The question froze me mid-step.
She turned slowly to face me. For the first time, I noticed how the frostlight caught in her eyes—blue but ringed with faint gold, like a secret refusing to hide. I should have stepped back. I didn’t.
The space between us tightened. The runes along the walls dimmed, responding to something that wasn’t command. My pulse beat against my gloves; the frost there melted just enough to sting.
I said the only thing that would keep me from doing something worse. “We’re finished.”
Her voice followed as I moved toward the door. “Then maybe next time, ask what you really want to know.”
I paused but didn’t turn. “And what’s that?”
“Why you’re afraid of me.”
I should have left the room when she said it, when her voice wrapped around the words like a challenge and a truth I didn’t want to hear.Instead, I turned.
Katria hadn’t moved. She still stood in the center of the chamber, the frostlight painting her in silver and shadow. The walls caught a dozen reflections of her, all looking back at me as if waiting for what I’d do next.
“You think I’m afraid of you?” I asked.
“I think you’re afraid of what you see when you look at me,” she said softly.
My throat tightened. “You mistake caution for fear.”
“Do I?”
“And what is it you think I see?” I demanded.
Her voice gentled, almost hesitant. “At first, I thought it was anger,” she said. “But it’s more than that. It’s like you’re trying to remember what warmth felt like before you forgot.”
My breath caught—sharp and involuntary—and the sound seemed too loud in the stillness that followed.
The air between us was thin enough to shatter. She stepped forward, not defiant, just steady and searching. “You talk about balance, about barriers and Veils and stones that hold the world together. But you’re the one unraveling.”
I almost laughed, except nothing about it was funny. “You assume much for someone who doesn’t understand this realm.”
“Maybe because no one will tell me the truth.”
“The truth would break you.”
“Or maybe it would breakyou,” she said, meeting my eyes.
The words hit harder than a shout.
“You think too highly of yourself,” I said.
She arched a brow. “Someone has to. You look like you stopped trying years ago.”
“Careful,” I warned. “You don’t know what lines you cross.”
“Then draw clearer ones,” she shot back. “Or is that impossible when you’re too busy pretending you don’t have any left?”
I should have turned away, ended it there—but her voice needled under my skin, sharp and alive.
My breath came slower, heavier. “You talk too much.”
“You listen too closely,” she said. “Maybe that’s your problem.”
My voice came out lower than I meant. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
