“Is that all?”
I hesitated. “Maybe not.”
He leaned back, smile fading into something quieter. “Don’t let him see fear. He feeds on it.”
“Maeryn said something similar.”
“She’s right. She usually is.”
I tilted my head. “You sound like you like her.”
“I like anyone who survives here long enough to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”
That earned the smallest ghost of a laugh from me, which only made his smile return.
He rose then, slow, graceful, and far too aware of the space between us. “Rest if you can.”
He turned to leave. At the door, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth … I would’ve stopped him.”
I believed him. I wasn’t sure that made it better.
The door closed, and the quiet pressed in again. I thought I’d be alone with it, but when I looked toward the frost window, I caught a flicker of movement in the reflection—tall, still, distant.
Kaelith stood across the courtyard, half-shadowed by the ice pillars, his gaze fixed on the window like he hadn’t meant to look but couldn’t help himself.
He didn’t move. Didn’t signal. Just stood there long enough for my pulse to catch before he turned and disappeared into the frostlight.
Whatever thaw I’d seen in him before was gone. In its place was something harder—control reforged, colder than before.
And somehow, that hurt more than the frost.
Chapter sixteen
Katria
The world wasn’t made of frost this time.
It was softer—an endless field of light that moved like grass in a wind I couldn’t feel. The horizon glowed violet and silver, and each step I took sent ripples of gold blooming beneath my feet.
I knew I was dreaming, but that knowledge didn’t help. It only made it worse.
The air shimmered with faint music—no melody, just a hum that shifted when I breathed. Somewhere far off, I thought I saw the outline of trees, their branches bending and unfolding like hands. When I blinked, they were gone.
I turned, and a figure stood in the distance. Too tall, too still to be human. The air warped faintly around him, as though light refused to touch.
“Who are you?” I called, my voice low and uncertain.
The answer came not as words but sound—soft, melodic, achingly familiar.
My mother’s lullaby.
I froze. The same one she used to hum on winter nights, when the snow pressed thick against the shutters and the world went quiet. The sound shouldn’t have reached me here. She was gone.
The voice hummed the final note, then spoke.
“You walk where the Veil thins.” The tone was neither male nor female but something vast and echoing between the two. “You were never meant to.”
I swallowed. “I didn’t choose this.”
