The Devil's Son and His Fated Bride
Chapter 210: Freezing air.

Chapter 210: Freezing air.

Before stepping into the carriage to leave the castle and head to the Cave temple, Ren caught sight of Lucas and Jace making their way toward the forge, soot smudging their sleeves and firelight dancing behind them. She lifted a hand, signaling Arkilla without a word. The armored guard nodded and peeled away from her luna to fetch the boys.

Moments later, the brothers stood before her, heads bowed low in silent reverence.

"We are at your disposal, Your Highness," they said in unison, their voices soft, skeptical. Rarely did their Queen talk to them.

Ren’s smile wavered, tinged with sorrow. "How is your mother’s fever?"

Lucas lifted his gaze. "Thanks to you, she’s much better. She only cries for Gloria now."

The name struck a tender place in Ren’s chest. Guilt gnawed at her, this family had lost so much, and still, she asked for more. But Gloria had to leave this family to live. If Luther had opened his mouth, the girl’s blood would’ve darkened the palace stones. A secret heir was a threat. A rival. And an easy prey to kill.

"Tell her to come and see me tomorrow evening," Ren said, her voice serene but firm. "Bring little Dave too."

The boys bowed again, holding the gesture even as she turned away. Only when her carriage wheels rolled down the gravel path did Jace lean toward his brother?

"It’s getting dark," he whispered. "Where’s she going?"

Lucas only shrugged. Their Queen had been carved from grief lately, and everyone in the kingdom knew why.

It took two hours of winding through ice-clad roads and shadowed forest paths before the carriage finally reached the foot of the mountain. The Veil Valley greeted them with a breath of frost. A piercing cold clung to everything, brittle dead grass, bare branches, and even the stones themselves seemed to shiver. Overhead, swollen clouds pressed down like a lid of slate, thick and unmoving, dimming the world beneath them. It was the kind of place where time forgot to flow, and ancient predators still prowled among the thick mist.

In this part of the Thegara, the cold awakened things best left asleep. Grotesque shapes stirred in caves bored into the mountain, sniffing for warmth and flesh.

High above, two winged figures pierced the gray sky, Calisa, and Ogain, their forms slicing through the wind like black and silver spears. They landed with thunderous grace in the yard of the Cave Temple, wings folding in a whisper of feather and bone. The troop of shifter guards that had traveled with them scattered into position, encircling their Luna Queen with sharpened eyes and ready hands.

Ren stepped down from the carriage, her cloak fluttering as if in protest against the bitter wind. Principal Arcane ascended the carved temple steps ahead of her, and Arkilla followed close behind Ren, keeping her in the middle.

"The Seraphina Garden is green," Arkilla murmured, tilting her head but surrounded by the fog. Her breath coiled in the air like smoke. "Even in this cold..."

"They never wither," Arcane replied, his voice a blend of awe and memory. "That was the gift the demon god gave to his beloved wife. Living green in a dead time."

They stood in silence, looking down at the edge of the garden, where the ground was veined with frost yet the strange, glimmering leaves refused to die.

Then a rush of wind stirred the snow. A figure descended from the heavens, that was Saint Saga, the white owlman, his feathers glowing like moonlight. He landed softly, the snow barely disturbed beneath his talons. His eyes, deep as frozen wells, locked onto Ren.

"My Luna Queen," he said, his voice very solemn. "Welcome to the house of gods."

He bowed low. The yard was covered with snow, making him sound invisible.

Then, he gestured to a stone platform ahead, ringed by six towering pillars. Symbols twisted around the columns, neither runes nor any Fae script she knew. The language was older than memory, older than the Fae maybe. Maybe it was the Gods’ tongue.

Ren’s eyes narrowed. "You know why I’m here, don’t you?"

Saga straightened and nodded slowly. "Yes, my Queen. I expected your summons earlier. But I understand, you tried to bring His Highness back without invoking...Him." He hinted at the pillars with his head.

She said nothing. The truth hung there between them, sharp as the wind that burned her cheeks, made them flush. She had tried. And she had failed.

"Shall we begin? A storm is coming," Principal Arcane said, his gaze flicking toward the horizon where thunderheads were already boiling above the mountain’s spine. The winds were picking up, restless and strange. They would need to take shelter within the Cave Temple for the night.

"Of course," Ren replied, her voice a steady ember in the cold. "Let me set the fire. The torches too."

Saint Saga wasted no time. The owlman fluttered across the stone yard, his hands instantly catching torchlight as he kindled flame after flame. Fire bloomed in the sconces like summoned spirits, casting long shadows across the ancient carvings. The temple seemed to exhale as if it had been waiting.

Arcane turned to Ren and gestured to one of the six towering pillars. "Stand here. I’ll need a few drops of your blood."

Without hesitation, Ren reached beneath her cloak, drawing a ceremonial dagger from a sheath sewn into her vest. The blade flashed silver, then red as she sliced across her palm.

Arkilla flinched and turned her head, unable to watch. This wasn’t the Ren she had once followed into spring meadows and sunlit corridors. The girl of laughter and mischief had faded. What remained now was something colder, something carved from duty and fire.

Ren’s blood welled warm and bright, painting her pale skin in crimson streaks. She held her hand out, waiting for the ritual to accept her offering.

And master Arcane began to perform the formation.

Three glowing rings, shimmering red like embers trapped in glass, ignited above the pillar. They spun slowly, exactly mirroring the ancient formation etched into the circular platform at the heart of the yard. Strange words began to drift between the rings, no language she knew, not of Fae nor men.

Saint Saga’s voice rose, crisp and sudden. "Now, Princess!"

Ren pressed her bleeding palm against the platform. Her blood responded, slithering down in a line so thin it looked drawn by a needle, weaving across the cold stone like a living red serpent. The moment it touched the carvings of the pillar next to her, the rings vibrated.

A tremor passed through the ground.

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