He tilted his head, studying me. “You should laugh more often, Katria. It almost convinces me this place isn’t cursed.”
“Maybe it’s you that’s cursed.”
“Oh, I am,” he said with mock solemnity. “Half Summer, half Autumn—what else could I be? My mother once said I was born of contradiction and sunlight. My father called that treason.”
The truth behind the jest caught me off guard. I hesitated, unsure how to answer, but Kael filled the silence easily. “Don’t look so serious. I like being the scandal.”
“Do you?”
“Of course. Someone has to be the warmth in this endless snow.”
He lifted his cup in mock toast, eyes glinting with amusement—and something else, softer, lingering too long. “Besides,” he murmured, “I think you like it when I’m trouble.”
“I think you like hearing yourself talk.”
“That too.” He laughed quietly, a sound like breaking sunlight. Around us, courtiers kept glancing our way, curiosity sharpening into speculation. I should have moved, should have ended the conversation before it turned into more rumor.
But for a moment, it was easy to forget that every word here cost something. That Winter was listening.
I was still smiling when the room went still.
The change was instant—like a door slamming on laughter.
Conversations died one by one until only the faint ringing of frost-chimes filled the air. I didn’t have to turn to know who had entered. The temperature told me first.
Kaelith crossed the hall with that same unhurried precision that made even stillness feel like a threat. The courtiers bowed as he passed, their movements sharp and practiced, but no one spoke. He wore no crown, yet the space seemed to bend around him all the same.
Kael’s grin didn’t falter. “Ah. Speak of the frost and he appears.”
I wished he hadn’t.
Kaelith stopped at the foot of the dais. His eyes swept the room once—cold, measuring—and then found us. They paused a fraction toolong on the distance between my chair and his brother’s. I felt the weight of that look as surely as if the frost itself had settled on my skin.
He said nothing at first, and that silence was worse than anger. Around him, the frostlight dimmed to a faint pulse, as though holding its breath.
Kael leaned back lazily, all charm and indifference. “Brother,” he said, “we were just discussing how well your mortal guest has adjusted to our fine hospitality.”
Kaelith’s gaze flicked toward him, unreadable. “Were you.” It sounded like a statement, not a question.
“She’s learning quickly,” Kael continued, tone light. “Already mastered the art of surviving my wit.”
“Barely,” I muttered.
The faintest curve touched Kaelith’s mouth—gone almost before I saw it. “That would make her the first.”
Laughter rippled from a few courtiers, brittle and nervous. Kaelith didn’t look at them. He was still watching me, and there was something different in his eyes now—not anger, not exactly. Something quieter, sharper. As if he couldn’t decide whether to scold me or … something else entirely.
He approached the table. The frost under his boots whispered with each step.
“Is this how you spend your mornings?” he asked Kael without looking away from me.
Kael tilted his head. “You make it sound like idleness is a crime.”
“In this Court,” Kaelith said softly, “it can be.”
The words weren’t meant for Kael. I felt them land somewhere in my chest, heavy and cold.
Kaelith’s hand rested briefly on the edge of the table, fingers tracing the carved runes there. They flared faintly at his touch, a reflex he immediately quelled. Then his eyes lifted to mine again. “You shouldn’t linger here.”
