CHAPTER 95: REUNION

Azariah stood at the edge of the massive port, the snow crunching beneath his fur-lined boots.

The cold did not bite him as it did outsiders — he was Winter incarnate, Patriarch of the last great stronghold of ice.

Yet for the first time in decades, a warmth that had nothing to do with fire or hearth flickered inside his chest.

His son.

He could see it in the young man who stood next to his guard, his presence was undeniably strong.

Azariah’s sharp eyes narrowed.

Yes, the boy had grown — beyond what he had expected, beyond what he had dared hope.

The last time he had seen Azel, he had been a frail child with snowflakes tangled in his lashes, a boy carried away under the guise of fate.

And now? Now he radiated strength, not merely the raw power of Winter’s bloodline, and his hands... They looked like they wielded the sword.

Azariah stretched his senses toward him instinctively, seeking to grasp the boy’s core, to see what path he had chosen.

But his probing was stopped short.

A barrier, dense and impenetrable, rejected him.

His brow furrowed.

Aura.

The boy had walked the path of aura.

And yet... he bore the unmistakable pulse of a Mage as well.

Not one or the other, but both?

That was impossible.

Not even he, Patriarch of Winter, chosen of the Ice Goddess, could embody two paths.

The boy’s existence spat in the face of the rules he had lived by his entire life.

And still, he could not see what lay deeper. His son’s affinity was hidden from even his eyes.

Azariah’s hands clenched at his side, nails digging into his palms.

The boy had changed — and perhaps Winter would need to change with him.

The ship groaned as it settled at the dock completely.

The guards moved swiftly, ropes coiling, metal chains clinking as they held it in place.

The gate guard leapt from the rail and landed before him, his breath misting into the frozen air.

"Lord Patriarch," the guard said, a small smile on his face. "He truly is a prince of Winter."

Azariah’s eyes flickered toward him, wordless.

"Even I could see it from a distance," the guard continued eagerly, "the way he slaughtered the Frost Monkeys. He fought as one empowered by the blood of Winter itself. Though..."

He hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly. "His weapon choice—"

Azariah raised a brow. "Speak."

"Daggers," the man said finally, almost spitting the word. "A coward’s tools. Light and sharp, meant for speed. Not for those who bear the Winter blood. We fight with weight in our hands, with spears carved from beast bone, axes soaked in blood, blades that can split glaciers." He grimaced, shaking his head. "Not knives fit for thieves."

The silence stretched for a moment.

Then, slowly, Azariah inhaled, the frost around his mouth dispersing in a pale mist.

"My son has returned," he said finally, voice resonant as ice breaking on a lake. "Though it seems... we will have to beat the ways of the Empire out of him. He will learn again what it means to be of Winter."

The guard nodded sharply, approval flashing in his eyes.

To be Winter was to be unyielding.

To be Winter was to carry strength in every strike.

To be Winter was to fight like the storm itself.

But even as Azariah reaffirmed this, something tugged at the edge of his consciousness.

A voice he had not heard in weeks but would recognize even in death.

[That truly is the child?]

Azariah froze.

’I... my goddess?’

[Yes, my son. That boy, he is yours?]

’He is,’ Azariah replied, head lowering, heart hammering in reverence.

[Remarkable,] the Ice Goddess’s voice mused, lilting like the echo of ice cracking in caverns. [He has more potential than I ever hoped to witness.]

Azariah’s breath caught.

He had served her his entire life.

She had chosen him, elevated him, made him Patriarch.

Yet never — not once had she spoken of a mortal with this tone.

’My goddess, what is it you command?’

[Take him,] she whispered. [Take him to the Winter Grave.]

His head jerked up, eyes widening. ’The Winter Grave? But... that place is forbidden outside of the crowning rite. Only the heir, chosen to become Patriarch, may—’

[Did I ask for tradition?] The goddess’s voice was gentle, but it pressed against his soul with the weight of mountains. [I merely wish to meet him. To look at him. Do you not feel it, Azariah? He is drenched in light. So much light that he could be mistaken for divinity itself. Blessed, beyond measure. It fascinates me.]

Azariah’s fists tightened.

Blessed by light? He knew the taste of divine blessing.

He himself had been touched by his goddess, power flooding his veins in intoxicating torrents, enough to stand atop the world.

And even then, he had learned humility, for he could wield only a fragment — ten percent, no more.

Yet this boy, his son, carried enough that even she, his goddess was curious.

And then the doors opened.

The air shifted, warmth spilling into the hall as Azel entered.

Azariah’s eyes fixed instantly on what he carried in his arms: a small girl, bundled in a thick white coat, strands of pink hair peeking out.

The moment Azariah’s gaze settled on her, his breath caught.

The girl gave off mana — no, more than mana.

She exuded the presence of a prodigy, the kind of child fated to one day shake empires with her existence.

It was barely concealed, a fountain trying to hide beneath a thin sheet of snow.

"Papa, it’s warm," the girl murmured, snuggling closer into Azel’s chest.

Papa.

Azariah’s heart stumbled.

His granddaughter?

His blood?

No... no, she bore none of the Winter traits.

Adoption, perhaps?

A stray he had taken in?

And yet the girl’s power...

Azariah’s thoughts spun, but he had little time before his gaze caught on the figures behind his son.

The first — a silver-haired woman, glasses framing her eyes, her aura steady as a glacier.

She carried herself with the calm of someone who had done thie many times before.

Azariah’s trained eye measured her immediately.

Third circle.

A sorceress already at such a height.

Power and beauty fused seamlessly in her, but more than that, there was loyalty in her stance — the kind that could not be bought.

And then... the last.

The woman with bright purple hair stepped forward, and Azariah’s world tilted.

His knees almost buckled, shame searing through him even as he fought to hold himself upright.

He had slain countless beasts.

He had walked through avalanches and buried his blade in monsters twice his size.

He was Patriarch of Winter — his name carried fear across the north.

And yet, one glance from her...

His heart pounded.

Was it fear?

Instinct whispered that this was no ordinary woman.

No beauty, no courtier, no sorceress.

She was danger.

His goddess herself had never made him feel this vulnerable.

And in the center of them all stood Azel, carrying them with ease as if they belonged by his side.

No, not as if.

They did.

"Father," Azel’s voice rang clear across the hall, cutting through the silence.

Azariah’s gaze snapped to his son.

The boy was no longer the child running through the snow, giggling as he fell into drifts.

He was no longer the frail youth carried away, powerless against the world.

He was a man now.

And before Azariah could speak, before the weight of words could drown him, his body moved.

He closed the distance in great strides and crushed his son against him, the embrace rough but desperate, ice melting in the heat of blood.

"My son," he whispered into the boy’s shoulder, letting his gaze settle and the warmness fill his chest.