CHAPTER 223: EMPEROR OF NEVARETH

The chest opened under his blade with practiced efficiency. Ribs cracked, organs shifted, and there, nestled against a heart the size of a barrel, glowing with magic that pulsed even in death, lay the Star-Shard.

It was smaller than he’d expected, perhaps the size of a gold coin, but the light it generated was impossibly bright, blue so intense it hurt to look at directly. Elder Elks rarely formed shards this pure, this concentrated.

The magic required to create such crystallization was immense, the kind that came from centuries of absorbing winter’s power, of surviving in environments that killed lesser creatures, of becoming something more than animal and less than god.

Rare didn’t begin to describe it. This was the kind of trophy that legends were built on, that would be remembered in songs and stories, that validated every insane decision that had led him to this moment.

Soren lifted it free, warmth spreading through his fingers despite the cold, despite the blood, despite everything. The Shard responded to his ice magic like recognizing like, resonating with his power in ways that suggested compatibility, harmony, the kind of balance that the ritual was meant to test and prove.

He stood, holding the Shard high, and allowed himself a grin that was pure triumph and arrogance and the specific satisfaction of someone who’d gambled with death and won.

Back at camp, the observers had gone absolutely insane.

The scrying circle showed it all, Soren’s impossible climb, his suicidal charge, the moment when blade met spine and legend met mortality. Nobles who’d placed bets on his failure scrambled to adjust, their expressions cycling through shock and awe and something approaching religious fervor.

"The gods themselves are watching!" someone shouted, pointing at the scrying image where light seemed to dance around Soren’s figure, where spirits, or tricks of snow and wind, impossible to say, swirled in patterns that suggested divine attention.

"He killed an Elder Elk alone!" another voice joined, this one trembling with disbelief. "Without assistance! Without preparation! He just... he just... "

Words failed. The scrying image said everything that language couldn’t: their Emperor, covered in blood and glory, holding a Star-Shard that glowed bright enough to outshine the setting sun, grinning like he’d never had more fun in his entire life.

Even High Priestess Serah looked shaken, her usual composure cracked by witnessing something that shouldn’t have been possible. Elder Elks were legendary for good reason. They didn’t die to lone hunters. They didn’t fall to single blades. They were the kind of prey that required teams, preparation, luck, and willingness to accept casualties.

Soren had killed one like it was entertainment.

"Aenithra acknowledges him," Serah murmured, echoing her earlier words about Eris but with different inflection, awe rather than uncertainty. "The Frostmother sees her son and is pleased."

The priests around her murmured agreement, their chants shifting to prayers of thanksgiving, of celebration, of recognition that they’d just witnessed something that would be recorded in the empire’s history as proof of imperial worthiness.

Among the nobles, reactions varied. Some looked awed, others terrified, still others calculating what this display of power meant for their political positions. Because this wasn’t just a successful hunt, it was a demonstration. A reminder of exactly who ruled Nevareth, exactly what that ruler was capable of when properly motivated.

The Ice Emperor wasn’t just a title. It was a warning.

And from her position at the edge of the crowd, having remained after deciding telling Vetra could wait a little, Bianca Virelya watched with emotions she couldn’t name. She’d seen Soren fight before, had witnessed him in training sessions and ceremonial duels, had thought she understood his capabilities.

She’d understood nothing.

The man in that scrying circle, covered in blood, holding impossible trophy, grinning with something that looked dangerously close to madness, that wasn’t the gentle childhood friend she remembered. That wasn’t the ruler who’d been patient with her presumptions, who’d let her cling to illusions about their future together.

That was something else entirely. Something that reminded her uncomfortably of stories about his father, about the old Emperor’s legendary cruelty, about bloodlines that ran true even when you wished they didn’t.

Soren was his father’s son, she realized with creeping dread. Had inherited more than just the throne and the magic. Had inherited the capacity for violence that bordered on joy, for power wielded without hesitation, for ruthlessness dressed in courtly manners until circumstances demanded otherwise.

And he’d chosen to marry Eris Igniva, a woman equally dangerous, equally willing to embrace violence when necessary, equally comfortable with power that most people feared.

They deserved each other, Bianca thought, and couldn’t tell if the emotion choking her throat was rage or grief or reluctant, horrible understanding.

In the canyon, Soren began the trek back to camp, Star-Shard secured, kill confirmed, hunt completed with hours to spare before dawn’s deadline.

He moved with the loose-limbed confidence of someone who’d burned off excess energy in the best possible way, who felt centered and calm and ready to face whatever political nightmares awaited him back in civilization.

The Elk’s body would be retrieved by the Imperial Hunters once the ritual concluded, its hide preserved, its antlers mounted, its story added to the chronicles of successful hunts that proved imperial bloodlines worthy of their thrones.

But Soren barely thought about legacy or history or what this meant for anything beyond the immediate present. His mind was already shifting ahead, to returning to camp, to seeing Eris’s reaction when she discovered what he’d killed, to the moment when they’d merge their Star-Shards in the wedding ceremony.

To the look on her face when she realized he’d chosen the most dangerous prey possible not to show off, not to prove anything to the court, but simply because she would appreciate the audacity. Would understand the impulse. Would recognize in his recklessness something of her own approach to life.

He couldn’t wait to see her.

Couldn’t wait to marry her.

Couldn’t wait to spend the rest of his life annoying her, protecting her, challenging her, being challenged by her, building something that transcended politics and prophecy and all the carefully laid plans that people like Vetra thought would control them.

Soren Nivarre, Emperor of Nevareth, walked through frozen wilderness toward his future, and for perhaps the first time in his entire life, he was genuinely, completely, unreservedly happy.

The blood on his hands was already freezing. The setting sun painted the snow in shades of rose and gold. Somewhere ahead, Eris was completing her own hunt, probably with more grace and less violence, though he wouldn’t bet on the latter.

And tomorrow... tomorrow they’d stand before gods and empire, merge ice and fire, prove that opposites could not merely coexist but thrive together.

He grinned into the wind, and winter itself seemed to grin back.