Page 2 of Burning Heir

I was good at talking, spinning words into shields, daggers, or distractions. But fear had stolen my voice. All I had left was anger, guilt, and grief—ever since Klaus died at the same academy Knox and I had been invited to.

We’d become strangers in our own home. Awkward banter and forced smiles were all we had left. Father spent his days locked in his study, researching ways to keep his shield strong, as though it could protect him from the past.

Knox’s hunger for power burned in his eyes as he reread his acceptance letter. He didn’t see the death waiting behind it—only the future it promised.

“How soon until the Academy expects us?” I asked, watching Mother ladle garlic and evertree soup into bowls.

Charles shrugged off the last of the snow from his hair. “Three days. Lorna and I will escort you both.”

“Three days?” I repeated, the words hollow. “That’s too soon.”

Charles slammed his hand on the table, rattling the dishes. “It’s a two-day trek. You don’t have a choice, Severyn. Our land’s survival depends on one of you claiming Father’s title.”

I scoffed. “Well, perhaps the letter could have arrived earlier.”

Cully spoke quietly, “Learn the lands, Severyn. The library will be your greatest ally. At least you won’t have to write in a dungeon for three months.”

“Words won’t keep me alive,” I muttered.

Charles’s grin returned as he unsheathed two frost-tinted daggers, handing one to each of us. “The handles are carved from the glaciers of our lake. They’re warded never to melt. Father gave Mother her first dagger at the Academy. I hope this will be a tradition for years to come when your children are called to claim the throne.”

I stared at the blade, cold in my hand. “I won’t survive a week there. Let’s not pretend this isn’t an invitation to my death.”

“You will survive,” Charles said calmly. “You don’t have a choice, Sev. This is your calling.”

“And was it Klaus’s calling to be murdered in cold blood?” I hissed. “Or have we forgotten the fifth Blanche who never returned?”

Mother’s lips tightened. “Don’t be ungrateful, child. People would die to be in your place. You’re a legacy.”

Frost traced patterns on the windows, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered if I’d miss the North—its comfort, its sunless days. Twenty-one years of preparation, and now only three days remained.

Daggers meant blood. They meant fighting. And I’d spent two years grieving, my entire life hoping one of my older brothers would claim this burden instead.

The hours between the letters and the never-ending fear seemed skewed. I remembered tasting the garlic in the evertree soup, the clunk and whirl of metal scraping against the bottom of our bowls.

Mother’s words to Knox and me still echoed from the live-edge dining table: “Your father is the last iced Serpent to bear anheir. We don’t need some scavenger coming onto our lands and taking our name.”

After dinner, Mother lit the candle for Klaus. He was citrine and cinnamon this week. But I was out of hellebores to place on his grave. And Father always ensured we had seeds during Thaw. Their petals—sometimes purplish with pink spurts—were the only vibrancy our land ever saw.

And this year, they wouldn’t grow.

The day the Serpent delivered Klaus’s death felt like this: suffocating, inescapable, and cruelly familiar. Perhaps that’s why I’d always hated blue eyes, for the poison I’d heard spew beneath them. Every time a visitor came, my heart shattered.

I said my goodnights as Charles regaled Mother with tales of his latest travels. I passed Father’s study, where he was buried in a book about Winter shields. He’d made it clear long ago that he wasn’t to be disturbed. In truth, none of us ever disturbed him. I wondered if he even cared how fearful I was of becoming his heir.

Hours turned into a restless night. The nightmares of the academy kept me awake until iced swirls cracked against my window. It wasn’t the fading sun that startled me, but the sound of caws and heaves from golden wings as Charles’s griffin prepared for flight.

I made my way to the kitchen, bracing for another family argument over breakfast. Instead, I found silence. Mother wasn’t in her usual place by the fireplace with a mug.

Knox tugged my arm. “We’re going to be late for Father’s speech because of you,” he said, opening the iron door.

“A speech?” I asked. “For who?” A cold gust dragged through my parted lips as we hurried down the mountainside.

“The civilians. Father must announce us for the run to become the next leader here,” Knox said, fixing his sleeves.

“I don’t remember Klaus having one,” I said. I would have remembered—I’d replayed that snowy morning endlessly, watching him leave with only a limp bag and a smile.

He never knew he would die.

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