “we’ve been over this already.” She threw the arrow into the bonfire.

“Don’t hurt him!” Lexyn yelled. Her ferocity staggered even Zyryxa.

“Run, Lexyn!” Pelzyq yelled.

“No!” Lexyn drew her sword. “I’m not leaving you behind!”

Zyryxa’s gaze flitted between them, connecting pieces together that she couldn’t believe. They’re in love. While her estimation of Lexyn’s judgment plummeted, she knew she had to defend her sister’s heart. “Pelzyq! Nobody needs to be left behind, and nobody needs to run away. Tell the fiery bard that you won’t be fighting her anymore.”

Pelzyq spat into the flames. “I don’t care if she’s Seraxa herself. I’d rather burn than let her harm the girl I—” His words trailed off, and he swallowed hard, unable to finish.

“How noble,” Matyxal said dryly, “but I have no intention of harming your Pelianna. Dear Pelianna, help your Elior see sense,” she said to Lexyn. “Or—”

The sword’s edge lowered slightly, pressing on his furs but not piercing. She stepped harder, her deceptive weight crushing down on Pelzyq’s fabled manhood. His furious cry rang through the night, but he remained pinned.

“Don’t be a fool, boy,” Natazia said. “Tell the bard you’ll behave.”

Zyryxa wasn’t convinced Natazia planned to behave. The scarred warrior’s stance was taut, ready to strike. She looked more like a direwolf waiting for the warrior to lower her guard than a peacemaker.

“I’m not standing down,” Pelzyq said. Ironic, Zyryxa thought, considering he was flat on his back. Zyryxa almost admired his stubborn courage, his steadfast devotion. Were he not so misguided it may have even been beautiful. But she wasn’t about to call something that could turn ugly anything other than it was. If this imbecile got them all killed, she’d hunt him down in the ice and kill him again.

Zyryxa bit back a series of derogatory remarks on his subpar intellect. She took a deep breath, trying to be Ice’s Champion, channeling compassion for this jackass by remembering the one good thing she saw in him: his care for Lexyn. It still came out sharp, because he was still Pelzyq. “Pelzyq! Nobody else needs to die.”

“Shut your hole, you divinedamned coward! You were supposed to take her with me!”

Zyryxa clenched her axe, wanting to cut him down in a moment of fury. She might have lost control, if Lexyn hadn’t stepped forward first.

“Pelzyq!” Lexyn roared, stepping forward with her blade drawn. “Harm him, and I’ll kill you!”

Matyxal’s stance faltered. Even Zyryxa was cowed. This was no little mouse, squeaking at the sight of danger. Nor was she a terrified girl leaking urine down her leg. Qoryxa’s blood flowed in Lexyn’s veins, the very blood of the ice dragons themselves.

“Listen to me, Pelzyq,” Lexyn said, her roar softened by a love that didn’t need to be surrounded by flames to see clearly. “The strongest thing we can do is take her prisoner to Vaztyma. Let her render judgment.”

“She’ll kill you as soon as she has a chance,” Pelzyq protested. “I won’t let you die. I can’t.” His deep voice broke. This prideful man became vulnerable. Zyryxa never respected his strength more. “Run. Please.”

Lexyn took another step toward the center of their circle. “No. I’m done hiding when the people I care about fight our battles alone. We’re all getting out of here alive,” Lexyn said, taking another step forward. Her blade caught the firelight, glinting as she raised it in an attack stance.

Matyxal’s lips curled into a faint smile. “As I said, I’d rather sing your songs than take your lives.” She stepped off Pelzyq and raised her sword to guard herself.

“Then surrender,” Lexyn said. “I know your heart is good, Matyxal. Let’s go to Vaztyma. Together.”

Matyxal hesitated, her freckled face somber. Her orange eyes flicked to Pelzyq, then back to Lexyn. Tears glistened, held back by the levee of her indomitable will. She bit her lip, her gaze drifting to Bax and his wives. “Enough lovers have died in this war.”

“Pelzyq,” Lexyn pleaded, “stand down. For me.”

Please, Zyryxa thought. For once in your life, have the strength to admit when you’re not strong enough.

After a long pause, Pelzyq exhaled. “Pelzyq has changed his mind. He will escort you to the Ice Champion.”

“Very well” Matyxal said, stepping back. “Pelianna saves Elior.”

Zyryxa was familiar with the tale Matyxal referenced. It was Leverian, one Abbaz often performed. Nonsense about a pretty princess who needed rescue from a big, strong man, where stupid Leverian class politics created roadblocks for their love, but ultimately redeemed itself when merit and love triumphed in the end. She could only hope for the same ending to all tales.

Pelzyq scrambled to his feet, his untrusting eyes never leaving Matyxal. When Lexyn took his hand, he relaxed visibly, as if her touch quelled a great blizzard within him. Zyryxa couldn’t decide which was more shocking: Pelzyq’s newfound sense or the love he clearly bore for Lexyn. She was ready to declare Pelzyq a valued member of her brood but opened up to the possibility that he might not be a colossal piece of shit stuck on the bottom of her boot.

Yet, Pelzyq was only one of the problems they faced. Zyryxa shifted her concentration, seeking to be the leader her mother trained her to be. Bax trembled with barely restrained rage, his wives the only thing holding him back. Natazia held a throwing stance, her spear couched in her arm and her legs bent.

“Bax,” Zyryxa said, her voice gentle but firm, “your departed have been honored, and your loved ones freed. Go home to your little girl and give her the father she needs.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Bax’s gaze wavered, searching his wives for guidance. Valqa and Striqa nodded softly, urging him to surrender his vengeance. They released his arms.

Letting out an anguished cry, Bax stepped back. The desire to kill melted away from him like ice on a warm, sunny day. “We’re going home,” he said, his voice raw.

Matyxal bowed her head. “May you live and love in peace.”

“Qoryxa bless you three, and those you love,” Zyryxa said.

Bax, Striqa, and Valqa expressed their thanks, before they retreated. They would return to Xana, Anniqa, and the babe. Their lives, much like Zyryxa’s, would be marked by grief, but they would carry on: beautiful, strong, and full of compassion. Zyryxa took pride knowing that even though a wrong wasn’t set right, she did everything she could to preserve what remained from the ashes, and to render judgment upon those who would burn love with such wanton hatred.

First, the direwolves, and then the Fire Tribe raiders. Now, if only Natazia and Matyxal could come to an understanding, so Zyryxa could continue on the path to giving Ice’s Judgment to Saevah.

Matyxal stood amidst the flickering firelight, sword drawn and unyielding, facing a circle of four warriors and two drakes. Natazia aimed her spear at the bard that she blamed for letting her live. Zyryxa remembered finding Natazia in the smokehouse and understood why she wasn’t keen to forgive.

“Natazia,” Matyxal said, her tone caring, “shall you be the candle that continues to burn in the cold winds until it becomes the brightest of flames, or do you still want to die?”

Natazia’s porcelain knuckles whitened further around her spear as silence stretched. Finally, she exhaled, lowering her weapon. “Hand over the sword, and I’ll see to it that you reach Vaztyma alive.”

Matyxal beheld her own weapon, a gift from Syrixza and Qorrix. Few weapons were more intricate, with symbols of dragons and lutes etched onto the dragonbone that glowed in the heat of the flames radiating from the blade. The bard stared into those flames, her eyes seeing beyond the sword to the dragon knights she spent the past several years with, a third body in their bed and parent to their daughter. Zyryxa held tight to Zyrthalla’s greataxe, not knowing if she could hand the weapon over were the roles reversed. Her heart opened to the bard, feeling her pain as if it were her own.

“Sometimes,” Zyryxa said, “I feel like a part of Zyrthalla is still with me when I hold her axe.”

Matyxal’s head lifted, her gaze locking onto Zyryxa’s. She studied the greataxe, then the woman wielding it, and memories of shared fires, songs, and lives shaped by love and loss flowed between them. Zyryxa recalled different bonfires, from before their hearts were broken, where a little girl looked up at her mother like she was the center of the world, and where icy Qorrix and fiery Syrixza were the proof that Ice and Fire could meld.

Biting her lip to keep from crying out, Matyxal sheathed her blade. “The people who shaped us are not gone when they pass.” She removed the scabbard from her furs. “We carry them forward with us, shaping the world around us because of how they impacted us.” She clenched her jaw, swallowing a sob. “May we make them proud, and try to restore the peace they cherished, instead of letting our vengeance unmake the world they built, and perhaps worse, erode the impressions they writ upon our hearts. Only then, are we truly without them.”

She offered the sword to Zyryxa. “Protect it, Zyryxa. Keep it safe until I can take it up again.”

Zyryxa’s hands trembled as she accepted the responsibility. The warmth radiating from it was fierce. She fastened it to her belt, the heat pressing against her side like a persistent reminder of the promise she must make. “I swear by Seraxa and by Qoryxa, by the peace we shall renew—I will return this blade to you.”

Matyxal smiled, and Zyryxa felt her lips rising to match hers. Beautiful, compassionate, and certainly strong, she saw why Matyxal was so beloved by Qorrix and Syrixza. Alas, the only thing less attractive than a bard, was a Fire Tribe bard, and Zyryxa wasn’t about to touch fire and get burnt. The bard held out her hands. “I surrender. Bind me, if you must.”

“We must,” Natazia said, wasting no time rushing to find restraints.

“Zyryxa will bind me,” Matyxal said, winking. “No need to be gentle either, beautiful,” she whispered, with too much bardic charm. “I like it rough.”

Zyryxa couldn’t ignore the flush creeping up her neck. Her mind drifted to the longing she felt on her year in isolation, and dreams that had carried her through those long days and longer nights. She felt thirsty and worked hard to remind herself that the bard wasn’t water but fire. Yet, she drank in the sight of her, knowing that freckles were a weakness of hers, and none possessed as many as this deadly warrior. She cinched the bindings with just enough force to prove she wasn’t to be lulled by sultry words and a pretty face.

“You’re going to tell us more about the Flames of Renewal,” Zyryxa said, letting her hands fall away from Matyxal’s, “and how you intend to end this war.”

“Gladly,” Matyxal said, inclining her head toward a nearby cabin. “But first, let’s get Natazia clothed, and the rest of you comfortable. Then I’ll sing for you.”

True to her word, Matyxal guided them to comfort and clothing. Her little cabin offered a crackling hearth with a pot of spiced soup. There was a workbench overflowing with herbs, tools, and alchemical devices. Above the bench, dozens of vials of shimmering bluish-white liquid glinted like molten ice. There was one bed—massive enough to accommodate all five of them, and a wardrobe that Natazia hastily raided.

“These tonics,” Lexyn said, picking up a vial. “They’re how you’re surviving the cold.”

Matyxal nodded as she settled herself on the bed. “My skill with warmth tonics was the only reason Faxiq allowed me into Ice Tribe territory. He sent me with a group of Tantix’s most loyal swarm, overseen by a particularly nasty piece of drakeshit, hoping to both make use of us and get rid of us. I’m convinced he’s receiving some strategic help, because that’s something I’d expect of a cunning, ruthless man like Hatrox, but not a brutish oaf like Faxiq.”

“What are the Flames of Renewal?” Natazia demanded, imperious as any dragon knight, as she finished pulling furs over her chest.

Zyryxa would miss the sight of her chiseled torso, but was glad to no longer have her eyes drawn to the myriad scars that traced her body. Pretty, Natazia was, and strong enough. She was like the ice statues of Loxzua, even lacking their warmth to a fault. Zamael’s Hells; Zyryxa felt alone.

“We seek to consume the—”

“Wicked. Blah, blah, blah,” Natazia said. “Enough of your poetry, Matyxal. Speak simple truths before I put a fucking muzzle on you.”

Even bound, Matyxal’s flat scare was a sight of horror. Zyryxa wasn’t convinced the little redhead couldn’t still kill all four of them. The only thing letting her feel any sense of comfort was trust in the bard’s intentions.

To her credit, Natazia didn’t show fear. “Is it just you, or do you have some dragon knights on your side?”

“We are a coalition of warriors and dragon knights who believe this war must end.”

Natazia leaned toward Matyxal, looming over her with superior height and stature. “So, you work toward those goals by razing Ice Tribe homesteads and killing random broods far from the frontlines?”

“We do everything we can to thwart the war.”

“You’ve done such a great job so far,” Natazia said.

“How many dragon knights do you have?” Zyryxa said, trying to redirect before she lost her temper.

“Two. Our ultimate goal is to kill Faxiq and install our strongest knight so that she can help Volqor be born anew from his ashes.”

Matyxal placed emphasis on the poetic end to her statement, but Zyryxa latched onto another word she mentioned. She. Unless things changed during her year on the Rite of the Dragon Warrior—which they very clearly did—only one Fire Tribe knight had been woman besides Syrixza. Zyryxa froze, her mind trying to refute what her heart already knew.

Lexyn, Qoryxa bless her, was for once able to voice words when Zyryxa was not. “She? Who would you make the Fire Champion?”

Matyxal took a deep breath. She met Lexyn’s gaze, though Zyryxa felt more like she avoided hers. “The most noble dragon knight north of the Frostmelt.”

Zyryxa wished for an unfamiliar name, wished for a muzzle rather than a simple truth. She wished many things: that Syrixza lived, and Qorrix never needed to challenge Faxiq. That Vaztyma had been strong enough to refuse to pull the whole nation into war and instead killed just the man responsible. Most of all, she wished her mother lived, that Saevah hadn’t rendered her a corpse beneath the waves. Yet, wishing for something did not make it so. It only made it hurt more when it wasn’t.

“If all goes according to plan,” Matyxal said, her words measured carefully, almost as if she were nervous, “Saevah will rise from the ashes and restore peace to Volqor.”