“Yes.” Her eyes softened, briefly human. “Don’t let them see you shiver.”
Maeryn didn’t rush me. She simply opened the door and waited, hands folded neatly at her waist until I stepped forward.
The corridor beyond was long and narrow, its walls veined with silver light. The frost here wasn’t solid—it moved, almost imperceptibly, like breath caught beneath glass. Every few steps, the shimmer of runes traced up from the floor to the ceiling, vanishing as quickly as they appeared.
I kept my hands at my sides as she’d instructed, though I wasn’t sure whether it was the etiquette or the temperature that made my fingers stiff.
“Do the halls always do that?” I asked quietly as we walked.
“The runes listen,” Maeryn said. “They track presence, not sound. Winter prefers to know where its own are.”
“And where its prisoners are,” I murmured before I could stop myself.
Her glance was swift but not cruel. “Best not to use that word here. Even truth can sound like rebellion.”
I fell silent after that, letting her lead.
We passed servants gliding through side doors, their faces hidden by frostlight masks. None spoke. None bowed. Their silence wasn’t submission—it was something colder, a kind of practiced absence. I realized, with a small chill, that it was deliberate. This was a place where emotion was an intrusion.
Maeryn’s voice cut through the quiet. “You’ll enter from the east wing. Keep your steps even, eyes forward. The Court values grace as much as loyalty.”
“Loyalty to whom?”
“To Winter.”
“Not the Frostfather?”
She hesitated—the faintest pause in her stride. “The two were once the same thing.”
Her phrasing made my skin prickle. “And now?”
She looked ahead again. “Now they are … separate matters.”
We descended a staircase carved from ice so clear it reflected everything—walls, ceiling, us. For a dizzying second, I saw dozens of Maeryns and Katria Vales walking downward in mirrored steps. I tried not to look too closely; the reflections moved just a fraction slower than we did.
When we reached the landing, Maeryn slowed and gestured toward a set of towering doors etched with faintly glowing sigils. Frost clung to the handles in elegant spirals.
“The great hall,” she said softly. “When you enter, remember what I told you.”
I nodded, adjusting the fall of my sleeves. “Don’t look at the Frostfather unless spoken to. Keep my hands visible. Speak clearly but not quickly.”
A small smile tugged at her mouth. “You learn fast.”
“Fear’s a good motivator.”
Her expression softened again. “Not fear. Caution. There’s a difference, and one keeps you alive longer.”
She turned toward the doors, but before she pushed them open, I asked, “Maeryn—how long have you served here?”
“Long enough to know Winter never forgets a name once it learns it.”
Then she pushed, and the doors opened without a sound.
The great hall of the Winter Court was made of silence.
It wasn’t the kind of silence that begged to be broken; it was the kind thatownedthe space, carved into the ice and air and everything in between.
Light spilled from a thousand suspended crystals, refracted through the frost until it painted the walls in shards of blue and silver. The ceiling arched impossibly high, veined with pale light that pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat just below hearing. The floor was glass-smooth, mirrors layered with frost so fine it caught the hem of my dress when I walked.
