Cold hit like impact. I gasped as my breath crystallized before me. The ice crawled upward in delicate lattices, slow at first, then faster, tracing the path of my pulse. My knees locked to keep from trembling. The first rule of surviving panic: don’t let them see it.
One councilor’s voice cut through the silence. “If her heart is true, the frost will halt. If deceit hides there, Winter will claim it.”
The ice climbed past my calves. Every nerve screamed then went numb. I fixed my eyes on Kaelith. He stood rigid, the line of frostlight along his glove stuttering with each beat. A tremor, subtle but visible, ran through his left hand.
Another voice—male and thin with age—spoke. “Ask your questions, Frostbound Heir. Let her answers seal her fate.”
Kaelith hesitated. “Do you serve the Dreamkeeper?”
“I don’t even know him,” I said. My voice shook with the cold. “I serve no one.”
The frost hesitated at my knees, then began climbing again.
“Do you seek the Dreamstone?”
“I don’t seek anything but to go home,” I gasped.
The ice paused. A murmur ran through the councilors.
“She lies,” one said.
“She doesn’t,” Kaelith replied, too quickly. The sound of it startled even him. The frostlight on his glove flared and dimmed again. His composure cracked along the edges.
The ice reached my ribs. Breathing became an act of will. Each inhale burned. I tried to move my hands, but the frost had pinned them in place. Fenrir’s growl rose low and deep, echoing through the chamber.
“Contain the beast,” someone ordered.
Kaelith turned sharply. “Leave him.”
The command froze the guards mid-movement. He faced me again, eyes like storms held behind glass. “Breathe slowly,” he said under his breath, so low I barely caught it. “Don’t fight the frost.”
“I’m not—” My voice broke. Ice climbed to my collarbone. The world narrowed to the sound of cracking. It wasn’t the floor—it was me.
Then something gave way.
The frostlight above the circle flared white, then red, thengold. A sound like glass shattering filled the chamber. The cold recoiled in a single violent wave, throwing several councilors backward. Heat—impossible, searing heat—burst outward from the circle’s center.
I screamed. Not from pain but from shock; warmth flooded through me like breath after drowning. The ice melted in seconds, turning to steam that rose around us in thick coils, and the runes underfoot blazed, melting their own grooves.
Fenrir tore free of his chain, bounding to my side. His fur glowed where the light touched it, frost turning to droplets that hissed against the floor.
Through the haze, I saw Kaelith move—swift, precise, the only still point in chaos. He reached the circle, arm raised to shield his eyes. The gold light painted his armor in impossible color. His lips moved; I couldn’t hear the words over the roar, but the frostlight on his glove pulsed furiously, as if fighting to survive.
Then everything stopped.
The heat vanished. The light fell away. I was still standing, drenched and shaking, as steam rose from my sleeves. Around me, the circle smoked; inthe center, faint traces of warmth clung to the stone, glowing like embers trapped under snow.
Kaelith lowered his arm, and for a moment, his expression was raw with astonishment, fear, and something else I couldn’t name. Then he looked toward the councilors, voice cutting through the fading hiss of steam.
“The trial is ended.”
For a long breath after the light died, no one moved.
Steam hung thick in the chamber, curling around the pillars like ghostly fabric. My pulse still hammered in my ears, too fast to be real. Beneath my boots the stone hissed, water freezing again in crooked patterns.
Then the first voice broke the silence—high and shaking. “She turned the frost!”
Another answered, “No mortal could—”
