“I’m very good at pretending.”
“That will serve you better than truth,” she said softly then offered her arm as if we were equals. “Shall we?”
The corridor outside gleamed like a frozen river. Maeryn walked half a step behind, voice low enough that only I could hear.
“If anyone at table asks about Hollowmere,” she said, “speak of the cold and the harvests, not the people. Do not mention your herbs. The council watches for any sign of mortal craft.”
“I thought healing wasn’t forbidden.”
“It is not,” she said, “until someone decides it is.”
We reached the archway that opened into the hall. The air beyond shimmered with pale light and the sound of distant, perfect music—a melody built entirely of ice and wind. Fae voices murmured beneath it, smooth and careful.
Maeryn touched my sleeve before I stepped forward. “Remember, Lady Katria, speak only when spoken to and never louder than the frost.”
Then she released me, leaving the rest of her warning unspoken.
The east hall was already full when I entered, though no one spoke. Dozens of fae sat in two perfect rows along a long, narrow table of ice, their reflections running the length of it like a river of light. Silver dishes waited before them, untouched. The sound I’d mistaken for music was only the wind threading through high crystal arches.
Kaelith sat at the head, flanked by two empty chairs—the Frostfather’s absence a silence heavier than the rest. His armor had been traded for blackcloth banded with faint runes that pulsed once every few heartbeats. When he looked up, the movement of every other fae in the room seemed to pause, as if even their stillness deferred to his.
Maeryn’s hand brushed my back in quiet reminder, and I followed her lead to the lower end of the table. A seat waited there, smaller, without ornament. My reflection in the ice looked pale and blurred, as if even the mirror didn’t know who I was supposed to be.
When Kaelith spoke, his voice carried effortlessly. “Begin.”
No one moved until he reached for his own cup. The rest followed in precise unison—glasses raised, bites taken, a ritual of motion so exact it felt rehearsed for centuries. No one chewed loudly. No one cleared a throat. The only sound was the faint crackle of frostlight burning in its sconces.
I tried a sip of the clear liquid Maeryn had poured for me. It tasted like snowmelt and left a cool ache behind my teeth. Across the table, a fae woman in silver silk lifted her eyes toward me, studied, and looked away as if touching a dangerous thing with her gaze.
The longer the silence lasted, the louder my thoughts became. I wondered if they could hear them—if in this place, thinking too loudly counted as speaking.
At the far end, Kaelith set down his cup. “Our mortal guest adapts quickly,” he said, not looking at me. “Hollowmere breeds endurance.”
The courtiers inclined their heads, a gesture somewhere between agreement and obedience. I managed to answer evenly. “Endurance is all Hollowmere ever gave us.”
A faint hum rippled through the hall—approval or warning, I couldn’t tell. Kaelith’s gaze flicked toward me then, sharp and unreadable. “You’ll find endurance is currency here as well.”
No one else spoke. The silence folded back over us, complete and deliberate.
When the meal ended, every fae rose at once, their chairs gliding soundlessly across the floor. Kaelith didn’t move until the last of them had gone. Only then did he turn his head slightly, enough that I saw the line of his jaw and the faint light running beneath his skin.
“Lady Katria,” he said without looking directly at me. “If you intend to survive this court, remember: The frost listens longer than you do.”
Then he left through the northern arch, leaving the hall empty except for the whisper of melting air where he had passed.
Maeryn appeared beside me a moment later, her face carefully blank. “You did well,” she murmured. “No one died of offense.”
“High praise.”
“In Winter,” she said, “it is.”
Chapter six
Katria
The corridors of the west wing sounded different after lunch.Not quieter—Winter was always quiet—but tuned differently, like a note held too long. The hush wasn’t peace; it was listening.
When I walked through the servants’ passage, a Frostguard at my heels, conversation thinned around me. Words stopped mid-breath. Dishes clinked softer. Even the frostlight dimmed, as if light itself obeyed the Court’s etiquette. I told myself I imagined it, but imagination didn’t make people avert their eyes.
