“You’re awake,” she said, setting the basin down. “The Court said you wouldn’t be.”
“They were nearly right.” My voice rasped; I cleared it. “How long?”
“Two nights.” She wrung a cloth, eyes flicking everywhere but at me. “The heir ordered you not to be disturbed. He”—she hesitated—“stayed until dawn the first day.”
I didn’t know what to do with that. “And now?”
“He was summoned to the throne hall this morning.” Her tone carried the kind of careful neutrality used for dangerous gossip.
The basin steamed between us. I reached for the cloth, and Maeryn flinched before catching herself. “Your skin,” she murmured. “It’s warm.”
“Shouldn’t it be?”
“In Winter, warmth draws attention.” She tried to smile and failed. “Everyone’s talking about the thawfire. Some say you called it. Others say you carry it.”
I forced a laugh that didn’t sound human. “And what do you say?”
She dipped the cloth again, eyes down. “I say the Court thrives on silence until it doesn’t.” It was an echo of her earlier words but not an answer.
When she turned away to tidy the table, I studied my hands. The faint gold mark at my wrist—where Kaelith had touched me—still shimmered when the light caught it. I rubbed at it until the skin reddened. It stayed.
Memories of the Trial of the Thaw flashed before my eyes in quick succession. I didn’t know how that fire had appeared, but I intended to find out. The vague recollection of Kaelith carrying me here, of his scent, filled my mind.
“What will they do with me?” I asked.
Maeryn paused. “That depends on whether the heir returns with mercy or orders.”
I almost asked which was worse but bit my tongue. Sharpness would buy me nothing here.
She finished folding the linens, smoothed her skirts, and said quietly, “If anyone else enters, say as little as you can. You don’t want the walls to hear. They will surely be listening now.”
When she left, the silence felt thicker. Even Fenrir didn’t move.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The floor should have frozen the soles of my feet, but instead it was cool—pleasantly so. A bead of water dripped from the ceiling and hit the stone with a hiss. I watched it for too long, hypnotized by the small defiance of melting.
The window drew me next. Frost patterned the glass in intricate fractals, each one pulsing faintly with frostlight. Beyond them, the courtyard lay buried in snow so pure it hurt to look at. And yet—there, near the statue of the Frostfather—dark streaks cut through the white. Not shadow. Not soot. Something in between.
Ash.
I pressed my palm to the window. The glass was warm where it met my skin. When I pulled away, a single flake drifted through a crack in the frame and landed on my hand. Gray, weightless, cold.
Ash in the snow.
I didn’t know whether to fear it or take comfort in the proof that something here could still burn.
By the time Maeryn’s footsteps had fully faded, the silence had changed.Not empty—watchful.The air here always seemed to listen.
I tried to stand. My knees protested, but the thought of staying still felt worse. I needed to see where I’d been caged. The chamber was large, but thewalls deceived the eye—half ice, half mirror. Every time I turned, another reflection followed, pale and wavering, as if a dozen versions of me were trapped behind glass.
The bed sat near a tall frost-crystal window. Beside it stood a table of carved whitewood, its surface damp with condensation. The rest of the space was bare except for Fenrir, whose yellow eyes tracked every step I took.
“I’m not planning to escape,” I murmured. My voice startled me—it sounded smaller than I’d meant it to. “Even if I were, there’s nowhere to go.”
He blinked once, slow, then lowered his head again, unconvinced.
I reached the door. When I tried the handle, it didn’t move. Frost webbed instantly across the metal, spreading in fine veins that met my fingertips and hissed. I pulled back, flexing my hand.
So that was the answer. I wasn’t a guest. I was a sealed thing.
