ALISE'S POV
The room was a casualty of war.
Alise stood in the centre of the wreckage, her small chest heaving with the exertion of her fury. Snot ran freely from her nose, mixing with the hot, angry tears that streamed down her red, blotchy face. She wiped them away with a violent, ungraceful swipe of her sleeve, leaving a wet smear on the expensive wool.
She grabbed a heavy winter tunic from her wardrobe—a fine garment embroidered with silver thread—and threw it.
'Not dark enough. Not big enough.'
She kicked a wooden toy—a painted soldier holding a spear—sending it skittering across the rug. It hit the leg of her bed and cracked. She didn't care. She hated the soldier. She hated the room. She hated the keep.
The anger was a physical thing, a hot, bubbling sludge in her gut that made her want to scream until her throat bled. It wasn't just a bad mood. It was a reckoning.
It had started at breakfast.
The memory replayed in her mind, sharp and humiliating.
It was the way they looked at her. Falk, with his cold blue eyes that weighed everything. Brandt, with that new, terrifyingly blank stare he used when he thought no one was looking—even the servants.
They looked at Alara as if she were precious. Like she was a rare gem that held the future inside. When Alara spoke, they listened. They nodded. They said, "Very clever, Lady Alara."
When Alise spoke, they smiled.
It was a patient smile—the kind you gave to a hound that had learned to fetch.
'The brawn,' she thought, the word tasting like bile. 'That's all I am. The loud one. The strong one. The stupid one.'
She ripped a dress from a hanger, her fingers digging into the silk.
She wasn't stupid. She was six, but she wasn't blind. She knew how Rimescar worked.
She had heard the whispers in the solar when the maids thought she was asleep. She knew what happened to noble daughters who were deemed worthless. They weren't warriors. They weren't heirs. They were currency.
'Livestock.'
Alara hadn't used that word, but she had meant it. Her twin had looked at her with those dark, analytical eyes and said it plainly. "If you aren't useful, you'll just be sold off. To some fat lord who needs a wife."
That was the poison barb. That was the fear that kept Alise awake when the wind howled against the stone.
She didn't have Alara's mind. She didn't have Brandt's strange, sudden authority. All she had was her body, and right now, it was just a small, useless thing.
'I hate her. I hate her so much.'
They were twins. They were supposed to be two halves of the same soul. But lately, looking at Alara was like looking in a mirror that showed you everything you lacked.
Alise wanted to hurt her back. She wanted to wipe that calm, knowing look off her sister's face. She wanted to make them all—Brandt, Falk, the maids—feel panic.
She wanted them to feel the empty space where she used to be.
'I'll show them. I'll show them who can survive.'
She dove back into the wardrobe, digging through the piles of winter gear at the bottom, searching for camouflage. Her fingers brushed against something coarse and heavy.
She pulled.
It was a patrol cloak. It must have been mixed in with the laundry by mistake, a garment meant for a scout or a page, not a noble daughter. It was made of thick, scratchy, dark grey wool, smelling faintly of oil, old sweat, and the garrison smoke.
It was huge.
Alise threw it over her shoulders. The hem dragged on the floor, pooling around her boots like a puddle of ink. The hood was a cavern. She pulled it up, and the world narrowed to a dark tunnel.
She turned to the mirror.
A small, dark shape stared back. No face. No tears. Just a shadow in grey wool.
'Perfect.'
She wasn't Alise Rimescar anymore. She wasn't the brawn. She was a stranger.
She moved to the door, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This wasn't a game. She wasn't going to the kitchens to steal a tart. She was leaving.
She opened the door a crack. The corridor was empty.
She slipped out.
She moved fast. For all the talk of her being clumsy, Alise knew how to be quiet when it mattered. She knew which flagstones rocked underfoot and groaned. She knew the blind spot near the armoury where the guards stopped to talk and smoke their pipes, their vision clouded by the haze.
She was a ghost in her own home.
She reached the servants' stairwell, a narrow, spiralling shaft that smelled of mildew and cold air. She took the steps two at a time, her small boots landing softly on the worn stone.
She reached the ground floor. The side postern gate—the one used for deliveries of firewood and coal—was just ahead.
It was unguarded. The shift was changing.
She slipped through the heavy oak door and stepped into the biting wind.
The cold hit her like a slap to the face. It was sharp, cruel, and real.
Alise grinned beneath her hood.
'I'm out.'
She didn't look back at the looming, black mass of Frostguard Hold. She didn't look up at the window where Alara was probably reading some stupid book, safe and warm and useless.
She ran.
She sprinted toward the switchback road that led down into the valley. Her legs pumped, burning with effort. The icy air tore at her throat, tasting of iron.
It felt like flying. It felt like breaking something heavy.
She ran until her chest heaved and her vision blurred. The road wound down, steep and treacherous, but she didn't slow. She attacked the path, jumping over frozen ruts, sliding on patches of gravel.
Below her, the valley opened up. And there, huddled in the shadow of the mountains, was the beast.
Rimehaven.
To an adult, it was a grim settlement of 4,000 souls squeezed into the deep valley. To a six-year-old girl who had spent her life inside stone walls, it was a sprawling, chaotic metropolis.
The town was a dense scar on the white landscape.
Buildings huddled together for warmth, timber and stone structures leaning over narrow, cobbled streets that wound like arteries through the slush. It was protected on three sides by towering mountain walls that blocked the sun for half the day, casting the town in a perpetual, blue-grey gloom.
It was loud.
The sound hit her first—a wall of noise that rolled up the valley floor. The shouting of drovers, the bleating of goats, the clatter of carts, the ringing of iron from the smithies. It was chaotic, messy, and alive.
She reached the bottom of the road and merged with the flow of traffic entering the town.
Carts piled high with timber—men carrying crates. Women herding goats.
Alise kept her head down, the hood hiding her pale skin and fine features. She walked into the mud.
The smell was incredible. It was a thick, layered stench of woodsmoke, unwashed bodies, roasting meat, wet dog, and dung. It was disgusting. It was thrilling.
She walked down the main street. The buildings loomed over her, timber frames blackened by soot. Mud coated her boots, heavy and clinging. The slush was slippery, a treacherous mix of ice and filth.
She bumped into a man's leg. It was hard as wood, wrapped in rough leather.
"Watch it, rat," he grunted, not even looking down.
Alise froze, waiting for the apology, the bow.
It never came. The man kept walking.
A shiver of pure, electric excitement ran down her spine.
'He doesn't know. Nobody knows.'
She was invisible. She was just a rat in a cloak.
She wandered deeper into the market square. It was the heart of Rimehaven, a crowded, noisy patchwork of stalls displaying things she had never seen.
Being this far north, the goods were strange and savage. A table covered in furs—white bear, grey wolf, spotted cat. A rack of rusted iron tools that looked like torture devices. A cage filled with screeching, six-legged lizards from the deep mines.
She stared, her eyes wide in the darkness of her hood. This was the world.
She loved it.
She walked past a stall selling hot food. The scent of roasted pork and spices hooked her by the nose. Her stomach gave a loud, treacherous growl.
She stopped. A large man with a grease-stained apron was turning a spit over a brazier. The meat sizzled, dripping fat into the coals with a hiss.
Alise stepped forward. She pointed a commanding finger at a chunk of meat.
"I want that," she demanded, her voice muffled by the wool but still holding the imperious tone of the nursery.
The man looked down. He saw a small, muddy figure in an oversized cloak.
"Two coppers, kid," he said, holding out a greasy hand.
Alise stared at the hand.
'Coppers?'
She patted her pockets. She felt the rough lining of the stolen cloak.
Empty.
She stood there, her finger still pointing, her face burning hot with shame beneath the hood.
"Well?" the man grunted. "You buying or gawking? Move along."
She lowered her hand. The smell of the pork suddenly made her feel sick.
'Stupid. I'm stupid.'
The word echoed in her head, sounding exactly like Alara's voice.
She backed away, disappearing into the crowd. The thrill was gone. The noise wasn't exciting anymore; it was just loud. The cold wasn't bracing; it was just cold.
She kicked a frozen clod of mud, watching it skitter across the cobbles.
'I hate this place.'
She imagined Brandt and Falk here with her. They would have coin. They would buy the meat. Falk would glare at the man until he apologised. Brandt would explain what the lizards were.
It would have been an adventure.
Instead, she was just a hungry, cold little girl standing in the mud, hiding from the world because she wasn't smart enough to survive in it.
The retreat was a bitter pill.
Alise pulled her hood tighter, turning her back on the sizzling meat and the warmth of the brazier. The excitement of the rebellion had drained out of her, leaving only the cold reality of her situation. She was small, broke, and alone in a town that smelled like wet dogs and misery.
'I'll go back,' she decided, the thought heavy with defeat.
It was better than freezing in the mud.
She began to push through the crowd, heading back toward the looming mountain road.
"Magic! True magic! Watch your coin turn to gold!"
The voice cut through the low roar of the market like a knife.
Alise stopped.
It wasn't the bark of a merchant selling furs. It was a showman's cry, bright and promising.
She turned.
A man was standing on a crate near the mouth of a narrow side street. He was thin, dressed in layers of ragged, mismatched wool that made him look like a scarecrow stuffed with dirty laundry. He was waving his arms, a few copper coins flashing between his fingers.
"A Deviant!" the man shouted, his eyes scanning the passing crowd with a feverish intensity. "A master of the impossible! Step right up! Don't be shy! The Alchemist is seeing clients today!"
Alise stared.
'A Deviant?'
She knew the word. It was a lesson word. Maester Vorin was a Deviant. He could knit flesh with light. It was rare. It was powerful.
But a Deviant who made gold?
Her mind, usually impatient with theory, latched onto the practical application. If she had gold... she wouldn't need Alara. She wouldn't need an allowance. She could buy the meat.
Curiosity, that fatal, childish flaw, hooked her.
She hesitated, looking at the road home, then at the man on the crate.
'Just a look,' she told herself. 'I just want to see if it's real.'
She changed course, weaving through the legs of the adults until she stood near the crate.
The man spotted her immediately. His eyes, dark and sharp like a bird's, locked onto the small, cloaked figure standing alone in the slush.
He hopped down from the crate with surprising grace.
"Well hello there, little traveller," he said, his voice dropping to a warm, friendly pitch. He crouched, bringing himself to her eye level. "You look like someone who appreciates a bit of wonder."
Alise stiffened, remembering Falk's lectures about strangers. But this man didn't look like a warrior. He looked... soft. Harmless.
"Is it real?" she asked, her voice trying to be gruff but coming out high and curious. "The gold?"
The man smiled. It was a wide, toothy grin that stretched the dirt on his face.
"Real as the stone under your boots," he promised. "The Alchemist... he's a shy one. Doesn't like the crowds. Keeps his secrets close."
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing down the narrow alley behind him.
"He's just back there. Setting up shop. First customer gets a special rate."
He looked at her, his gaze flicking briefly to the expensive leather of her boots peeking out from under the muddy hem of the stolen cloak.
"You got a coin to turn, lad?" he asked, mistaking her gender beneath the shapeless wool. "Or maybe you just want to see the sparks fly?"
"I want to see," Alise said firmly.
"Right this way, then. Follow me."
The man stood and turned, walking into the shadows of the alley. He moved with a casual, confident stride.
Alise lingered for a heartbeat. The market square was loud and safe. The alley was dark.
But the promise of magic... the promise of power... it was a rope pulling her forward.
She followed.
The transition was instant. The wall of noise from the market—the shouting, the carts, the animals—was severed as soon as they rounded the first bend.
The alley was a throat of damp stone. The buildings leaned in close overhead, blotting out the grey sky, leaving only a strip of bruised twilight. The air here was stagnant, smelling of rot and urine.
"Just around the corner," the man called back, his voice echoing slightly.
Alise walked faster, her boots splashing in puddles of black water. A seed of unease began to sprout in her gut. It was too quiet. Too empty.
'Where is the magic?'
They reached the end.
It was a cul-de-sac—a dead end blocked by a high, slick wall of mossy brick. There were no stalls. No Alchemist. No gold.
Just a pile of refuse and the dripping of water.
Alise stopped.
"Where is he?" she demanded, her voice echoing small and thin in the trap.
The man stopped. He stood facing the brick wall for a second.
Then, he turned around.
The friendly, toothy grin was gone. His face was blank, professional—a mask of indifference.
"Sorry, little one," he muttered.
He didn't offer magic. He offered violence.
He lunged.
Alise saw him coming. She tried to react. She tried to dodge, to scream, to fight.
But physics was a cruel master.
She was six years old. He was a grown man who had done this a hundred times.
He closed the distance in a single stride. His hand, rough and smelling of tobacco, clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream into a muffled whimper. His other arm swept around her waist, pinning her arms to her sides.
She was lifted off her feet, her legs kicking uselessly at the air.
'No. No! Let go!'
She bit his hand. She tasted salt and dirt.
"Feisty," the man grunted, not loosening his grip. "That's good. Fetches a better price."
He slammed her against the brick wall, knocking the wind out of her. Before she could suck in a breath, the world went dark.
A rough, burlap sack was shoved over her head. It scratched her face, smelling of mould and old potatoes. The darkness was absolute.
She felt a rope tighten around her wrists, biting into her skin. She was hoisted up, thrown over a shoulder like a sack of grain.
Alise sobbed, the sound lost in the burlap.
'Brandt... Falk... Alara...'