“Apologize,” he said.
The words were calm, but the frost beneath our feet began to crack. Hairline fractures spidered across the glass floor, glowing faintly.
Lady Calenne’s mouth opened and closed. “Your Highness, I—”
“Now.”
She paled. The frostlight around him pulsed once, then steadied, waiting on his command like something alive.
Her voice broke on the next word. “Forgive me, mortal. I meant no harm.”
I stared at her, then at him. Kaelith’s gaze flicked toward me—sharp, searching, not quite asking forgiveness but something close. Then he turned and walked away, every inch of him rigid restraint.
The Frostfather said nothing. No one did. But the message was clear: the Heir of Winter had chosen his line, and tonight, it wasn’t with them.
Kael bent close enough for only me to hear. “Well,” he whispered, wry and quiet, “seems my brother still prefers storms to diplomacy.”
I tried to laugh. It came out as a breath instead. Across the hall, Kaelith’s retreating figure vanished into shadow, but I could still feel the echo of his stare—the same one that had burned through me even before the feast began.
Chapter twenty-five
Katria
Silence didn’t return so much as it collapsed.
After Kaelith’s voice cut through the hall, no one dared to breathe too loudly. The nobles’ laughter had curdled into stillness; the Frostfather’s smile had turned thin as glass. And I—standing amid the shards of my own composure—couldn’t seem to move.
The air still hummed with his command.Apologize.The frost on the floor hadn’t stopped cracking.
Lady Calenne bowed low, murmuring her apology again and again, but Kaelith didn’t look at her. His eyes, cold and precise, had found me instead. Whatever he saw there made something shift in his expression—less anger, more regret—but it was gone as quickly as it appeared.
Then he turned, and the weight of his absence felt like a door slamming shut.
The Frostfather remained seated, his expression unreadable. One gloved finger tapped slowly against the armrest of his throne. “A curious spectacle,” he murmured. “The heir defends his mortal.”
Kael’s easy voice broke the silence that followed. “Every good feast needs a little theater.”
A few nobles laughed, brittle and uneasy. The Frostfather’s gaze lingered on Kael for a heartbeat longer before sliding back to me. “I suppose it does.”
And then, as if nothing had happened, the music resumed. The dancers returned to the floor. Laughter followed, hollow and forced. The moment passed—or pretended to.
I stood rooted to the spot, the torn strap of my gown still hanging loose, my pulse refusing to settle. Kael leaned close, murmuring, “Don’t give them more to watch.”
He guided me toward the edge of the hall, Fenrir padding behind us with his hackles raised. We slipped through an archway of ice and out into a smaller corridor, the sounds of the feast fading behind us.
Only when the door shut did I breathe again.
Kael released my hand and exhaled softly. “You handled that better than most mortals would.”
“Most mortals aren’t dragged into fae feasts as decoration.”
He winced but didn’t argue. “You’ll be all right?”
“I’m not sure yet.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s fair.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he said, “He shouldn’t have let it get that far.”
