Confrontation at the Frost Hollow

Huarti follows the bound scouts into a cleft of frost and black stone. Their glowing throats pull them forward like chained hounds, and the wash behind him disappears under a skin of pale mist.

The hollow opens beneath a sagging ridge, a sunken den of bone lamps and ice-rimed hides. The air tastes old and sharp. Huarti feels the Matron’s arcana ahead, thin as a blade and watching.

The scouts halt at the threshold. Their red bindings tighten at their throats, and all of them bow their heads at once, waiting for Huarti to step in first.

Beyond the curtain of frost, Veyra stands over the hollow floor, framed by ward-stones and a dim circle of red residue. The nursery’s path lies open behind her, and Huarti can see it clearly now, this is the rival power he must break to claim the brood and the land.

Huarti speaks the roots into motion. Pale tendrils burst from the frost and knot around Veyra’s ankles and wrists, hauling her off balance before she can drive her staff down.

The scouts snap upright. Their hands hover, not yet reaching for weapons, but ready now. Red residue on the floor brightens in a thin ring, as if answering Huarti’s magic.

Veyra glares up through the tangles, pinned but still defiant. Behind her, the bone lamps flicker once, and the passage beyond them seems to breathe cold.

Huarti lifts a hand, and the red ring on the frost answers him. The cold in the hollow loosens, thinning like breath on glass.

A warm, sweet current spills outward from his palm. Frost grains dim, and the biting air around Veyra stops clawing at her skin.

The scouts feel it too. Their shoulders drop a fraction, weapons still undrawn, eyes fixed on Huarti and the changing floor.

Behind her, the passage exhales one last plume of white mist, then holds still, waiting.