My pulse kicked hard in my chest. The enchantment wanted me to open it. The whispers in the air were almost soundless, just on the edge of hearing.You already know what it says.
I didn’t. And that was the problem.
I told myself I wouldn’t move. That I’d sit there until dawn, until the pull dulled. But my hand was already on the latch before the thought was finished.
The ice cracked louder this time. The chest opened in a slow sigh of warmth.
The letters were still tied together with silver cord—three of them. The last one pulsed faintly, the wax seal etched with Sareth’s sigil: a twisting vine of gold ink, tiny thorns curling through its loops.
For a heartbeat, I thought of burning it. But the fire was too small, and I was too weak.
I tore the seal open.
The warmth spilled into the air instantly, sweet and heavy. The script shimmered faintly as I unfolded the parchment. I didn’t need to read the first line to feel the spell in it, but my eyes found the words anyway.
My dearest Kaelith,
Even Winter must admit what it desires.You think it’s love, this heat that haunts you, but love is only the shape hunger wears when we’re too proud to beg.Tell me—has she burned through your control yet? Has she thawed what even death could not?
I gritted my teeth. The words crawled across the page, sinking through my skin like they were written for my veins, not my eyes. I tried to drop the parchment, but my hand wouldn’t obey.
You were never meant for stillness, my frostborn prince. You were meant for ruin. You and I both know Winter cannot survive warmth. So ask yourself, when the mortal burns your name from her lips … will you save your kingdom or let it melt with you?
The script flared gold for an instant, and the letter dissolved into mist.
The scent of her magic filled the room—autumn spice, blood, and something floral I couldn’t name. It crawled under my skin, coiling around my heartbeat, whispering between each pulse.
You already chose her.
“No.” I pressed my palms to the desk, the frost spreading fast under my hands. “No, I haven’t.”
But the whisper didn’t fade.
You already did.
The runes in my chamber flickered—weak, erratic. The ice on the walls began to sweat. The air grew heavy and warm, unnatural for Winter.
I tore open the top drawer, searching for anything—a rune stone, a relic, something to counter the enchantment—but the sigils carved into the table flared once and went dark. The letter’s spell was feeding on my own magic, threading through it like veins of light through ice.
My knees hit the floor before I realized I’d fallen.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to breathe past the warmth building there. I couldfeelher—Katria—her scent, her voice, the shape of her defiance. Every wall I’d built was breaking. Every rule I’d made for myself was turning to water.
And still, under it all, I could hear Sareth’s voice. Soft, triumphant, cruel.
There is no frost without fire, my dear heir. You can’t have both.
I forced my eyes open. Frostlight pooled along the floor, dimming in rhythm with my breath. The castle shuddered once, a faint quake running through its bones.
“Get out of my head,” I snarled. “You will not have her.”
The light flared white-hot—then went out.
When I came back to myself, I was kneeling in darkness. The letter was gone, burned to ash without flame. The frost on the walls had melted to dripping water. The fire in thehearth had gone cold.
And beneath the sound of the melting ice, I thought I heard something else—soft footsteps far below, somewhere near the mortal’s quarters.
Katria.
