It was there in the Bjora Marches she faltered. The power of fire that had licked at her heels all her life had been waiting for such a moment. Each new self-doubt, each new fracture in her conviction brought the flame closer to her hand. But it was only now, seeing her mother laid in a crude cairn, cold and alone, that she reached for it.

Years of spurning the flame had just made it hungrier. And once given the chance it consumed her. She was ablaze in an instant, faster than a spark ignited dry tinder. Her blood was molten, like ley lines erupting to give way to this new magic. Her heart burned and hammered so hot and brightly that she staggered on her feet and her vision swam.
Then there was a sharp pain at the center of it all that galvanized the inferno around her. A wicked cold had pierced her heart, occupying the hole left by this raw moment of grief. The fire inside raged, trying to burn out this imperfection from its purifying heat.

But the ice would not move. And to the north, the dragon grinned.