Her lips curved, brief and knowing. “Careful, my lady. Here, that’s not a compliment.”
We fell quiet for a moment. The frostlight fluttered in its glass bowl, casting patterns that crawled along the wall like veins of ice. Maeryn reached to steady it, her expression thoughtful.
“There’s one more thing,” she said softly. “You’ll hear of the Veil—some call it the border, others the wound. It lies between our world and yours. The Frostfather believes it’s thinning. That’s why the Dreamstone matters so much. They think it can mend the breach.”
“They thinkIknow where it is.”
She didn’t confirm it, but her silence said enough.
At last, she gathered the empty dishes. “You’re different, Lady Katria. Most mortals shake until they break. You only look like you’re thinking of how to fight back.”
“Would that be unwise?”
Her faint smile returned, sad and knowing. “Everything is unwise here.”
When she left, the door sealed itself again with a soft hiss. The frostlight burned low, steady and cold. Fenrir opened one pale eye from where he lay near the hearth.
“Everything’s unwise,” I whispered. “That’s the first thing I agree with.”
He closed his eye again, unconcerned, and the frostlight dimmed until only a trace of its glow remained—like a single held breath refusing to fade.
Morning never quite looked like morning here. The light that slipped through the window wasn’t sunlight, only a dim, white shimmer that seemed to come from the ice itself. I couldn’t tell whether hours had passed or only minutes.
Maeryn arrived without knocking. The door simply breathed open, a sigh of frost. She carried a bundle of pale linen and another vessel of frostlight that painted the room in silver hues.
“Good morning, Lady Katria.”
“Is it?” I asked.
Her smile was small. “Close enough. The court calls this hourfirst glimmer.It serves the same purpose.”
She set the bundle on the bed and unfolded a gown the color of clouded glass. Tiny runes traced the hem, flickering when they caught the frostlight. “I am here to prepare you for breakfast.”
“I thought I was a prisoner,” I said. “Not a guest at breakfast.”
“You are both.” She glanced up at me. “It is better to look like one than the other.”
I sighed, running a hand over the fabric. “And where does this breakfast take place?”
“In the east hall. The Frostbound Heir presides, though he rarely eats.” Her tone softened. “You will sit near the end of the table, opposite the mirrors. If you are addressed, answer plainly. If you are not addressed—”
“I should keep quiet.”
Maeryn hesitated then nodded. “Here, we call itthe Law of Silence.To interrupt a superior is to challenge them. Most challenges end poorly.”
“Sounds civilized.”
She winced at the sarcasm but didn’t scold me. “The Law began long ago, when Winter nearly fractured itself with arguments. They learned that words could wound deeper than blades.”
I met her eyes. “And now they prefer the blades?”
She folded the last corner of the gown with careful precision. “They prefer peace. The form it takes does not always look kind.”
Fenrir stirred near the hearth, his breath frosting the floor. Maeryn’s gaze flicked toward him then back to me. “He will not be allowed in the hall. Leave him here. He will wait.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I murmured. The snowhound hadn’t left me since I walked the garden.
When Maeryn finished arranging my hair—pulled back, no ornament, nothing to catch light—she stepped back to study me. “You look almost calm.”
