“Long enough for me to regret ever opening a door in your direction,” I retorted.
He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Cruel, little flame. And here I was, ready to compliment how radiant you look.”
“I don’t want compliments.”
“Then take advice.” His voice softened. “Smile. They can’t decide yet if they want to love you or fear you. Let them stay confused.”
I tried not to show that his words hit too close to truth. “You think I should charm them?”
“I think you should survive them,” he said, all traces of humor gone for a heartbeat. “They eat fear. Feed them something sweeter.”
Before I could answer, he reached out and straightened a clasp on my sleeve. His touch was light, almost teasing, but the hall’s frostlight flickered at the contact. I wondered who was watching this time.
Stepping back, I asked, “You enjoy making trouble, don’t you?”
“Only the kind worth remembering.”
He winked and began walking backward, one hand raised in a lazy salute. “See you at the feast, little flame. Try not to set my brother on fire.”
“I’ll try not to give him a reason.”
Kael laughed, the sound echoing long after he turned the corner.
I exhaled, steadying myself, and looked down at Fenrir. His ears twitched once, but his gaze was steady. Loyal. Unflinching.
“Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s get this over with.”
The frostlight along the hall pulsed faintly as I passed, like a slow heartbeat in the stone. And just before the doors to the great hall loomed into view, I caught a flicker in the mirrored wall beside me—a second reflection moving half a breath behind my own.
When I turned, there was nothing there. Only ice. Only Winter.
The great hall of Skadar Hold had been remade overnight.
It wasn’t the same place I’d seen before—no shadows, no silence. Every surface glowed. Frostlight streamed down from the chandeliers like captured starlight, and crystal banners hung from the high arches, etched with runes that pulsed faintly in rhythm with the music.
The sound itself was strange—harp and flute woven with something colder, like wind trapped in glass pipes. It was beautiful in the way a snowstorm is beautiful, right before it swallows you whole.
A fae attendant announced my name in a tone that made it sound like a test.Katria Vale, mortal guest of the Heir.
Hundreds of eyes turned my way.
The Frostfather sat on his throne of living ice, towering above the court like a carving that had decided to breathe. Kaelith stood just below him, posture perfect, expression unreadable. His eyes flicked toward me once, gray and sharp, before he looked away again—as if seeing me too long might draw attention neither of us could afford.
I wanted to vanish. But instead, I kept my chin high and crossed the marble floor with Fenrir padding silently at my heels. The nobles parted to make room, their movements smooth as the surface of a frozen lake.
Every step sounded too loud.
When I reached the mortal’s place—an unadorned chair near the lower end of the long glass table—I sat carefully, folding my hands in my lap. Fenrir settled at my feet, tail curling protectively around the leg of my chair. No one told him to move. No one dared.
A long moment passed before the Frostfather rose.
He didn’t need to raise his voice; the room silenced itself for him. “Winter endures,” he said, his words echoing through the hall. “While the other Courts burn and rot and dream, we remain the still heart of the world. Tonight, we celebrate our triumph—our dominion over storm and shadow.”
His gaze shifted toward me as he added, “Even mortal fire bends to frost.”
Laughter rippled through the nobles, smooth and controlled. My face stayed still, though I felt heat crawl up my neck.
The Frostfather sat again, satisfied. Servants appeared like phantoms, bearing silver platters that steamed faintly in the cold.
