The corridor beyond my door swallowed sound. My footsteps vanished almost before they began, leaving only the faint whisper of fur lining against stone. The air had a weight to it, as if the palace were listening.
Columns of ice rose like trees, their surfaces etched with thin silver veins that pulsed every few seconds—heartbeats, if Winter had one. Between them, I caught glimpses of servants moving in silence, faces half-hidden by frost-woven veils. None met my eyes. One bowed slightly, then crossed to the opposite side as if my shadow might burn.
The temperature shifted the farther I walked, the light thinning into a shade too blue to be real. At each turn, the walls breathed faint mist, as though the entire palace exhaled around me. Once, I thought I heard a whisper—my name, soft and uncertain—but when I turned, only frost drifted through the air like dust.
A guard waited where the corridor widened into a long bridge of glass. His armor glimmered faintly; even the metal looked frozen. “Lady Katria,” he said, inclining his head. “This way to the audience hall.”
He didn’t offer his arm. I wouldn’t have taken it.
As we walked, I tried to remember the stories told in Hollowmere—of fae who stole voices, of palaces where mortals turned to ice if they spoke too loudly. I almost laughed. The truth was quieter, colder. Not cruelty, not yet—only the indifference of a world that had forgotten warmth existed.
We crossed beneath an arch where runes burned dimly, and a gust of air lifted the hair at my temples. Beyond it, the palace opened into a great hall lined with frozen banners and mirrors that caught the aurora from outside. At the far end waited a dais and a single figure.
The Frostbound Heir.
Even from a distance I knew him—the same measured stillness, the same sharp lines that could have been carved rather than born. The crownless prince who had looked at me yesterday as if measuring what I was worth. Now he stood waiting, expression unreadable.
The guard stopped a few paces behind me. “His Highness, Prince Kaelith of Winter.”
Kaelith’s gaze lifted, pale and cutting. “The mortal,” he said, voice smooth and cold enough to mist in the air between us. “Punctual. That’s … unexpected.”
I bit back the first answer that came to mind. “Your message said noon. I thought it unwise to be late.”
A flicker passed through his eyes—amusement, maybe—but it was gone before I could be sure. He gestured toward the center of the hall. “Then stand where the light reaches you. We’ll see what you are.”
I did. The light from the mirrors slid over me like water, too bright, too cold, and the hush that followed felt like a held breath.
The mirrors threw back more light than the room could hold. Every surface gleamed, fractured into hundreds of reflections, so that for a moment I saw him everywhere—the Frostbound Heir multiplied into a thousand shards of ice.
He stood at the center of them, motionless, every line of him composed. His armor wasn’t silver as I expected, but a darker hue, almost blue-black, like the sky before snow. The runes etched along his gauntlets glowed faintly, the light crawling with each heartbeat.
“Lady Katria Vale,” he said at last, and the way my name left his mouth sounded like a test. “Daughter of no house. Apothecary. Mortal envoy of Hollowmere.”
Each title fell colder than the last.
I straightened my spine. “You forgotunwilling.”
A few of the courtiers lining the hall—thin, elegant shapes draped in pale silk—stirred at that. Their eyes glittered from behind translucent veils, curious but sharp, as if waiting for me to break and bleed curiosity for them to taste.
Kaelith’s mouth curved—not quite a smile. “Willingness wasn’t part of the bargain.”
“No,” I said quietly. “That much was clear.”
He descended two shallow steps, the movement so controlled it might have been choreographed. “Tell me, apothecary—do mortals still trade superstition for truth? I’ve heard they burn healers who cure too well.”
“I was offered,” I said. “Not burned.”
“An improvement.” His gaze swept over me once, assessing, not leering, but it still made my skin prickle. “You claim your work uses no magic.”
“I don’tclaim.It doesn’t.”
“Then convince me.”
He said it without malice, yet the words pressed close, like a hand around my throat. I met his eyes anyway. “If you’re expecting me to conjure proof, I can’t. Healing isn’t spectacle. It’s knowledge.”
Something flickered there—an unreadable shift, gone too quickly to name. “Knowledge has a cost in this court.”
“I’ve paid mine already.”
