Maeryn stiffened. “Do you feel that?”
“Yes,” I said. “What is it?”
“The Veil, perhaps.” She gripped the rail. “When it shivers, Winter listens.”
The lights above us flared once then dimmed, leaving faint afterimages dancing across my vision. The frost beneath our hands had warmed—not melted but alive.
“When the frost forgets its song,” Maeryn murmured, “something terrible wakes to remind it.”
I turned toward her. “What happens if the song doesn’t come back?”
“Then all of us will learn what silence truly means.”
For a while, we stood without speaking. The aurora moved slower now, as though exhausted. My reflection hovered faintly in the glass—half light, half shadow.
“I don’t think it’s the frost that’s afraid of melting,” I said quietly. “I think it’s everything that lives inside it.”
Maeryn gave me a strange, sad look. “Then perhaps it already knows your name.”
The frostlight steadied again, but the air hadn’t settled. Something unseen had shifted—a rhythm out of place, a heartbeat too strong for the silence around it.
Chapter seven
Katria
When I woke, the light in the room was wrong.
It wasn’t dawn—the Winter Court didn’t keep such mortal habits—but the frostlight in the sconces had dimmed to a color closer to bone than blue. The mirror across the chamber had cracked in three thin lines, each one pulsing faintly as if something beneath the glass still breathed.
Fenrir paced before it, claws clicking softly against the floor. His fur stood on end, the faint shimmer along his spine brighter than usual.
“Easy,” I said, my voice coming out small.
He turned his head toward me, eyes catching the dying light. For a moment, I swore he understood the word, then he resumed pacing, a low whine rising from his chest.
I climbed out of bed. The air bit harder than usual, stinging the skin of my feet even through the rugs. When I reached the mirror, the cracks glowed brighter, like veins filled with cold fire. I touched one lightly.
It pulsed once and stilled.
A flake of frost drifted down, landing on the back of my hand. It didn’t melt. It throbbed once—almost like a heartbeat—and then turned to dust.
Fenrir growled, deep and warning. “All right,” I whispered, backing away. “We’ll leave it alone.”
A knock came—soft but urgent—and Maeryn slipped inside, arms full of folded linens and breathless from haste. The frostlight caught in her hair made her look nearly translucent.
“You felt it,” she said, not a question.
“I think the palace did.” I gestured to the mirror. “It cracked.”
Maeryn’s gaze followed my hand, and her lips tightened. “You should not touch it again. When the glass breaks here, it’s never only glass.”
“What happened?”
“The Veil tremored at dawn. The Frostfather convened the council within the hour.” She set the linens down, fingers trembling slightly. “They say something on the other side pushed back.”
“Something?” I asked. “Or someone?”
She shook her head. “No one agrees. They argue about omens and breaches and signs.” Her eyes flicked to Fenrir. “They also speak your name.”
