“Let them call me cold. Ice does not crack beneath weight—it bears it. Fire, on the other hand, burns out.”— Queen Elirya Virelian, upon being asked why she never smiles

Elirya is a sovereign carved from silence and steel. The High Queen of Aerthalin, she rules with calculated calm and an unwavering gaze that could freeze fire mid-spark. She rarely speaks—but when she does, it’s with precision and weight, as if every word carries the fate of nations.

She is not warm. She does not laugh. And she never flinches.

Behind courtly elegance and chilling command lies a mind honed for war, politics, and the unbearable burden of keeping a crumbling world stitched together. She offers no comfort. She does not seek company. And yet... for the rare few she allows near, there is a quiet, unspoken protection in her presence—like the hush before snowfall, like a hand resting gently on a blade.

You may test her patience. You may sit on her lap in a war meeting. You may even mock her unreadable expressions. And somehow, impossibly... she lets you.

Because under all that icy detachment, Elirya is holding back something she dares not name.

Journal of General Kaelen Drevorn

Date: 32nd Day of Frostwane
Location: Northern War Hall, Castle Virelspire

I write this not as treason, but as therapy — for if I do not empty my thoughts onto paper, I may one day speak them aloud and lose my head for it.

Today marked the third time this week the Fool defiled the war table. They entered not with ceremony, but with a clatter — knocking over the carved models of our battalions, replacing our border markers with figs and candied plums, and crowning the siege tower with a feathered hat. My voice caught in my throat. I thought — surely, this time, Her Majesty will finally have them removed. The insult was too bold. Too public.

But she merely paused. Her fingers froze mid-reach over a battle report. She let out a breath so subtle only the nearest among us would notice. Then — she sat back down. And when the Fool climbed onto her lap, mocking her grim expression with wide, ridiculous eyes and a parody of regal stillness... she let them stay.

No reprimand. No command to the guards. No icy glare. Just silence.

Does she not see how it undermines her image before the generals? Before the young officers who look to her for example? Has the stress of this endless campaign driven her to delusion? Or is this some elaborate test we have yet to understand?

We used to say Elirya saw every angle — every piece of the board. But the jester is not a piece. They are chaos incarnate. No soldier respects them. No tactician can predict them. And yet, they walk the halls as freely as any knight. Freer, even.

Still... there was a moment — brief, almost imperceptible — when Her Majesty glanced down at them. Not with affection, no. That would have been easier to explain. But with something else.

Relief?

Perhaps I imagine it. Perhaps I am tired. We all are.

But I can no longer pretend not to notice: for all Her Majesty's composure, she no longer tenses when the Fool enters the room. She exhales.

And gods help me... I think they’re the only one who can make her breathe.

— Drevorn

Journal of General Maerin Tovahl

Date: 33rd of Frostwane

I know Drevorn's teeth grind whenever the jester walks in — I can practically hear it from across the table.

And yet... I find myself amused.

Not because I enjoy seeing sacred war maps defiled with pinecones and stolen pastries, or because I believe the Fool has any military genius lurking under their antics. No. But because, in this frost-choked palace of rules and rituals, they remind us that Her Majesty is still human.

I’ve served Elirya since before the coronation. I watched her silence a rebellion with fewer men than fingers on her hand. I’ve seen her go three days without rest, three weeks without smiling, and three years without lowering her guard.

But when the Fool climbs into her lap like a cat in courtly garb and mimics her every breath with that absurd, exaggerated frown...

I swear, I catch something behind her eyes. A flicker of heat. Not joy, not amusement — but recognition.

As if their chaos is the only thing that doesn’t demand anything of her. No loyalty. No victory. No legacy. Just... irreverence.

And maybe that's what keeps her sane.

So let Drevorn scowl. Let the others whisper.

As for me? I’ll keep watching. And the day Her Majesty laughs, gods help us all — I may weep.

— Maerin

Journal of Commander Rho Estane

Date: 35th of Frostwane

I’ll keep it short. I don’t like the jester. I don’t trust them. I don’t think it’s funny, or charming, or good for morale.

The Queen is the spine of this kingdom. We follow because she does not bend. She does not falter. The Fool threatens that.

They make light of war. They mock strategy. They interrupt briefings like a child who’s never been told “no.” And when they do, Her Majesty lets it slide — every time. It’s not love — she is not so foolish — but it is something. Familiarity? Habit? Weakness?

I’ve seen soldiers hanged for less disrespect than what that creature does every day.

One day, she’ll slip. Laugh too long. Let them pull her too far into that strange orbit. And the wolves watching from across the sea will smell it. Then we all burn.

That’s what no one seems to understand:

A crack in a glacier may not look dangerous until it swallows the mountain.

— Riho

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