“Mine?”
“And the hound’s.” Maeryn hesitated then lowered her voice. “They believe his loyalty marks you as a conduit—proof that the mortal realm has begun to influence ours. Some say you brought the tremor with you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“It is,” she agreed softly, “but fear makes better stories than reason.”
I leaned against the bedpost. “So now I’m an omen again.”
Maeryn folded her hands, gaze lowered. “Omen or scapegoat. The words are different; the ending seldom is.”
For a long moment, the only sound was Fenrir’s slow pacing. The frostlight guttered, throwing brief shadows that darted like wings across the walls.
“What about Kaelith?” I asked. “He was in the observatory yesterday. Does he believe any of this?”
“He believes what duty allows him to believe,” Maeryn said. “But he argued with the council before dawn. Loudly, by Winter’s standards.”
“That’s nearly shouting.”
“Exactly. I would keep my distance until tempers cool.” She hesitated again before adding, “Especially his.”
I almost laughed, though there was no humor in it. “You make him sound dangerous.”
Maeryn’s gaze lifted then, sharp for once. “He is. Just not in the ways people assume.”
The frostlight flared once, silencing both of us. Somewhere deep in the palace, a door slammed—the echo carried through the walls like thunder muted by snow.
When it faded, Maeryn straightened. “I’ll bring food. Stay inside. Let no one but me enter.”
“Maeryn—”
She was already gone, leaving only the faint scent of frostlight oil behind.
Fenrir padded to the door and lay across the threshold, massive head resting on his paws, guarding without being asked. I knelt beside him, tracing one of the cracked patterns along the floor with my fingertip. The frost there felt warm.
The Veil, they said, had tremored. But standing in that silence, I couldn’t shake the feeling it wasn’t the world that had shifted—it was something inside of it.
By the time Maeryn returned, the frostlight had steadied, but the palace hadn’t. The walls seemed to hold their breath; every sound echoed longer than it should, as if the air had thickened around us.
“The council’s been meeting since first glimmer,” she said while setting down a tray she hadn’t tasted from. “No mortal attendants are allowed.”
“I wasn’t planning to attend,” I said, though the lie sat poorly. I wanted tohear. The tremor in the night had left my thoughts too loud to ignore.
Maeryn’s glance darted to the door. “Then stay clear of the west hall. The Frostfather’s temper has become … unpredictable.”
“Unpredictable how?”
She folded the napkin with meticulous care, which was answer enough. “Just stay inside,” she murmured, then she left before I could argue.
I lasted ten minutes.
The corridor outside the council chamber was colder than any I’d walked before. Frost feathered the walls in intricate, spiraling runes—fresh ones, still wet with magic. Two guards stood at the doors, motionless, faces hidden by helms that breathed pale mist.
I stopped short of them, pretending to study the carvings. The doors themselves were carved with scenes of conquest: fae against ice beasts, mortals kneeling at their feet. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
A low vibration came through the floor, faint but steady—the rhythm of voices rising behind the doors. At first I heard nothing distinct, then a sharp tone cut through.
Kaelith.
