His eyes found mine again, colder now, but the stillness wasn’t anger—it was calculation. “You misunderstand your position.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.” He stepped closer until the reflection of the map shimmered across his dark hair and gray eyes. “You are here at my father’s command. You will answer his questions when summoned. You will not wander. You will not presume familiarity.”
“And if I do?”
The corner of his mouth moved again, almost a smile. “Then you’ll discover why Winter buries what it cannot burn.”
The words should have frightened me. They did. But under the cold precision of them, I heard something else—effort. A man reminding himself what role to play.
He drew back slightly, reclaiming distance. “That will be all.”
I should have left then, but something in me rebelled at being dismissed. “Your guards gossip loudly for men sworn to silence.”
His eyes narrowed. “What did you hear?”
“That the mortal has yourattention.”
The frostlight at his wrist flared, bright and fast. He stilled it instantly, but the damage was done.
“They should mind their tongues,” he said, voice lower now, almost human in its roughness. “Attention is not favor.”
“No,” I said. “But it’s still dangerous.”
For the first time, he looked uncertain whether I was warning him—or myself.
For a few heartbeats, neither of us moved.
Kaelith’s gaze didn’t waver, but something in it changed—hard edges softening, not with mercy but recognition. I had overstepped, and we both knew it. Yet instead of reprimand, there was silence so complete I could hear the faint hum of the frostlight burning through the room.
He exhaled once, steady and slow. “You take too much interest in soldiers’ gossip,” he said at last.
“I didn’t ask to hear it.”
“But you listened.” His tone held no anger, only fact—though the light at his wrist betrayed the lie of calm, pulsing in time with his words.
“I’ve found listening useful,” I said. “It tells me who fears what.”
“And what do you think they fear?”
“You,” I said simply. “Though I can’t decide if that’s loyalty or survival.”
His expression didn’t shift, but the frost on the walls thickened almost imperceptibly, catching the light like shattered glass. “You speak like someone who doesn’t value self-preservation.”
“Or someone who’s tired of pretending fear is a virtue,” I retorted.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. He stepped closer until only the edge of the table separated us. The line of frostlight across his glove brightened again, trailing faint illumination over his knuckles.
“I could freeze the breath from your lungs for speaking to me that way,” he said quietly. “Would you still pretend not to fear me then?”
I met his gaze. “Would you?”
His eyes darkened at that—not anger but something sharper, nearer to disbelief. For a moment, the air lost its chill. The cold didn’t leave; it waited, suspended.
“You don’t know what you invite,” he murmured.
“Then enlighten me.”
