I had the sense I’d stepped into a storm that hadn’t decided whether to break.
“Lady Katria,” he said. The words were courteous, the tone anything but. “You may sit.”
I stayed standing. “I prefer to stand.”
A pause followed, thin and charged. “Mortals usually find my presence … discouraging.”
“Then it’s fortunate I’m not most mortals.”
The faintest lift of a brow. “So I’ve been told.”
He gestured to the glowing map. “You recognize your realm?”
It took me a moment to orient myself; Hollowmere was a small smudge near the southern border, more scar than territory. “Recognize might be generous,” I said. “We don’t see ourselves from above very often.”
“Perspective,” he murmured, tracing a line across the frost with one gloved fingertip. “It changes everything.”
When he looked up, his eyes caught the light—gray shot with silver, calm and cold. “Your people call this boundary the Veil. Do they understand what it is?”
“They understand it keeps us separate,” I said. “That seems enough.”
“Enough for mortals,” he agreed, though his mouth twitched as if the word tasted wrong. “The Frostfather believes the Veil weakens. He believes mortals meddle in things they do not comprehend.”
“I suppose he’d know,” I said. “Winter meddles in everything else.”
For a heartbeat, silence pressed between us. Then, unexpectedly, his mouth curved—not a smile exactly but a recognition. The line of frostlight on his glove brightened and dimmed again.
“You think yourself clever,” he said.
“I think words are cheaper than fear.”
He stepped closer, the movement smooth and controlled. The air sharpened; I felt it along my skin like static before a storm. His gaze fixed on my face, then—too long—dropped to my throat before returning to my eyes.
“Tell me, mortal,” he said quietly. “Are you afraid of me?”
I wanted to lie. Instead, I said, “Should I be?”
Something flickered in his expression—gone before I could name it. “Most would be.”
“I’ve seen cold men before. You’re only better dressed.”
The words slipped out sharper than I intended. For the briefest instant, the room changed. Frost webbed over the map beneath his hand; the veins of light pulsed bright then steadied as he drew a slow breath.
His control re-formed visibly—shoulders tightening, jaw locking. The air settled.
“Be cautious,” he said at last. “You tread in conversations that end with ice.”
“Then I’ll speak quickly.”
That earned me a look—half disbelief, half reluctant amusement. He turned away, studying the map again. “Your tongue will get you killed, Katria Vale.”
“Then it will die doing something interesting.” I didn’t know why I egged him on. Perhaps I was tired of judgment from people who didn’t understand me … or perhaps I had a death wish.
The frost at the edge of the table cracked faintly, like laughter disguised as sound. His hand flexed once; the glove’s light pulsed again, betraying him.
“Do you always challenge those who can end you?” he asked.
“Only the ones who start it.”
